Vane moved with everything lit.
The Perfect Copy had his nervous system running at Senna's frequency, the Rank 6 precision overlaying his bones, the spear becoming an extension of thirty years of accumulated expertise rather than just his own five months of Sentinel-rank refinement. The Silver Fang at full conceptual output ran under Event Horizon's crushing density and Grey Veil's necrotic dissolution and the Ephemeral State's reality-boundary manipulation, four contradictory energies held together by the borrowed architecture of a dead general.
His channels were burning. The friction of it was loud in every bone.
He ran the Quicksilver Thrust at full output with Perfect Copy's precision behind it, and the silver tip aimed for center mass, and it was faster than anything he had ever thrown.
Lancelot put two fingers on the shaft.
