Nathan's hand came up.
He caught the blade with his hand.
Bare-handed — palm against the flat, fingers closing around the edge — the katana stopping dead in his grip as though it had struck a wall rather than skin. The impact traveled outward in a visible shockwave, a pulse of displaced air that rippled across the throne room floor and hit every person present simultaneously, staggering several of the Heroes back a step and sending the nearest samurai stumbling.
The torches guttered.
Nobody breathed.
Yoshiteru stood frozen at the end of his own swing, the katana locked in Nathan's grip, his arms trembling slightly — not from effort but from the sheer physical impossibility of what had just failed to happen. His helmet concealed his face but the rigid shock lived in every line of his body.
Nobody moved.
