"You fight better than before," Erlang Shen acknowledged, his third eye tracking the subtle changes in Wukong's technique, the way rebellion had been tempered with wisdom, how raw power had been refined. "But skill alone will not save you from divine justice."
The three-pointed spear carved through reality again, each thrust accompanied by the weight of absolute cosmic authority. Where the blade passed, the very concept of defiance seemed to wither, space itself bending to accommodate the will of perfect order. Erlang Shen's movements were mathematical in their precision—not a single motion wasted, not a moment of vulnerability exposed, every angle calculated to maximise devastation while minimising risk.
