"Second rank—shoulder!" he snapped.
A second shield slid into the lower slot. The cleaver hit a wall where it wanted air. The sound was a mean, perfect thunk.
Rodion's lines tightened to a finer beat, quick‑short‑long.
Seven strokes. That's a brain, or a good imitation, he thought. The mask filaments quivered when arrows passed near, like they tasted trajectories. Creepy.
"Veils," he told the Hypnoveils. "Show a different miss each time. Make it wonder which hand betrayed it."
They pulsed with quiet authority. Edges of air wobbled around the Juggernaut, just enough to slip timing.
It stomped. The mandala answered with a dull boom. Ankles and knees tried to lean wrong.
"Knees soft," Thalatha barked. She knocked a shin, pressed a bracer, fixed postures like a teacher correcting pens.
