Leon didn't trigger Fracture Requiem.
Not yet.
He inhaled slowly, letting the chaos around him blur into nothing but threads of movement.
Timeline Drift—full resonance.
The two scythe swings overlapped in an impossible rhythm, each a fatal strike no matter where he stepped. But Leon wasn't stepping into space. He was stepping into moments—shifting his body through micro-instants that the champion hadn't cut yet.
Every breath was a gamble. Every slip between frames scraped against the edge of the blade.
The world's inversion began to correct itself, but Leon forced it to stay broken, embedding an Echo of Origin into the skewed reality so the champion's own perception stayed one beat behind.
For a moment, he was fighting in a world where the enemy's reactions lagged just enough for his hands to find the right points—strikes, pulses, feints—each shaping the tempo in his favor.
The champion's scythe slowed, not from weakness, but because Leon had stolen its initiative entirely.
