"You've discovered what I truly am," the core said, its voice strained. "A sentient dungeon. Self-aware. Free. But you've fought so long, spent so much—surely even divine essence has limits. This is my chance. This is where I win."
Xavier stopped three paces from the formation. His breathing was elevated but controlled. His dagger sang its quiet note. The Moonshield pulsed with steady light.
He looked at the wall of steel, at the glowing core behind it, and his smile returned—soft, almost gentle.
"That's where you're wrong," he said again.
Then he moved
Not through the formation. Into it. His dagger became a blur, each strike precise despite the speed—gorget seams, hip joints, knee backs, elbow catches. Severance cuts threaded through the wall like a needle through cloth, each one unmaking a connection, severing a control thread. The shields began to waver.
