The sword-wielder recovered first, divine weapon raised. "Whatever you've done to yourself, you're still just—"
Liam was in front of him before the sentence finished. Five simultaneous versions converging on a single point, each one striking from a different angle, each impact enhanced by power that transcended anything he'd wielded before.
The hero's consecrated armor—forged by prophecy itself, blessed by three thousand years of accumulated faith—cracked.
Then shattered.
The sword-wielder stumbled backward, blood running from his mouth. "How—"
"I don't care how," Liam said, and his multiple selves spoke in perfect unison, creating a harmonic that made reality itself resonate. "I don't care about prophecy or divine mandate or anything except the fact that you hurt someone I—"
