Sun-young did not ask questions.
She never did.
She unsheathed her wooden sword and with a single controlled breath, she slammed it into the ground.
BOOM.
Her sword ruptured the earth, sending a violent shockwave across the Slums. Dust and debris scattered into the air. The nearby shack shook at its foundation, the wooden walls groaning under the sudden impact.
Inside, the cultists froze mid-game.
The door of the shack was flung open.
Figures emerged, their robes swaying as they stepped out, eyes filled with mild confusion, then immediate wariness. They recognized what stood before them.
A woman in Templar white.
An enemy.
Sun-young was already attacking. She lowered her stance, gripping her wooden sword with both hands. Her posture was flawless—stable, powerful, precise. The space around her seemed to bend in response, a mighty power-up of anti-magic.
One cultist reacted too slowly.
She was already in front of him.
A single horizontal swing.
