I could read it in their thoughts. The scoundrel god's glee. The monk god's anger. Enforcers' determination and excitement for a fight of the level they never even dreamed about before. But shocked and betrayed or not, God of Monks stayed a dangerous opponent. The discipline was in his flesh and bones, and even now, he didn't hesitate for even a moment in face of my attack.
He moved like a flowing water, deflecting each and every blade with seemingly soft touches of his fingers. What was more wondrous is how his skin didn't suffer at all from them, didn't even got covered in rime—it was like he was smacking around flies, not deadly magic projectiles.
As usual, I would need a more decisive attack to pierce that defence.
