In that moment, Theron felt as though his connection to the rain had been severed. The streams of blue that seemed to reflect in his mind's eye had become motes of white-gold instead. Every time he tried to touch them, it became akin to a flashbang going off in his mind, or almost like touching a hot stove.
It reflected his attempts to control it, smothering his soul like sticky squishiness and suffocating him.
Every attempt was like another rebound against his spirit, buffeting against him and making it harder and harder to gather momentum to do anything else.
Theron barely reacted, hurriedly raising up his one remaining blade—his dagger—to block.
BANG!
Theron felt his wrist almost snap. He tried to use skill to meet raw power, sliding Beifong's short saber to the side. But how could his technique match up to someone who had given his entire life to his blades?
