In order to keep herself safe, and more importantly, to manipulate the fight to her advantage, she switched to Slayer Style and began using Siphoning Pulse, liberally so, with this defense being the main consumer of the spare essentia output that she saved by attacking conservatively.

This strange style went against everything that came to her naturally, it was an aberration of game theory derived from the nature of this fight. In a manner of speaking, however, this weird way of fighting too, was legitimate, this focus on closing in minimizing the advantage of an opponent with superior mobility.

The question of why Arnys didn’t just dash away burned in her mind.

Was it the proximity alone? Did she need space to perform the thunder-walking technique? Did Zel’s unstable - and actively depleting - aura of lightning somehow disrupt the mechanism that permitted Arnys to perform the technique? Did… Did Arnys just decide not to do it to see where she took this close-in approach?

Barely any openings were there to be found even now, but… There was still an option.

Between the incomplete Thunderclap Sting and the Butcher’s shape-altering properties, perhaps she could slip a full attack past the Matriarch’s guard, or at worst create a distraction sufficient to get her left hand through to deliver a Thundercannon at point-blank range.

________________________________

“So much for not being able to throw proper lightning bolts. At least the dossier was right on the money about her crude Thundergod Mantle,” a thought crossed Arnys’s mind. “And that sudden change of combat style…”

If Arnys hadn’t known it to be an impossibility, she would’ve thought Zelsys had trained in the Song of Spring, a martial art as ancient as it was niche, having been designed for two purposes - the first was combat in extremely confined spaces, mainly the claustrophobic hallways and catacombs of ancient fortress complexes. The second was to specifically counter the arts used by the inhabitants of those complexes, this being the precursor art of Kargarian Gastei-tur.

In modernity however, the flaws of Gastei-tur as a relatively conservative striking and countering art were irrelevant, as Arnys - and many other users - had made personal additions to the style in order to shore up its weaknesses. She had specifically gone out of her way to use the formalized, flawed version, restricting herself in an effort to see if her opponent would be able to analyze the style and come up with a way to exploit its weaknesses then and there, in the middle of combat.

This… This was more than she could’ve hoped for.

Newman had shifted away from the style which she had quickly grown to be known for - a fiercely physical manifestation of sheer strength tempered by natural skill just beneath the surface - to a brutal and alien approximation of what the Song of Spring could’ve been had it been created for the same purpose as the original, but without the trappings of pointless mysticism.

This woman wasn’t what Arnys had hoped her to be.

She was not the rare prodigal daughter bestowed with preternatural abilities from the start who merely happened to have turned out as something other than a narcissistic psychopath.

It was true that she was possessed of nearly inhuman physicality, but Arnys had seen this before. Not only was she faster and expectedly more skilled than Zelsys, she was certain that she knew of people who could match up to Zelsys in pure capability.

Arnys finally understood what it was that made her such a monster, why she had grown so much so quickly. One moment, she had effortlessly ducked under a punch and delivered a jab between Newman’s ribs. The very next moment, she found herself blindsided by a similar-enough strike that she countered in that same way without thinking about it, only to find the target area covered by armor of Fog and her strike robbed of all momentum. The Slayer’s vice-like grip closed around her wrist before Arnys could react, and in retrospect, it was clear this was a trap that had been readied specifically in case she tried to do that counter again. She allowed herself to careen through the air just long enough to make it look good before she righted herself.

This facade of raw instinct and physical prowess was just that. A facade.

In truth, behind the cackling exhilaration and snarling grin, Newman was a natural-born combat strategist, always utterly in control. Always playing the balancing game between instinctive outburst and mental clarity. Always preparing stratagems in advance, and most importantly of all, always learning. Always evolving.

Yes, Arnys understood, and she couldn’t be happier to have been mistaken.

Newman wasn’t a monster because of prodigal physicality, but because she had the brain power and pure enjoyment of combat for its own sake to make art of violence.

She didn’t just love to fight, combat was her identity. That answer to her earlier question wasn’t just a boast.

From one bout to the next, Newman would turn her own fighting style inside-out, picking out moves and maneuvers with the same ease that one would pick a move in a game of chess. It was clear that there were certain moves she preferred due to muscle memory, but it was the fact she actively chose to use ones which went counter to her own preference out of tactical advantage that made her a real challenge.

Arnys had fought the same people hundreds of times to the point of being able to predict their moves, having grown so good at learning the proverbial movesets and fighting-habits of others that she was confident she could have Newman’s style pegged before the first round was over.

Indeed, for a while, it had been like that, but the moment the bell rang a second time, the Krishorn Matriarch found herself facing some backwards perversion of the combat style she’d just gotten used to.

A completely counterintuitive mixture of polished martial arts, brawler violence, and uncanny acrobatics. The cleaver went from a primary means of offense to more of a distraction tool than a weapon, then to a weird improvised shield, its shape twisted and perverted in an uncanny reminder that it was still a Captain’s Cleaver in heart, metamorphic nature and all.