At one point, Arnys found herself in a grapple and managed to reverse it, only for Newman to turn her upper body all the way around to deliver a palm-heel to her ear. The stretching of muscle, the sickening crunch of bone, and that ever-amused grin plastered over Newman’s face as the matriarch let go instead of taking a second bone-crushing hook to the skull and risking loss of consciousness. Hell, she was certain that first punch wasn’t at full strength to begin with.

This wasn’t a person, or a beast, or a monster.

She was a weapon who happened to be more personable and driven than most humans could ever be. A ridiculous, idealized embodiment of violence, currently in the process of zigzagging right at Arnys with the intent to punch her across the courtyard.

Even if she couldn’t keep up with everything Arnys could throw at her, she couldn’t reasonably be expected to… But the Matriarch desired to see whether the Thundering Engine Beast could hold her own against what Ubul would inevitably bring to bear - that of which the likes of Victory Wash and its derived mutation were a pale imitation.

Arnys dodged out of the way, summoning up an invisible Fulguric current upon which she rode to the other side of the oval. She didn’t usually use that technique as liberally as she was, but it was rendered nearly effortless by the fact that this place sat right over a massive leyline junction… And the fact she was cheating, having had the ritual oval modified specifically so that lightning magic would be easier to perform within its confines. Not for her own advantage, but for the sake of spectacle.

Newman stomped her armored boot into the ground, stopping herself well before she would’ve reached the edge of the oval and ripping a short trench in the ground in the process. She turned on a heel and dug in her heels, as if preparing to charge again, but waited when Arnys spoke.

“The more I push, the more you exceed my expectations!” she admitted, taking up a wide, strongly-rooted stance, stomping her sandals into the dirt while effortlessly spinning her sword about.

It looked a great deal more impressive than it truly was, as the lion’s share of work was done with a basic magnetism spell. Difficult to master, but effortless once one knew how to do it. More importantly, the flourish was actually a vital gestural component to the technique she was currently in the middle of performing, as it served as a medium to create a violent charge imbalance in her immediate surroundings.

Zelsys could clearly tell she was doing something but made no effort to intervene, seemingly content to use the time afforded her to perform her own preparations.

“Take solace in knowing that I only do this because I am fully confident you’ll survive it,” said the Matriarch as she invoked the means by which most of her notable kills had been earned, not for lack of skill, but for the terrible power that it granted, filling the widest gap in her otherwise superb technique. After all, a twelve-ton monstrosity with scales as tough as steel and bones like solid stone couldn’t care less how good one’s swordsmanship is if that sword can’t get to the vital parts.

Zelsys emptied her mind, focusing on bodily sensation alone, reaching deep into herself in an effort to directly communicate a complex order to the Primordial Self. At-will verbal communication was beyond her ability, but the Id, the Shadow, the Anima best understood raw ideas, and thanks to their mutual rapport, it could peer into the conscious mind just as easily as she peered into the depths to improve her bodily awareness. Therefore, there was a viable vector of communication - to simply ensure the Primordial Self would only see that which she wished to communicate.

In order to clearly and swiftly communicate her intentions, she filled her mind with nothing besides her intentions, thus beseeching the Primordial Self without needing to reach over the barrier that still separated Man from Beast, Ego from Id.

To ignore everything extraneous, to shut down even the most inconsequential bodily processes that didn’t contribute towards combat performance, to flood the body with fight-or-flight hormones regardless of actual immediate danger, to remove every conceivable subconscious safety limiter regardless of conscious command.

She asked this of herself, knowing full well that the danger of this act would be tempered by the specific, possibly one-time circumstances she found herself in.

The fundamental idea was only in part a possible path towards victory. It was about pushing herself as far as she could conceivably go, to see if her body could withstand its own unfettered strength without the subtlety of selective control. It was true that Zelsys had already wielded her own full strength, but never in its entirety, never continuously.

Zel intended to use every tool at her disposal, to shift into high gear for as long as it was necessary… And that was the true reason why she had stockpiled all that aether, both in her second stomach and in all of her major musculature.

How long this state would last, she couldn’t know. Maybe five seconds, maybe ten, maybe three.

If her usual combat style as she was now was equivalent to a vehicle going at eighty kilometers an hour and her use of Thundercharger speeding up to one-hundred and twenty in straight segments, then this would be analogous to pushing it to two-hundred regardless of how twisted the road became.

The ideas of readiness and wait pushed themselves to the forefront of her mind, a clear response from the Primordial Self.

“It can be done. Just say when,” it was telling her.

Zel kept on building more and more power, now burning lungful after lungful just to produce a near-continuous transfer arc between the tip of her tongue and the Lightning Butcher, charging it until the entire etching shone white, until its edge glowed a pale sun-yellow and the sawteeth had transcended screaming into a combination of metallic rancor and tinnitus-like chitter.