"…You really don't do things halfway, do you?" Duke muttered.
Bruce sighed ignoring Duke and kept healing.
Carefully. Steadily.
Because this battle was only just beginning.
His palm remained against Isolde's shoulder, but the healing was no longer surface-level. It wasn't flesh he was mending. It was the soul.
Warm currents of mana flowed from him in controlled waves, subtle yet absolute, threading through the fractures left behind by the Invader. Where jagged cracks had split her essence like shattered glass, light pressed inward and fused them together. Where her spiritual core had dimmed to a fragile ember buried beneath ash, warmth gathered, cupped it, and breathed it back toward steady flame.
Bruce did not rush. He could have.
He could have flooded her with power, overwhelmed the damage, forced restoration through sheer dominance.
But that would have been no different from what the Invader had done, control without consent.
