She pushed up.
From knees to standing—both threads having dissolved when the Sky Splitter's duration ran, her hands free, the effort of standing genuine at this point of the fight.
She was standing.
At the edge of the collapse.
Ordin was standing at the far edge.
Both fighters with the collapsed floor between them.
Both fighters with what the fight had left them.
His palms were at the end of the Sky Splitter's recovery window—the maximum stretch having cost the most the elastic tissue had spent in a single technique, the recovery debt genuine, the large techniques unavailable for a significant time.
Her reserves were at their floor—threads still forming, the capability present, but each thread costing what should have been a hundred threads.
She looked at the collapsed floor between them.
She stitched the collapsed floor's near edge to the collapsed floor's far edge.
