Blindly. Which—objectively—was a terrible tactical decision.
But emotionally? Deeply satisfying. My boots skidded over blood-slick dirt. My gown tore. I nearly tripped over a corpse. Somewhere behind me someone screamed my name, but the sound dissolved into static as my Qi surged like a broken dam.
I was fast.
No—faster than fast. Bouncy. Ridiculous. Almost cartoonish if this weren't a massacre. I vaulted over a fallen brute, rebounded off a boulder, ricocheted off a tree trunk like physics had personally resigned.
This was not dignified. This was feral. A renegade swung at me—missed. Another tried to grab me—I ducked and headbutted his sternum so hard his soul briefly left his body to file a complaint.
My wound burned. Blood soaked my side. I could feel it—hot, sticky, real. My Qi screamed in protest, spiraling wildly, tearing free of discipline and etiquette and every lesson I'd ever been taught.
