Not cut. Sliced. The particular, hundred-pieces, diced, shredded, every-cell-separated destruction that occurred when sword intent met flesh. The monsters did not fall. They disintegrated. The particular, meat-confetti, where-did-the-goblin-go, there-is-now-a-pile-of-cubes transformation that Viktor's blade produced.
His body vanished.
The particular, teleportation, here-one-moment-gone-the-next, impossible-to-track movement of a man whose speed exceeded the eye's ability to follow. He appeared behind a goblin. Slashed. Vanished. Appeared beside a boar. Cut. Vanished. Appeared in the center of a group. The particular, whirlwind, blender, everything-around-me-dies spin of a man whose body was a weapon and whose weapon was everywhere.
Thousands of swords surrounded him.
