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... a blur, edge aimed straight for Asmodea's clavicle, as if carving out her breath.

She twisted.

Not dodging—unfolding.

Her vines peeled from her shoulders like living ribbons, intercepting his slash with a burst of thorned bloom. The impact cracked through the frost, green-red tendrils wrapping around his wrist before he slipped away, already resetting his stance.

A second vine followed, jabbing low.

He spun, redirected it with his forearm, severed it near ...

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