( A pretty lie, the estimate: the tenth of a shi, mere blinks and heartbeats. The time they take to unsheathe and cull once. Another eight rounds. No time at all. An infinity, spread wide between them.

Now, gasped as the spray of blood from Xichen's strike cascades down from corpses struck above, the truth: ) If they thin.

( They have no certainty, no reassurance. No space to haunt as they pull back. But at least they may take cover behind barricades. ) Woods, houses. Once we tire, retreat.