Makhus scarcely knew what he himself had just done until he witnessed its aftermath.

The bright-red veins bulging all over the swordsman-alchemist’s body faded as he stood stunned at the sight of a halved log dummy, into each half embedded one half of a bullet.

Self-satisfied grin spreading over his face and pride drowning out the pain in his arm, Makhus uttered the name of this strike which he had so thoroughly premeditated:

“Iron Philosophy: Opus One.”

A moment later he wheezed out a long plume of Fog, glancing at the finger-deep deformation in his war-knife’s edge.

It crossed his mind that he should try to get it fixed and treated to cold-iron before the caravan left.

“I take it that attempt number eight is a success?” came a question from Zefaris.

“As long as I’m able to move my arm once I doff the sleeve,” Makhus replied, already moving to press the corresponding button on his belt. “Iron Rider R-Arm, off. Iron Rider Ribcage, off.”

Despite pain and visible bruising, it seemed that he was fine.

A few minutes and some Liquid Vigor later, the two sat in the nook at the back of the yard. Makhus scribbled notes with his left hand while doing simple exercises with his right arm trying to ascertain the damage, the question of his war-knife coming to mind once again only moments before they both heard it.

The unmistakable growl of that steel beast’s engine.

Soon enough she strode through the door, as imposing as ever. No, somehow even more imposing than before. Makhus - not having seen Zelsys since she’d gotten her new clothes - sat there staring for a few seconds just taking her in. After blinking a few times and shaking his head, the alchemist simply asked if she could get him in contact with whoever had worked on her new sleeve, fully prepared to borrow money if necessary.

Zelsys glanced at him, at the wounded animal that was his blade as it sat unsheathed on the table, then followed Zef’s own gaze towards the cleft-in-half dummy on the ground.

“...Did I miss seeing you split a bullet from Pentacle?!” she demanded to know, genuinely sounding a little upset and disappointed.

“Well, yes, that’s why my sword-” began the alchemist.

Zelsys cut him off, disappointment near instantly skidding towards unbounded enthusiasm, “I can foot the repair bill for all I care, but I have to see that move. Seems I’ll have to do better than just catch up to that Evil-cleaving Slash of yours...”

“Oh yeah, you were working on something with a whipping motion. Was that really supposed to be a move to match mine?” Makhus asked, surprised and to some degree, flattered that what he considered to be one of his few standout skills had left enough of an impression on the monstrous woman to make her feel she was the one playing catch up.

Upon her giving a nod, he leaned back in his seat and grinned up at her, “Let’s see what you have, then. I’ll show you my new tech if you show me yours.”

“Tech as in short for technique? I like it,” Zel approved, her hand slowly drifting from her hip to the Lightning Butcher’s handle as casually as one would reach for a pack of cigarettes.

Furrowing his brow, Makhus nodded, “...That also works. I was thinking more in the sense that it relies on technology as well as my own abilities, but it works as shorthand too.”

She’d drawn her blade, and now stood in place, glancing to the side at the two remaining log dummies in consideration.

“Well, what’re you waiting for?” prodded the alchemist, still nursing the pain in his arm. “Show me how close you’ve gotten to making my Evil-cleaving Slash look like clumsy flailing.”

Zelsys didn’t need encouragement to show off, even if her conception of Thunderclap Sting was incomplete.

Given her own height compared to the dummy’s, a diagonal downward strike would be best, somewhere between an overhand and a casting punch. With that in mind she steadied herself, adjusted her spacing from the dummy, and placed her feet so that her left foot was forward and her weight sat upon it so it might act as a pivot.

A shallow breath burned to start the engine.

A split-second of consideration, mentally projecting the movement she intended to perform, accounting for the muscle groups involved, then spending lungful after lungful to saturate those muscles. The immense complexity of the act, reduced to something as simple as actually performing the movement through the Primordial Self’s willing cooperation.

A flash of memory, the surging intent of both her selves at the first moment of mutual cooperation, when the seeds of this technique had first been sown into the sand of her inner world.

Perfect clarity of the mind, everything extraneous fading out of focus.

Muscles compressing like springs - arms, core, legs, back, numerous groups she knew not the names for.

A spark of will to set off the explosive motion.

In the course of a few seconds, they watched Zelsys shift into a preparatory stance with her cleaver comfortably sat upon her shoulders, arm chambered for a downward swing, legs positioned to let the entire body pivot into it.

Makhus would’ve thought it to be prodigal execution upon the technique of some Mountain Cutter sage, were Zelsys not the only cleaver-wielder of note that he knew of.

She just stood there, breathing, her features growing increasingly sharper and harsher, her muscles writhing under her skin and silver conduits coming alive as she readied herself.

Then, muscles glowing under the skin. The line of motion drawn in light as the movement occurred, a visible trail to guide the eye in the absence of anything else to latch onto.

Zef had seen this done before, and this time, she wanted to capture it, and so focused on trying to get the fotoapparat ready for capture, adjusting the focal length and moving about the yard to try and get a good angle.