She readies herself for a second charge.

Passivity is the wrong move. I can't win a battle of attrition.

Alva ran forwards, dodging the first tendril that struck; it came from above, hitting the ground like a lightning bolt. Alva crouched down for a moment and called up her energy. She exploded forward in a flash of light and then struck the ground with both feet, leaving two tendrils far behind her. She flew up, each tendril too slow to catch her, and flipped her sword around.

She plunged her sword into the ground, unleashing her energy in a pillar that burned away any tendril that tried to disturb her landing and slashed forward. The remaining energy flew forward in a wave, crashing through the inn. Alva grit her teeth and used her Radiant Burst again, flying through the ruins of the inn in a heartbeat.

He was close now, Alva could smell the corruption in the air and feel it bubbling against her skin. The energy felt like a thick slime, and she couldn't help but shiver at the contact. Part of it was the miasma, but the amount of holy energy she held with each burst had largely burnt the effect away.

She could see him now, an imposing figure lounging in a black throne. Six womanly forms lingered near the throne, though two were closer to Alva than the rest. These would be his familiars, the strongest of his thralls.

They each wore clothing, though not one of them were covered up. The clothes were to emphasize their bodies, to draw the eye and make the mouth water. Each of them were different; one had black skin, one was tall and blond, one was willowy and black-haired, one was petite and covered in freckles, two were mirrors of each other.

Alva readied herself as a storm of tendrils came down. She didn't try to dodge them, not in the slightest.

She wove a net of silver about her head, battering away each tendril that approached as she gathered the Goddess' grace within. She combined it with her magic and let her training and let the Will of the Goddess guide her hand. Art of Slashing: Hydra's Nest

Alva could remember her training more clearly with every moment, the memories seemed to flood through her as she used up her power and inched closer to ****. Most clearly, there was the image of her mentor; of her mother, the Saintess Adena. She wouldn't need to go this far. She'd never have gotten into this situation, to begin with.

Alva felt the moment her magic ran dry, and her body froze with fatigue. Seven tendrils struck her, and it was all she could do to avoid a fatal blow. One arm hung by threads of meat, three tendrils pieced her torso, two were in her leg, and one lay against her throat. Her armor ruined and her blood dripping in the dirt, Alva smiled and spoke.

"I have fought to my limit."

The second brand lit up, and Alva was subsumed in a flash of light.

A star shot out from the light, clad in radiant armor, and raised her blade once more; a goddess made flesh.