His energy now a Maelstrom of conserved power coursing through his body allowed him a certain level of confidence. His opponent had yet to go for a killing blow, instead seeming content with using her honed skills of fire manipulation. He could feel the searing heat of her power, as if it were warning him to hold his distance. He had already committed to his actions, this woman had threatened not only him, but her own life. She sought to bring towns to their knees, and him as well. He could allow the woman to put herself in such danger. These were not towns to be conquered, the were towns in a lawless, wild west universe. They were rampant with outlaws, marauders whose only existence was filled with battle. She did not stand a chance, and in his way, he thought to save her from herself. As such, when the fireball aimed towards his chest, he slid quickly to the left. The distance was so short that, even in his evasion his right arm was slightly burned by the attack. A lesser man would have changed strategy, perhaps had even been afraid of the firepower of the woman. Alphonse, the Lord of Tragedy, was no lesser man. He had been in battle with those who flung fire with no regard for those around them, he had seen the very power of lightning, and the fearsome strength of the very ground they walked; he would not abandon his newfound mission. With nary a grimace, he shot towards the woman, his plan already in action. He was swift, surely swifter than she could move on the back foot. He moved in time with her, aiming to close the rest of the distance in a matter of moments. Could she produce anything to protect her from the charging man, whose eyes blazed with a certain surety. Swords gleaming in the light of day, murder singing at their edges. Soon they would be the ones singing and dancing to their violent songs. [I]Come little witch, with your flames of power, burn at the stake in this lawless world. [/I]