Shit. The barrier had gone but without extracting a price in blood.

"The Yama-no-Hone-no-Tsurugi," the purple-haired girl confirmed, sliding into a defensive stance. That arm... she wasn't going to risk a blade as old and venerable as any of Masamune's work in a contest of magic and strength. Yet all that she had to do was hold him at bay until the other two arrived with a more at-range method of putting this old fool down.

She would have to treat his arm in all regards like a sword--and, as a sword, avoid crossing her blade with it unless it was a last resort. She would have to adopt the attitude that any clash of weapons at best risked mutual disarmament. But here his physical advantages meant nothing; strength and speed but no defences put him in the same boat as Ryuuko. With nothing but skill, the equation could be balanced... and the heiress was perfectly confident that an old magus wasn't as proficient in hand to hand as she was.

And so, dodging and ducking and never quite removing the threat of being cut and probing openings, the dance began.