The Golden Lightsaber came crashing down on the director's head. That black bald head, like an Egghead, was cleanly split in two.
Yet Su Ming felt no resistance in his hand, none of the sensation of a weapon cutting into flesh.
The "director," cleaved in half, turned into two clouds of black smoke that drifted along the blade and vanished with a gust of wind.
He was not a creature of flesh and blood, but a manifested entity composed of black energy particles. He could even be understood as an illusion, a character in a story.
"Just as I expected." Deathstroke flicked his weapon, though there was no blood on it at all. He raised his mask and looked at the Charcoal Princess not far away. "You're unusual. You even know things about Outside the Wall. Do you have a name?"
The ghost shook her head. With her lie exposed, she withdrew her powers, and the surroundings changed from a studio full of green screens back into the silent forest. In a voice that sounded both male and female, she answered Deathstroke's question:
"Princesses have no names. Or rather, everyone is their own princess."
There was nothing wrong with the first half of that statement. In fairy tales, princesses were merely identical stock faces, an identity used to distinguish them from commoners. They had no names, nor did they need names.
Most fairy-tale audiences were children. Children did not really care what the characters in a story were called; they only cared about the story itself. That was why some people thought it was fine to turn Snow White black, wasn't it?
The scent of soil drifted through the forest, carried by the breeze to the two brothers. The atmosphere between the opposing sides did not seem especially tense.
Deathstroke