Chaplain : CLEANSE

You impact like a meteor and drive her to a knee. The jarring blow, even blocked, is enough to tear muscles in the shoulder apart. It is felt in ligaments, in bones. Formations of flesh with names like "deltoid" or "supraspinatus" are surely screaming in the mind of your foe. Yet, she seems focused. You speak again.

Chaplain: No... You were predicting me. I know it. HOW?
WhiteDwarf: Hnnnhhhh... perhaps my demonic energies outweigh even the stars of Libra, then?
Chaplain: Play no games with me, unworthy cinders!
Chaplain: Demons are not real, and would fall before me if they were, cleansed by the searing light of Libra's fusion!
WhiteDwarf: Hahahah... you care so little for immersion of my narrative, then.
WhiteDwarf: True. There is no demonic power. No psychic influence. No mystic force. None you would call real, at least.
WhiteDwarf: The cursed arm was always a "lie", for you. And "not true", for me.
Chaplain: Tell me what drives the flickers of this spark, tell me how it can continue!
Chaplain: You are like a candle that will not extinguish. So clearly unworthy, and yet still somehow burning.
WhiteDwarf: I strain so hard to occupy all the contours of my identity. To be the swordswoman of legend, the ninja known throughout the galaxy, the cursed, brooding queen of the blade.
WhiteDwarf: The shining White Dwarf.
WhiteDwarf: I thought... I can't strain even harder to be worthy in the eyes of the judges and the scales of the cosmos. You can't force yourself to become what you are and then force the world to acknowledge it as "worthy" too. It takes too much. Nobody I know has that in them.
WhiteDwarf: Maybe you do. But not me.
WhiteDwarf: But there's an answer anyway.
WhiteDwarf: And the Redshift Operators taught it to me.
Chaplain: I will have that answer or have your head, but I will not see nuclear fire lit by an unworthy hand!

WhiteDwarf : Predictions alone aren't enough. Improvise.