Sebbeh snarls like something that forgot it was ever human, the sound jagged and feral, before it melts into a deep, rolling laugh swallowed by the dust cloud. The air itself seems to tremble with it. Grit spirals upward, dancing in the wake of his power, until the wind drags it away piece by piece.
And there he is.
Myles.
Unmoved. Unbroken. Wearing that same quiet, infuriating smile, as though the blow had been nothing more than a passing breeze.
For a fleeting second, the world feels… misaligned.
But Sebbeh's expression does not falter. Not even a twitch.
"Ah," he rumbles, voice thick with something between amusement and hunger, "so you have been holding back on me, small one?"
Myles doesn't answer immediately.
He smiles.
Not wider, not sharper, just… certain.
His stance tightens, subtle shifts rippling through his body like a coiled spring drawing in on itself. The ground beneath his feet seems to recognize it before Sebbeh does, faint cracks whispering outward as his weight settles with intent.
Silence falls.
Not empty silence, but the kind that presses against the ears. The kind that waits.
Myles' eyes move, slow and deliberate, tracing Sebbeh's frame. Measuring. Weighing. Understanding.
And then—
It hits him.
A pulse.
Not from the air. Not from the ground.
From Sebbeh.
A rush of sensation crashes into Myles like a sudden gale, sharp and electric. His focus narrows, locking onto one detail, small yet screaming with meaning.
Sebbeh's palms.
Bruised.
Faint. Barely there. But real.
Myles' breath steadies, something deep inside him settling into place with quiet satisfaction. It was never doubt that plagued him. He had known, somewhere beneath instinct and instinct's shadow, that he could hurt him.
But knowing…
and seeing it—
Those are different beasts entirely.
The confirmation coils in his chest, warm and dangerous, like a fire finally given air.
Sebbeh wasn't untouchable.
And now?
Now the fight had teeth.
He waits.
Not idly, not passively, but with a patience that feels alive. Every muscle held in quiet readiness, every breath measured and tucked neatly away. His gaze doesn't just watch, it tracks, peeling Sebbeh apart piece by piece, searching for rhythm, for habit, for the slightest betrayal of intent.
A coiled serpent in stillness.
Then—
Movement.
It comes all at once, like a stampede forced into a single body. Sebbeh surges forward, overwhelming, inevitable, his presence swallowing the space between them in a heartbeat.
A fist tears through the air.
Myles shifts.
Not fast. Not frantic. Just… right.
His weight slides, his frame turns, and the blow glances off him with a grace that feels almost disrespectful, like brushing dust off a shoulder.
For a fraction of a second, it looks effortless.
Too effortless.
Sebbeh's grin stretches.
There it is.
The trap snaps shut.
His momentum folds in on itself, his body flowing seamlessly into the next motion, and his elbow rises like a concealed blade—
Crack.
It slams into Myles' jaw.
The world tilts.
Myles' body lifts, weightless and helpless for that instant, before he's hurled across the space like something discarded. His back collides with the wall in a violent burst, the impact splintering stone and sending fractures spiderwebbing outward.
Dust blooms again, eager to swallow him whole.
Sebbeh straightens slowly, rolling his shoulder as if loosening it after a casual exercise, that same grin lingering, satisfied.
Because this—
this was where experience ruled.
Skill could be learned. Practiced. Refined.
But experience?
Experience was carved into the body. Into instinct. Into the spaces between thought and action.
It was the difference between reacting…
and knowing.
And between the two of them, there was no question who held more of it.
More often than not, that alone decided everything.
But not always.
Because experience, for all its sharpness, carried a quiet flaw.
It relied on the past.
On patterns. On expectation. On the assumption that what had worked before would work again.
And today—
buried beneath the dust, breath steadying, pain settling into something distant and usable—
Myles smiles.
That flaw?
He was going to dig his fingers into it and tear it wide open.
He pulls himself free from the wall like it had tried, and failed, to swallow him whole. Stone grinds against his shoulders as he steps out of the human-shaped crater, dust sliding off him in lazy sheets. Blood traces the edge of his grin, thin and defiant.
He spits.
Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
And smiles wider.
A flicker of intent passes through him, and the air answers.
His staff snaps back into his grasp as if it had been waiting for the call. The weapon hums faintly, alive with purpose. Not just a length of reinforced alloy, no, this was something more personal. Something crafted.
Piece by piece, he had built it. Materials scavenged from the ship, chosen not for what they were, but for what they could become. Bound together with criole, shaped by instinct, sharpened by memory. A touch of engineering from a life he barely remembered, and just enough guidance from Kaelen to make sure it didn't explode in his hands.
A refiner.
An amplifier.
And tucked within it, a few quiet secrets waiting to be introduced.
Sebbeh doesn't wait.
Of course he doesn't.
The distance between them collapses in an instant, the giant moving with terrifying speed for something so massive, intent clear and crushing.
But this time—
Myles moves first.
The staff whistles through the air, a clean, decisive arc—
Crack.
It connects with Sebbeh's jaw, the impact sharp and deliberate, snapping his head to the side. Not wild. Not desperate.
Measured.
Returned.
Tit for tat.
Myles doesn't linger to admire it.
The moment the strike lands, he's already shifting, feet gliding back, body pulling away like a tide that refuses to be caught. Distance blooms between them again, carefully measured, carefully maintained.
No openings.
No chances.
Not this time.
His grip tightens on the staff, its faint hum syncing with the steady rhythm of his breath. His eyes lock onto Sebbeh, calm but alight, like embers waiting for the right gust.
He isn't stepping into Sebbeh's world anymore.
He is building his own space…
and forcing the giant to fight inside it.
Sebbeh drags the back of his hand across his lips, smearing the thin line of blood as though it were nothing more than an afterthought. His grin never leaves, if anything, it deepens, stretching into something fuller, more alive.
"A worm no more."
The words roll out of him with weight, not insult, not quite praise either. Something in between. Something earned.
A laugh follows, loud and unrestrained, echoing through the chamber like thunder caught in a cage. Then, almost casually, he tilts his head toward the observation room.
"Are you sure he is only eighteen?"
His eyes sharpen, gleaming with something old. Something that had been asleep.
"This young one has heart… and the power to couple it." His chest rises slowly, as if drawing in more than just air. "It has been too long. Far too long since I have met a natural-born warrior."
A pause.
Then softer, almost reverent—
"One that inspires this flame within me."
Up above, behind reinforced glass and quiet tension, Rai's eyes widen.
The words don't just reach her, they settle.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Is this what it would take…?
The thought slips in uninvited, coiling through her mind with a quiet cruelty. To bring him back. To awaken that version of him. This… monster wrapped in admiration and violence.
It makes sense.
That's what makes it disturbing.
Her fingers tighten slightly at her side, the conflict flickering across her expression before she buries it beneath composure. Disappointing or not, the truth doesn't bend for comfort.
Still—
She stands ready.
Always ready.
To receive him when he returns from whatever storm he chooses to become.
Around her, the atmosphere shifts.
Sebbeh's aura spills outward, no longer contained, no longer polite. It pours into the arena like something alive, thick and suffocating, pressing against skin and bone alike. It carries weight, history, hunger.
It terrifies.
Not loudly, not chaotically, but deeply. The kind of fear that settles into the spine and whispers of inevitability.
Most feel it.
Most falter.
But not Rai.
And not Irva.
Where others shrink, they watch.
Intrigued.
As if witnessing something rare… and dangerous.
Down below, Myles feels it too.
Of course he does.
It crashes into him like a rising tide, heavy and relentless, promising pain in its purest form. His body reacts before his mind can, muscles tightening, breath sharpening, instincts screaming warnings he cannot afford to obey.
So he does something else.
He steadies.
Draws himself inward.
Lets the fear pass through him without anchoring.
His grip on the staff firms, his stance lowering, refining.
And in that quiet, razor-thin space between heartbeat and action—
His goal changes.
Not to outlast.
Not to endure.
No.
His eyes narrow, locking onto Sebbeh with a clarity that cuts through the pressure.
He would end this.
Before the man before him finished becoming something far worse.
His staff does not simply change.
It decides.
The rigid length softens, then resists, then yields entirely as if remembering a different purpose. It stretches, compresses, folds into itself in a controlled collapse, matter flowing like liquid guided by an unseen hand. The hum deepens, tightens—
—and resolves.
A blade.
Austere. Unadorned. No wasted edge, no vanity. Just intention made solid. Its surface drinks in the light, then gives it back in a faint, lustring sheen, like something breathing just beneath steel.
The air notices.
It parts around the weapon with a delicate insistence, thin currents whispering along its edge. A soft ringing follows, not loud, not sharp, but layered. Like a scatter of tiny bells chiming in some distant, precise rhythm.
Myles shifts.
And something old returns.
Not the frenzy. Not the mindless surge that once tore through him like a storm without a sky.
No.
This time, it arrives quietly.
Black wings unfurl from his back, slow and deliberate, each feather settling into existence with a weight that feels… chosen. They do not thrash or flare wildly. They simply are, vast and controlled.
But the difference—
The difference is in what clings to them.
A rust-colored aura seeps across their surface, not spilling, not raging, but coating them like a memory that refuses to fade. It pulses faintly, uneven, like something that once burned too hot and is now learning restraint.
Power, yes.
But also… aftermath.
And the question hangs in the air, unspoken yet undeniable:
What did he do with the chaos?
Up above, Kaelen's eyes widen—no, not widen. They lock.
Because she sees it.
Not guesses. Not theories. Not the half-formed suspicions they had all entertained and dismissed when convenient.
This is clarity.
This is confirmation.
The shifts, the inconsistencies, the way his power never quite aligned with itself. The moments where he felt like two rhythms trying to occupy one body.
Now it is obvious.
Painfully so.
That is his power.
So then—
berserk hadn't been amplification.
It had been… overlap.
Her thoughts fracture—
—cut clean by Sebbeh's laughter.
It erupts, full-bodied and bright, echoing with genuine delight.
"What was that?" he booms, almost giddy. "I did not even see you."
His gaze drops, casual, almost lazy, to the space between them. To the blade.
To where it rests.
He lifts a hand, gesturing toward his chest.
"Look," he says, almost conversationally, "there you have my heart."
For a moment, it doesn't make sense.
Then it does.
Myles stands close.
Closer than he had been a heartbeat ago.
The blade is buried deep, precise, unhesitating. No wasted motion. No flourish. Just a single, perfect answer to a question Sebbeh didn't realise he had asked.
Sebbeh exhales, long and slow, like a man setting down a great weight.
A sigh follows.
Not bitter.
Not broken.
Satisfied.
"You have won."
Myles does not hesitate.
His grip tightens, and with a sharp, deliberate motion—he pulls.
The blade guides the act with surgical precision, and Sebbeh's heart comes free, torn from his chest in a clean, decisive motion. It beats in Myles' hand, stubborn, defiant, as if unaware it has been displaced.
Thump.
Thump.
Myles watches it for only a fraction of a second.
Not with disgust.
Not with cruelty.
But with understanding.
Blood runs down his arm as he lifts it, holding the heart up—not as something grotesque, but as something earned. A warrior's proof. A message carved in flesh rather than words.
Then he bows.
Measured. Intentional.
To the observation room.
To the witnesses.
To the weight of the exchange.
Behind him, Sebbeh remains standing.
Unmoved.
Unbothered.
A low chuckle escapes him, rumbling deep in his chest—empty though it now is. The wound does not panic. It does not demand urgency. It simply… exists.
"Next time, young warrior."
His voice lands heavy, unchanged, as though nothing vital had been taken—because to him, nothing truly had.
The fight was decided.
But not finished.