Kelly was in the air again—because apparently gravity had beef with her—and hit the floor for what felt like the thousandth time in the past three hours. She didn't even bother trying to land with dignity anymore. Dignity had died somewhere around hour one.
"Asshole. Jerk." She muttered, dusting herself off and glaring murder.
Jayden didn't even flinch. Still had one hand raised like swatting her away had been as effortless as brushing off lint. Worse—he was eating. He was literally biting into some random fruit mid-fight, like she was so insignificant he didn't even need both hands to deal with her.
The disrespect was brutal.
Kelly slid back into a fighting stance, jaw tight, eyes locked on him. She didn't need to win. She just needed one clean hit. One punch, one kick, one anything that left a mark—so she could walk out of here with at least 0.04% of her pride intact.
Two days. That was how long she'd been awake. Two days of nonstop humiliation disguised as "training."
The first morning, Jayden had walked in with that casual god-complex voice of his and said he would "suppress his strength to her level" so they could spar. A great way, he said, to "study his star performer." She should've known the moment he said star performer that she was already doomed.
But of course she believed him.
Because why wouldn't she? The idea of punching that smug face? Free therapy.
She was in the training room in less than five minutes, already in uniform, practically vibrating with the kind of unholy excitement only revenge and caffeine could create.
And then reality happened.
The whole "fair fight" died the second he flicked her with one finger and sent her flying like a paper bag in a hurricane.
She kept attacking. He kept doing nothing. No footwork. No effort. Just lazy hand waves and the occasional bored eyebrow raise. She might as well have been fighting a tree. A condescending tree.
That was when it sank in:
She. Had. Been. Played.
He never suppressed anything. He was just beating her up for entertainment. Probably considered it a warm-up. Or worse—a hobby.
And when she finally exploded and called him out for lying, Jayden had the audacity—the unfiltered, shameless audacity—to reply in that relaxed, smooth, I-should-be-punched voice—
"Oh dear Kelly, this is me being merciful. I actually had to make my strength weaker than yours just to give you a chance."
That was the moment something inside her snapped.
Not cracked. Snapped.
Her pride didn't just get bruised — it got drop-kicked off a cliff.
Weaker than hers? While he was tossing her around like she weighed less than a feather pillow? Please. Even the air molecules rolling around the room knew he was lying.
But it wasn't the lie that pissed her off the most. No, no, no — it was the effortlessness.
The way he handled her like she didn't even qualify as a threat.
The bored expression.
The one-handed attacks.
The fact that he didn't even look slightly winded.
The audacity of the man.
And yet… she still didn't leave. Not because she had stamina, but because unfortunately — painfully — he was actually good at teaching.
She hated that.
She hated how he'd pause mid-beatdown just to criticize her form like a disappointed dance instructor.
She hated how he caught things she didn't even know she was doing wrong — like spreading her arms too wide or telegraphing her moves.
She hated how every correction came with either a punch or a sarcastic line.
And worst of all?
She was getting better.
Faster. Sharper. Cleaner.
Her footwork tightened. Her reflexes sharpened. Her instincts grew teeth.
First, they trained hand-to-hand, no powers.
Then they moved on to Astral Skills — or she did. Because even when she finally got to use Cosmic Dust, Jayden still didn't bother using a single spark.
For a moment she thought, Finally. With powers, I'll land a hit. This is it.
But no. The first exchange ended with her body-shaped imprint on the wall.
So much for "suppressing his strength."
The cheating bastard.
She had thrown everything at him.
Blades, arrows, lances, spears—every shape Cosmic Dust could take, she hurled it with all the hatred her soul could legally contain.
And Jayden?
He just… punched.
One punch.
Everything shattered.
Kelly stared, speechless, as this man—this liar who claimed to be "weaker than her"—reduced forged Cosmic Dust to glittering crumbs in the air like it was nothing.
Did he even hear himself talk?
Did he actually believe the nonsense he was saying?
Or had he just given up pretending and decided to fully embrace his lying guts?
She wasn't sure, so she asked.
And he answered with that annoyingly calm voice:
"I thought I suppressed my strength well enough, but it seems I have to go a little lower. Hmm… how about I make myself half as strong as you? That should make this fair, no?"
Kelly almost coughed up blood.
She went at him again, fueled by rage and humiliation—but it didn't matter. He dodged, deflected, and casually destroyed everything she threw at him. One hand was always in his pocket, like he wasn't fighting her—just mildly interacting with gravity. The only time he lifted the other hand was to… eat.
He was literally snacking mid-fight.
The audacity was starting to feel insane.
Now he stood there, chewing, bored, fruit in one hand, the other slightly raised in "Yeah yeah, whenever you're done embarrassing yourself" mode.
Kelly glared at him, voice tight with irritation.
"Has anyone ever told you you're supposed to go easy on a girl?"
Jayden stopped chewing.
The fruit in his hand dissolved into the air like dust.
Then, with a smile too calm to be legal, he said:
"You're misunderstanding something, my Superstar. The point of this exercise has always been to break you. To bend you. Crush your pride and use pain to forge you into a better performer."
Kelly tilted her head, slow and deliberate, then a smile—thin and dangerous—curled across her lips.
Cosmic Dust rushed around her like a storm, forming a spinning whirlpool that tightened into hundreds of needle-thin shards, all rotating like a drill hungry for blood.
And she launched herself forward.
The needles followed, dancing around her in chaotic rhythm—twisting, zig-zagging, spiraling through the air as if they were alive and just as pissed off as she was.
Jayden didn't dodge. Didn't even posture.
He just raised an eyebrow like she'd presented him a mildly interesting snack and lifted two fingers into the air—like he was pinching at an invisible thread.
Then he pulled.
Kelly didn't even get time to swear before her control snapped.
The needles clattered to the floor in a sudden storm—useless, dead, humiliating.
But Kelly didn't stop.
She didn't slow.
She didn't even bother questioning his cheating superpowers anymore. At this point, she had mentally accepted that Jayden had his own private physics engine and the universe just let him get away with it.
Cosmic Dust gathered again, this time condensing into a long purple blade in her hand as she activated Star Dance. Her movements blurred—smooth, flawless, deadly. Every strike a painting. Every step a line of poetry.
And Jayden? He blocked her swings with a single hand. Lazy. Effortless. Annoyingly calm.
"Do you know what I think of every time I look at your unnerving face?" Kelly said between strikes, voice light, tone deadly. She feinted left, then spun, switching to his midsection. He barely tilted aside—just an inch, just enough. "I think about how your skull would look crushed under my foot. Blood, gore, brain matter—nice floor decoration."
Her sword whistled through air that should have been his ribs.
He still hadn't moved his feet.
"How it would feel to grind your bones into paste… watch you scream and beg me to stop," Kelly said, voice soft, almost dreamy.
Two more swords formed behind her and shot forward—one from his blind spot, the other from the side. She kept her own blade busy in front of him, her strikes fast enough to demand attention, her movement fluid enough to look like she was dancing with murder.
Jayden didn't even blink.
He snapped his fingers.
Both swords collided midair like puppets yanked by an invisible string—shattered into harmless sparks.
Kelly didn't even react. She just kept moving. Sword flashing. Body spinning. Steps silent and precise—like every swing was choreographed for a performance only she understood.
"I imagine the day I finally get to kill you," she continued, tone almost playful as two thin needles shot from behind him. He didn't turn, just flicked them away with a single finger, like swatting flies. "I imagine how slow I'll make it. How much pain I'll carve into your body. I laugh, sometimes. Thinking about how beautifully I'll slice you apart… limb by limb… an artwork in blood."
She spun her sword from hand to hand, faster than thought, and slashed toward his shoulder—
But he caught the blade.
Between two fingers.
That was when Kelly noticed his expression.
His eyes weren't bored anymore. They were narrowed—focused—like he was actively holding something back.
She froze for a second, eyebrow raised. Sure, she'd threatened to kill him before. Dozens of times. It was practically her love language at this point. But he'd never reacted like this.
And oh, the satisfaction that came with it.
She'd finally done it—finally cracked the smug statue.
Except… that wasn't rage in his eyes.
It was something else.
Something darker. Heavier. Sharper.
Desire.
"Hey—what are you—"
She didn't finish.
She was already slammed against the wall, breath knocked out of her, his arm caging her in place. His body heat pressed against her. His eyes—those deep, dark rubies—focused entirely on her, intense enough to make her pulse trip over itself.
She could feel the shift in the air.
The danger.
The pull.
Her knees almost forgot their job.