Wrong Derek came at her like a landslide.
No warning. No wind-up. Just movement—fast for someone his size, faster than he had any right to be. His fist connected with Lena's block, and she felt it in her bones, in her teeth, in the ground beneath her feet.
She skidded back, daggers raised, arms numb.
He was already coming again.
Lena moved. She was faster—much faster—a blur of motion that carried her around him, behind him, blades finding gaps in his defense. A slash across his back. A stab at his side. A cut along his arm.
He didn't seem to notice.
Wrong Derek turned, swung, missed. The force of his punch cratered the ground where she'd been standing.
"You're quick," he said. His voice was flat, almost bored. "But quick doesn't break bones."
He charged.
Lena dodged. Weaved. Danced around him, leaving cuts everywhere—shallow, bleeding, irritating. She was trying to wear him down, to bleed him out, to make him slow.
He didn't slow.
His fist caught her shoulder.
The impact lifted her off her feet, sent her spinning through the air. She hit the ground hard, rolled, came up with her daggers ready.
Her left arm wasn't working.
Wrong Derek walked toward her, unhurried, his face blank, his hands already raising for the next blow.
Jordan appeared between them.
His body was different—thicker, more muscular, the transformation he'd used against Kobai Rei, the one that traded speed for power. His katana was in his hand, its blade catching the light.
Wrong Derek stopped. Looked at him. Looked at Lena behind him.
"More company."
Jordan didn't answer. He moved.
Their blades met—Jordan's katana against Wrong Derek's forearm, which should have been impossible, except his skin had hardened, turned to something like stone. Sparks flew. The impact shook the ground.
Wrong Derek punched. Jordan blocked with the flat of his blade, skidded back, came forward again.
They were matched. The same level of strength. The same level of endurance.
Wrong Derek's eyes narrowed. "Blood Rush."
His pulse skyrocketed. His body hardened further. His speed increased—not to Jordan's level, not even close, but enough.
He punched.
Jordan took it on his shoulder, felt something crack, and answered with a slash across Wrong Derek's chest. The blade bit deep. Blood sprayed.
Wrong Derek didn't flinch.
He grabbed Jordan's blade with his bare hand—the edge cutting into his palm, his fingers, his bones—and pulled. Jordan stumbled forward, off balance, and Wrong Derek's other fist drove into his stomach.
Jordan folded. Wrong Derek's knee came up, caught him in the face, sent him staggering back.
Lena was there.
Her daggers found the back of Wrong Derek's knees, the soft tissue behind his joints, the places where even hardened skin couldn't protect. He buckled. Jordan came forward again, katana singing, and drove the blade into his shoulder.
Wrong Derek roared.
He grabbed Jordan by the collar, lifted him off the ground, and threw him into Lena. They crashed together, tangled, struggling to rise.
Wrong Derek stood over them, bleeding from a dozen wounds, his body crackling with Blood Rush energy.
"This is taking too long," he said.
He turned and ran. He knew that a long fight wasn't in his favor. He won't be able to use blood rush too many times.
Not away—not retreating. Just... leaving. His Blood Rush carried him through the trees, faster than before, disappearing into the smoke and flame.
Jordan pushed himself up. His shoulder was screaming. His ribs were cracked. He was bleeding from a cut above his eye.
"Are you okay?" Lena was already at his side, her hands on his face, checking his wounds.
"I'm fine." He pulled away. "We need to find the others."
Lena's hands dropped. She looked at him—at the blood, the cuts, the way he was holding his shoulder.
"Jordan."
"I said I'm fine.I'll heal."
They stood in the burning forest, surrounded by ash and flame, and for a moment, neither of them moved.
Then Lena took his hand.
"Let's go."
Jordan didn't pull away.
They walked.