CHAPTER 13
[THE FOOTWORK TECHNIQUES]
Among both the Order of Exodus and the Mercenaries of the Iron Altar, there exist two forbidden footwork arts—techniques spoken of in hushed tones and taught only to those deemed worthy.
They are known as the Double Step and the Triple Step.
Both are ancient.
Both are lethal.
And both exist to shatter the limits of human perception.
[THE DOUBLE STEP TECHNIQUE]
The Double Step is the more versatile of the two techniques—a form of high-speed footwork that grants its user overwhelming mobility and combat efficiency.
When executed with perfect form, the user initiates two consecutive steps, rupturing the opponent's perception range and line of sight. At full activation, the body blurs completely, leaving no afterimage, no residual trace—only absence.
It is the most commonly employed technique in prolonged combat, allowing the user to maneuver, reposition, and strike at blinding speeds multiple times within a single exchange.
However, the Double Step carries an inherent limitation.
When two equally matched users both possess mastery over the technique, combat devolves into a battle of attrition.
Victory is no longer decided by speed alone, but by timing, tactical awareness, mastery of the ancient arts, and the weapons each combatant wields.
In such encounters, the deciding factor becomes painfully simple:
Who initiates first—and who understands the technique better.
[THE TRIPLE STEP TECHNIQUE]
In contrast, the Triple Step is an overwhelmingly destructive technique—one designed not for prolonged combat, but for absolute termination.
The user must initiate three consecutive steps before activation.
Once completed, the technique becomes a guaranteed killing blow.
The Triple Step generates an immense propulsive force, collapsing the space between the user and their target. Distance becomes irrelevant. Evasion becomes meaningless. Upon impact, the resulting force is so catastrophic that it can obliterate the surrounding environment, reducing everything within the affected radius to ruin.
Nothing survives its wake.
Bodies disintegrate.
Structures collapse.
The battlefield is left scarred beyond recognition.
Yet for all its power, the Triple Step is deeply flawed.
Its activation time renders it inefficient in sustained combat. The immense energy required limits its use to once—or at most twice—before leaving the user dangerously vulnerable.
Against a Double Step practitioner, this weakness becomes fatal.
Two steps will almost always outpace three.
Thus, in direct confrontations, a Double Step user is statistically more likely to prevail—not through raw power, but through superior adaptability.
The only known counter to the Triple Step lies in an exceedingly rare ability: the extension of consciousness—the capacity to perceive several seconds into the future. Even then, applying such foresight in the chaos of battle is nearly impossible.
For this reason, the Triple Step is most effective when initiated outside the opponent's perception field—as a surprise execution rather than a frontal assault.
[AT THE PARK — WHERE THE BATTLE COMMENCED]
Reagan did not evade the attack completely.
But he distorted its outcome.
Before her blade ever reached him, Reagan had already initiated his retreat—the first phase of the Double Step. One step backward, clean and decisive.
Only one more step was needed.
That was the problem.
There was no time.
The Iron Lady had already initiated her final step.
She had moved first.
Which meant that by the time Reagan could commit to his second step, she would have already closed the distance—her blade descending in a single, flawless arc meant to sever his head before his perception could catch up.
Reagan understood this instantly.
And so, he gambled.
As he stepped back, he forced his head sharply backward, synchronizing the motion with his retreat. It was reckless—an instinctive maneuver meant to steal a fragment of distance where none should exist.
A sliver of space.
An instant.
Enough.
Her blade passed his throat by the width of a breath.
In that stolen moment, Reagan's foot struck the ground.
The second step landed.
The Double Step activated.
His body vanished backward at blinding speed, the world snapping violently out of sync as he narrowly escaped decapitation.
The gamble succeeded—
—but not without cost.
The pressure of the strike alone tore into him, a shallow cut opening along the side of his neck. Blood surged up his throat as he staggered, coughing violently.
He spat crimson onto the ground.
His breathing came heavy and uneven as he clutched his neck, pain radiating through his skull.
What's taking so long…?
They should be here by now.
Her voice carried calmly through the mask.
"Interesting," she said. "So you're familiar with the Double Step. That explains how you survived just now."
Despite the pain, Reagan smirked.
"They don't call me the Kraken of Zall for nothing," he replied, his voice strained beneath labored breaths.
For the first time, his expression hardened.
"I don't have a choice anymore…"
He inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled.
His stance shifted. His guard rose.
And as his eyes sharpened, something else caught his attention—
Her blade.
"Why didn't I notice it earlier…?"
Reagan's gaze locked onto the blade.
Sigils ran down its length like veins of molten gold, faint yet unmistakable, pulsing with ancient intent.
That blade
His breath caught.
It can't be… it actually exists?
The Talisman of Annhul—an ancient relic spoken of only in fractured records and forbidden scripture. A blade forged not merely to kill, but to divide existence itself. A weapon said to have split heaven from earth in an age long erased from history.
"But why does she have it?"
"And how did she even acquire something like that…?"
His fingers slipped into the inner lining of his coat, reaching for the weapon hidden there.
"This is going to be far more difficult than I anticipated", he thought grimly as his hand brushed against cold metal.
"I'm not just facing someone nearly as powerful as him…"
His jaw tightened.
"But she also wields theAnnhul."
"If that blade were to tou—"
The thought never finished
The Iron Lady moved.
Her form blurred as she initiated the Double Step, the air snapping violently in her wake. Reagan's instincts screamed as space itself seemed to collapse between them. He tried to draw his weapon—but it was already too late.
She was on him.
Yet in that fraction of a heartbeat, Reagan noticed something.
Her stance.
She's repeating the same opening…
He reacted on instinct, ducking just enough for her blade to carve through the space where his neck had been moments ago.
Steel screamed through the air.
"Why repeat the same attack—?"
Realization struck too late.
He had taken the bait.
By ducking, he had shortened his reaction window—and her follow-up was already in motion.
Her fist drove forward like a falling star.
It struck his solar plexus.
The impact detonated.
The ground beneath them shattered outward in a violent web of fractures, stone erupting as a thunderous shockwave tore through the park. A violent gust exploded from the point of impact, flattening trees, ripping debris from the ground, and distorting Reagan's form as he was launched skyward.
His body became a blur as he was hurled through the storm, punching straight into the murky clouds above.
The Iron Lady stood still, blade lowered, mask tilted upward.
She watched calmly as his silhouette vanished into the darkness.
Waiting.
Waiting for gravity to reclaim him.
Waiting to deliver the finishing blow.
But something was… wrong.
The clouds above began to move.
Not drift.
Form.
A deep, unnatural squeal echoed across the city—low, vast, and suffocating. A sudden pressure surged outward, sending violent winds roaring through streets and alleyways alike. Windows shattered. Vehicles rocked violently. People were lifted off their feet.
The storm escalated instantly—what had once been a brewing tempest now felt alive.
Citizens barricaded themselves indoors, convinced the world itself was coming undone. Those caught outside were dragged screaming by the wind, while others dropped to their knees, praying to survive the night.
And then people looked up.
Those who did froze in terror.
The clouds were no longer formless.
A colossal silhouette stretched across the sky—vast beyond comprehension. A shape so immense it dwarfed the city beneath it, descending slowly, inexorably, like a god of ruin awakening from slumber.
Inside the storm, Reagan felt it.
He had stalled long enough.
If he continued holding back—if he refused to use the technique he was forbidden to ever use unless it's a matter of life and death then —he would die here.
"This is it", he realized.
Before gravity could claim him, before his momentum faded, Reagan spread his arms wide and formed a precise hand seal—index and middle fingers tightly joined, overlapping one another; little fingers touching; thumbs meeting to complete the ancient configuration.
Power surged.
His voice cut through the storm, commanding and absolute.
"And now… release."
"Ancient Arts of Zall—"
"…Initiate the Eighth Command."
The clouds convulsed.
"The Kraken of Tempest"