At the camp Ravian had left behind, the day moved slowly.
Beron paced back and forth, restless. He stopped for a moment, lifted his gaze toward the sky filtered through the treetops, and let out a small smile.
— No… — he murmured. — Ravian is definitely fine. And Guy too. Everyone is fine.
He was speaking more to himself than to anyone else.
Far away—
Ravian was hurled against the ground.
He rolled, the impact ripping through his body like a blunt shock. Dirt filled his mouth and eyes. He spat, turned onto his side, and let out a tired laugh as he pushed himself up on one knee.
— Yeah… — he said, breathless. — Guess I'm not doing that well after all.
In front of him, Vernis advanced like a living fortress.
Every step the champion took made the ground tremble slightly, as if the forest itself reacted to his presence. Muscles shifted beneath Gaia-hardened skin—natural plates that seemed to absorb impact before it even happened.
Vernis attacked.
A downward punch, heavy as a war hammer. Ravian dodged by a hair's breadth, feeling the wind of the blow tear past his face. Vernis' fist struck the ground—and the earth caved in.
Ravian counterattacked instantly.
He twisted his body and unleashed a rapid sequence of strikes: ribs, abdomen, collarbone. Precise. Surgical.
He attacked.
And he hit.
But nothing happened.
The blows bounced off Gaia's hardened skin as if they had struck solid stone. Ravian clenched his teeth and changed tactics, stepping in with a direct punch to the neck—a vulnerable point in any fight.
Nothing.
Not even a scratch.
The crowd around them began to fall silent. They had never seen anyone last this long against Vernis… and they had never seen Vernis forced to fight seriously.
Ravian, however, was starting to feel the toll. His arms burned. His breathing grew uneven. Each breath felt shorter than the last. His options were running out.
Vernis charged.
The ground shook beneath the sudden acceleration.
Ravian tried to evade.
Too late.
The champion spun in the same motion and delivered a full-force kick straight to Ravian's face.
The impact echoed like a dry thunderclap.
Ravian was sent flying, slammed into the ground, rolled again. He spat blood. Wiped his face with the back of his hand and slowly stood up.
His gaze had changed.
There was no calculation left.
No hesitation.
He stood still, breathing deeply, feeling his body realign itself.
— I'm done with this nonsense… — he said quietly. — I'm sick of it.
He began to walk.
Slowly.
One step at a time.
Each step carried intent.
The crowd held its breath.
Vernis frowned.
— What are you going to do now? — he mocked. — You're exhausted. No one can bring me down.
Ravian didn't answer.
He simply extended his hand… and placed it against Vernis' chest.
— What the—? — Vernis began.
Before he could react—
An invisible force tore through him.
There was no explosion.
No flash.
No visible effort.
Only impact.
Vernis was thrown backward with absurd violence, as if struck by something far greater than any physical blow. His massive body flew and crashed to the ground, kicking up dust.
Absolute silence.
For a second… no one breathed.
Then—
— HE FELL?! — My God… — Vernis fell!
The champion pushed himself up, brought a hand to his head… and started laughing.
Genuine laughter.
— I have to admit… — he said, rising with difficulty. — You're strong. Very strong.
He looked straight at Ravian.
— But I'm still standing.
Ravian took one step forward.
— Screw all this crap. — he said calmly. — If you want to keep going, this will end worse than any monster out here.
He stopped.
Breathed deeply.
— But think about it. It doesn't have to end like this.
Vernis remained silent for several seconds.
Then he slowly nodded.
— Law of the jungle… — he muttered. — But we're not animals.
He raised his fist… and lowered it.
— You win.
The crowd exploded.
Shouts. Cheers. Applause.
— We're going with you, Ravian! — You're insane! — That's a real leader!
Guy watched from a distance, stunned.
In that moment, Ravian had conquered something immense.
An entire group.
A real expansion.
A society now strong enough to be feared.
Meanwhile—
Very far away…
Asher attacked.
Fury drove every movement. The environment around him melted, cracked, shattered. Fireballs were hurled like uncontrolled projectiles.
Mr. Hellion dodged with precision.
He was still smiling.
But now… there was sadness in that smile.
— I'll end you! — Asher snarled. — There won't be anything left—not even ashes!
— You do realize you're speaking to your master, don't you? — Hellion replied calmly.
— Screw that! — Asher shouted. — I'll destroy whoever you are!
Hellion sighed.
— Ah… this phase again.
He dodged another attack.
— Sorry, buddy. — he said. — This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.
He waited.
A perfect instant.
When Asher lunged again, Hellion moved like a shadow. He drew the sword from his waist, gripping it only by the hilt and—
THUD.
A dry strike to the back of the neck.
Asher collapsed unconscious before he could hit the ground.
Hellion stood still, watching him.
— Whew… — he murmured. — Serious anger issues.
He knelt beside the boy.
Hatred still carved into his expression.
— No… — he thought. — Angelo isn't the root of all this.
He stood slowly.
— There's something far deeper eating away at you, Asher…
And in that moment, it became clear:
While societies grew in Orb Valley,
other forces were on the verge of collapse.
Meanwhile, after the meeting of Angelo's group—Tocre, Lana, Bale, and Korvel—their dynamics began to take shape.
They had shown their abilities to one another, and now it was time to truly understand each other.
Tocre approached Lana.
— What's your specialty? — he asked, serious.
Lana hesitated for a moment.
— Speed.
Tocre frowned.
— How? Speed isn't a specialty. It's a physical condition generated by a specialty. What is your actual specialty?
Lana sighed.
— Well… I don't have one.
Tocre's gaze hardened, almost cold.
— You simply… don't have any specialty.
Angelo, surprised, interrupted:
— What the hell? How can you not have one? That doesn't make sense.
— Actually… it kind of does. We've never seen you fight.
Lana smiled faintly, a little embarrassed, but firm.
— Since I was a child, I never had a specialty like the others in my family. But I always had speed and raw strength.
Tocre took a deep breath, weighing his words.
— In the end… specialties aren't just flashy things—magic, spectacle. Your speed, your strength… and your empathy—yes, empathy is also a specialty—are necessary skills.
A brief silence followed, filled with understanding.
— Very well, everyone. — Tocre turned to the group. — The day is still moving, and we have about three hours left to search for more people to join us.
He pointed toward the camouflaged camp among the trees.
— Our camp is undetectable. We already have three habitable trees, but for now we're only using two. When we bring in new members, we'll need to adapt the others.
Before Tocre could finish, something caught the group's attention.
In the distance, a small band was approaching.
Between fifteen and twenty people, moving with steady steps.
They stopped, talked among themselves, and five of them advanced toward the camp.
At the front, with the air of a leader—playful, yet intimidating—was Miles.
He approached with a confident smile, eyes evaluating every member of Tocre's group.
— Hello, dear friends — he said, his voice clear and firm. — I'd like to know who leads this little society. It seems we're in need of a few things you might have.
The atmosphere tightened.
Words and intentions carried veiled threat.
But Tocre remained calm.
No words.
No reaction beyond a steady gaze.
Everyone in the group understood:
Right there, in front of them, something big was about to happen.