The moment Leon asked what Samael was, Samael lunged.
There was no warning.
No hesitation.
His body hurled itself forward with violent force, driven by an убийous intent so dense it seemed to weigh down the air itself. This was not ordinary anger—it was a raw, primal instinct demanding blood.
Leon reacted instantly.
He defended flawlessly.
Every strike was parried, every advance neutralized with almost irritating precision. And yet… this fight was nothing like the one from earlier.
Very different.
Samael's blows had lost weight.
They weren't weak—but they no longer carried the same brute force. In exchange, his speed had increased dramatically. His movements were faster, sharper, almost erratic.
Leon noticed immediately.
Fascinating.
The biological change was far too profound to be merely aesthetic. Even the fighting style had shifted. Where there had once been direct aggression, now there were sudden bursts of movement—short, poorly synchronized attacks.
And mistakes.
Many mistakes.
Samael misjudged the distance of his punches, striking empty air by mere centimeters. His feet tangled in his own momentum, stumbling mid-attack. More than once, he lost balance after turning too fast.
It wasn't weakness.
It was maladaptation.
As if his mind were still anchored to a body that no longer existed.
The new contours interfered with him. The altered weight on his chest pulled his center of gravity forward. His muscles responded faster than expected—causing him to overcommit, to overshoot, to leave himself open.
Every movement betrayed the same issue.
He didn't know this body.
Not yet.
Everything about him, in that moment, screamed unfamiliarity. As though he were fighting inside a living armor he hadn't learned to wear.
Leon stepped back, dodging an attack that moved too fast to carry real force.
His eyes gleamed.
Not with fear.
But with pure interest.
"Incredible…" he murmured, more to himself than to Samael.
Samael answered with another uncontrolled charge.
Not because it was the best choice.
But because instinct was in control now.
And instinct didn't care about technique.
Only survival.
"Damn it… why?" Samael snarled, missing a punch by inches.
Leon barely needed to move. The blow passed through empty space.
"Why…?" Samael repeated, twisting his body and trying to kick a chair toward him.
He missed.
His foot struck the floor at an awkward angle, and Samael stumbled, nearly falling.
Frustration exploded inside him.
Damn body.
He advanced again, trying to use the environment to his advantage. He leapt onto one of the infirmary beds, seeking higher ground—some kind of tactical edge.
He jumped too high.
His body was lighter than he was used to. The impulse exceeded his calculation, and he slipped upon landing, losing precious seconds to recover.
Leon watched in silence.
When Samael began hurling objects—trays, bottles, anything within reach—the problem became even clearer. The difference in reach, strength, and speed completely warped his aim. What would once have been a perfect throw now flew too far… or fell short.
Nothing hit.
And the more he missed…
The more desperate he became.
And the more desperate he became…
The more he missed.
"Damn it…" he thought, his breathing growing uneven. This damn body… why…?
Why wouldn't it obey?
Anger spilled over.
No technique.No calculation.No control.
Samael charged again, releasing all the accumulated frustration against Leon. He was no longer fighting to win.
He was fighting to make this body respond.
To prove that he was still in there.
But in that moment, the body was not an extension of his will.
It was foreign territory.
And Samael was losing that war.
"Damn, I'm exhausted…" Layla muttered at the end of her shift.
All that was left was to hand over Samael's room key, escort him there… and then she'd finally be free to rest. At least, that was the plan.
"That brat does nothing but cause trouble…" she grumbled, rubbing her tired face. "Had to end up in the infirmary today of all days…"
The fatigue showed even in her posture.
As she approached the infirmary, however, something caught her attention.
A strange sound.
Thump.
A dull impact.
Then another.
And another.
The sound of something being thrown against a wall.
Layla frowned.
"Ah… I just wanted to rest…" she muttered, quickening her pace.
When she opened the door, the scene made her stop cold.
The infirmary was in chaos.
Beds out of place. Bottles shattered on the floor. Trays scattered everywhere. The air was heavy—almost electrified.
And at the center of the room…
Two figures were fighting.
One of them moved with absolute calm. Every gesture was controlled, precise, refined. His movements radiated perfection—as if he were performing a drill, not engaged in combat.
Leon.
The other…
Was the complete opposite.
Desperate. Violent. Bestial.
He moved too fast, attacked with ferocity, but missed. Stumbled. Left himself open. His strikes carried something deeply wrong, as if the body could not keep up with the intent.
Layla narrowed her eyes.
Strange…
If she didn't know the context, she would've sent that creature straight to remedial classes… or containment.
She stepped forward.
"Stop."
She didn't shout.
She didn't need to.
The word came out cold, firm, laden with enough authority to cut through the air.
Both froze instantly.
Leon was the first to turn.
"Good evening, Professor," he greeted calmly, politely.
As though he had nothing to do with the chaos surrounding him.