The silence in the room this time wasn't cosy but taut, like the air before rain.

No crisps. No fizzy drinks.

Marlon and Bao were both dangling from their bunks, staring at our guest. In the chair at the centre of the room, sitting in a relaxed pose, was Zola.

That while Nur sat beside me, closer to the wall. Her shoulder pressed against mine, and through that shoulder I could feel her tension. Listening carefully, I could even hear her breathing. It was fast. Too fast.

Denis sat opposite me with a cup of Pure Thoughts, the same ones Bulsara had used to bribe the lads into 'a friendly integration of Zola into the usual social circle.' Yellow quality, but for the lads that wasn't a small thing. Denis happened to have a cultivation session planned, so he was preparing himself.

"Who the hell are you?" Denis asked. "No offence."

"Not her," Zola answered, pointing at Nur.

Good. For a moment I'd thought Bulsara and Novak had learned how to copy souls.

"You need to give us something more," Marlon said. "Tea is fine, but we can't trust you if you don't open up to us at all."

"And what will you do with that information?" Zola asked. "In less than half a year you'll all be back on Earth. Every one of you. The only one who's sure to remain, the only one I could open up to, is Jake.

"By the way, congratulations on third place."

"Third place in what?" I asked.

"The weekly tournament," she said.

We all exchanged glances. Clearly the thought that something was wrong with this person flashed through everyone's mind.

"Something wrong?" she asked.

"I haven't taken part in tournaments for a very long time."

"J. D. Sullivan — third place in the latest tournament."

"I'm J. M. Sullivan."

"Oh! My apologies. Still, you do have a certain reputation, and we're on the same stage now. Would you mind a few sparring sessions?"

Nur had never liked sparring…

"I'll tell you who I really am," Zola said.

I agreed. There was no reason to refuse. But Zola's presence put me on edge. She completely shattered the easy, friendly atmosphere that existed in our group without her.

We literally had nothing to talk about.

After she left, all of my lot unanimously decided that this Zola was a bitch. Bao couldn't resist telling Nur that this was a strong argument in favour of his position on identity, and that she hadn't needed to change bodies.

Philosophy didn't trouble me much; what I needed was to figure out who the hell J. D. Sullivan was.

I dug into the archive to watch the tournament recordings.

Besides the first and last name, he even shared my taste. For some reason his armour had the same colours as mine — black and yellow with a golden tint. At a glance, the difference was barely noticeable.

I skipped the start and went straight to his last fight, the semi-final, since there was no battle for third place. His opponent had taken too much damage in her own semi-final.

And do you know what this bastard did?

As soon as the fight began, he tried to talk his opponent, none other than Skoryk, into surrendering. Claimed she'd already lost to him before and would lose again.

She told him to piss off and said she'd lost to the other Sullivan.

This bastard was pretending to be me!

He copied my way of speaking and my tactics. He gave up the moment Skoryk attacked. Still, he ended up with third place. Gunther once again beat his opponent half to death.

That semi-final had been his first fight of the entire tournament, and Okoro was the first fighter who dared to challenge him. If he'd yielded, this Sullivan might not have been so lucky. Skoryk did exactly that in the final.

In general, there was plenty of interesting stuff in the tournaments. Since all fighters were now Stage Two, they were showing off stronger techniques, and a greater variety of them. This same Sullivan, though he exploited my image, wasn't a Fist cultivator.

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He was a classic Palm cultivator, using some sort of amulet shield.

Which meant his projections shone golden, like any Palm cultivator's, but you don't always have time to notice exactly what's flying at you, and a shield, it's big and silver. Even if a participant had looked him up on the roster before the fight and clearly seen that this Sullivan was a Palm cultivator and nothing else, the sudden appearance of a shield in battle could stun you for just a split second. And in the arena, a lot can happen in that split second.

On one hand, I was annoyed that he was blatantly exploiting my image. On the other, I couldn't help but admire the creativity. And he was a decent fighter, too.

He literally smeared his last opponent in the quarter-final.

Nate Forger, one of the newcomers I hadn't yet come across. A Fist cultivator, like me. But he opened the fight with a bull-shi-do. In this world, that meant he was preparing an ult.

Heavenly Fist wasn't so flashy in terms of movements, all the handwork happened right in front of the stomach. But Nate's technique forced him to draw his right fist back, knuckles down, left fist before his forehead. Then they slowly began to swap places, and above him a giant fist started to form.

Sullivan charged straight at him, and Nate snapped the technique forward. Instead of raising his right fist to his forehead, he thrust it out ahead, and the projection above his head surged in the same direction.

The distance between Sullivan and the projection closed in an instant, but there was no explosion. Sullivan slipped underneath it, sprang to his feet, and fired off a quick series of golden projections, which scattered against his opponent's silver shield.

Both fighters raised their shields and started literally playing tag, peppering each other with rapid projections all the while.

Sullivan was chasing. And he caught him.

The shields collided, cracked, and shattered.

Sullivan took a few hits to the face, Nate caught one projection on his head but stayed standing.

I'd bet he'd taken the right drug. But it didn't save him.

Sullivan lunged forward, lifting his right shoulder.

I'd done the same myself, to knock an opponent off balance.

Nate predictably lost his footing. He fell on his back, arms flung wide, while Sullivan drew his arm back wide, like I did with Hook, and launched a powerful projection straight between his legs.

Ooooh!

I never did that!

Nate wasn't in any state to concede. He curled up like a foetus, but my namesake wasn't about to give him a chance. In this world, no one saw any issue with hitting someone who was down, so Sullivan drew back again, hammering projection after projection into his opponent's head.

One, two, three…

Only then did the referee rush in and catch Sullivan's arm. The projection missed Nate, who was slowly uncurling. By some miracle the opponent was still conscious, but the referee took pity and declared:

"Victory to Sullivan!"

Two medics rushed onto the platform and began scanning Nate's armoured groin. The cadet was moving, but not with much enthusiasm. Clearly the pain was getting through even with the anaesthetic, and he must have used it, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to uncurl at all.

The medics loaded him onto a stretcher and carried him out of the arena.

This Sullivan was determined.

If I ever had to fight him, I'd need to ask Novak for pants that screened Palm Qi. I had the shirt, but pants didn't.

After that spectacle, I was almost afraid to go for a spar with Zola. I'd chosen the sand hall out of habit, even before Zola clarified that she wanted a spar in armour. It didn't really change anything.

It was my first time seeing her armour. It was black, with green patches depicting mythical beasts. All in Nur's tattoo style, but much cheaper.

We faced off in the centre of the sand hall.

"Ready?" I asked.

"Absolutely not!" she replied cheerfully, flowing into a fighting stance. She held her palms open, but not in the usual way of Palm cultivators. Her palms were simply a straight extension of her forearms.

I made two short hops, not attacking, just forcing a close distance. She reacted instantly.

An explosive dash — classic.

I shifted left, turning, and saw Zola fling her fist into empty space as she completed her technique. The projection of her fist dragged with it a silver phantom of her entire body. As with Iron Head, this technique froze her for a fraction of a second.

Enough for me to leap in and land a kick.

My armoured sole clacked against her armoured backside and Zola went flying face-first into the sand. She thawed before hitting the ground and immediately returned to her stance, then attacked me with a fast technique.

She kept her palms open, but struck not with the base but with the fingertips. The projections that burst from them didn't follow the shape of her hand. They looked like silver tapered cones, radiating a blend of Fist and Edge.

An interesting technique, but she wasn't fast enough with it, her armour seemed to restrain her movements. I read her like an open book and dodged without effort.

My Chain Punches, though, she caught with the faceplate of her helmet, and immediately sat down on her arse.

"Incredible!" I said. "You suck!"

"Hey! Cut me some slack, it's a new body, borrowed techniques, and it's my first time in armour!"

"What do you mean, first time?" I didn't get it. Everyone wore armour, except…

"Aha." Zola nodded, raised a palm to her temple, and gave a playful salute. "Albert 047, at your service."

"Bloody hell! Mate, you should be around Third Stage…"

"Late Third," he agreed… or she?

Nur had really struggled with a man's memories. Especially the intimate ones.

"So it's not for long?" I asked. "You're going back?"

"Hell no!" Zola shot back, jabbing a thumb at her chest. "This is my body! I've earned my freedom!"

"And the change of sex doesn't bother you?" I asked.

"All I had from that sex was a useless dangler. In forty-nine years I never once had sex! I can't bloody wait! So, if you're interested…"

"No!" I automatically stepped back. "Thanks, but no thanks…"

Not that my hormones weren't raging, but this felt wrong on so many different levels!

"Are you even sure you can handle all these hormones?" I asked her.

"What are you on about?" Albert-Zola stood up. "I feel amazing! Let's keep going!"

"Maybe we've done enough for today?" I suggested.

"One more round," she said.

I nodded.

She almost immediately fired off a series of three cone-shaped projections. I dodged, but she nearly caught me with a sweeping attack not unlike my Hook.

That was better. Albert might not have had much fighting experience, but he'd lived forty-nine years on Verdis and seen a thing or two. He was catching up fast. The progress was visible even within a single session.

But he definitely wasn't coping with the hormones. Over dinner, Zola was dropping hints about sex with Bao.

I didn't tell him that inside that girl's body was a forty-nine-year-old thinhorn, but he wasn't keen on having anything to do with that bitch anyway.

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