September 5, 2024 - ???, Uttarakhand, India

Klein still couldn't believe his luck. What was supposed to happen months, maybe years down the line, and likely assigned to someone else, had instead fallen right into his lap, unannounced and unexpected.

He stood outside the door for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself before stepping inside.

The room was stark and utilitarian: a simple metallic table, two chairs, and walls so seamless that the cameras and sensors hidden within them were nearly invisible, giving the space an unnervingly smooth, featureless feel.

One of the chairs sat empty. Klein slid into it, trying to appear calm despite the tightness in his chest.

Across from him sat a Red-potential ex-climber, a title reserved for the rarest of individuals—a one-in-a-million talent. The stories of his feats, carried back by those who returned from the Tower, were shared with awe and disbelief.

One of the greatest climbers of the first generation, a man whose abilities transcended the limits of most. A climber who, for all intents and purposes, shouldn't have been here anytime soon.

And yet, he was, his face hidden behind the copper mask designed to counter his EM senses.

Siddharth Kubar.

Klein could feel the pressure even now. Even behind that mask, it was as if Siddharth's gaze was piercing through him. It was unsettling. But… he had a job to do.

He cleared his throat and began.

"Name and date of birth."

After a moment of silence, his voice seemed to fill the room in a way that made Klein feel even smaller. It was calm but carried a weight, each word deliberate.

"Siddharth Kubar Narayan. May 24, 1986."

The exchange went on like this for a while—basic details, challenges, approach to the trials. But as they neared the questions that mattered, Klein could feel the weight in the room shifting. His own heart rate quickened, the formality slipping away as he approached what he really needed to know.

"Previous climbers have described how you treat your mind waves as Shakti. Could you explain that further?"

Klein's question hung in the air, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before. Siddharth didn't rush to answer. His breathing was steady, controlled, almost meditative.

"The mind," Siddharth finally said, his voice low and resonant, "is capable of far more than we are taught to believe. This power is not something that has been given; it's a power they have helped us unlock. It's energy. It's life force—an extension of the self. It is something that flows through all things and can be guided."

Klein nodded slowly, trying to make sense of it. "I believe others have told you about their own scientific approach to these waves, treating them as electromagnetic waves. What are your thoughts on this?"

Siddharth's copper mask tilted ever so slightly, as if amused by the question. "Everything has its interpretation. In your world, yes, you might call it electromagnetic. In mine, I call it Shakti. I respect your views, and I hope you can respect mine."

Klein could feel the weight of those words, the subtle reminder that while Siddharth was approachable and willing to discuss, there were boundaries—lines not to be crossed. Still, he couldn't help but be drawn in.

"And Shakti... how do you use it? What makes your approach different?"

"Shakti is not merely a tool. It is an extension of myself. I do not force it. I move with it, I guide it like a wave—adapt to it, and it adapts to me."

His words were calm but carried an undeniable sense of power and control. Klein felt the weight of Siddharth's confidence, a man who not only believed in his power but lived it, embodied it.

"But you also use it to... fight?" Klein ventured cautiously.

Siddharth nodded. "Yes, in battle, Shakti becomes both my offense and my defense. It can disrupt an opponent's rhythm, break their concentration, or shield me from harm. It can also merge with my blade, making it faster, stronger. But it is not brute force—it is a flow, a resonance. It is about finding the balance between attack and defense, destruction and harmony."

Klein pressed on, trying to gain more specifics about Siddharth's novel approach to EM wave control, but he was met with resistance. The subtle shift in Siddharth's voice, a hint of tension beneath the calm exterior, told him it was best not to push further.

In any case, there would be further monitoring, and making Siddharth uncomfortable was against protocol, especially for a VIP returnee like himself.

Klein took a breath, shaking his head slightly, and decided to move to the question everyone had been waiting for. The one that would hold the attention of the higher-ups watching the feed, the question that even their most advanced AI had struggled to answer.

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He knew all eyes were on him now. The weight of expectation settled heavily on his shoulders. Klein cleared his throat, the air in the room feeling thicker than before, and asked:

"How did you die?"

The room seemed to grow colder, the silence between them heavy and suffocating. Klein could feel his pulse in his ears.

Siddharth didn't move. The copper mask remained as still as ever, his face hidden from view. Seconds stretched on, and for a moment, Klein thought he might not answer.

But then, Siddharth's voice broke the silence.

"I was killed in a fair duel. I lost, and I died."

The air in the room seemed to thicken.

Klein hesitated, his voice barely a whisper. "A duel against... Alonso?"

The copper mask shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, as if the question had caught him off guard.

"Yes."

A low hum of the air vents filled the silence.

Klein's heart raced.

He needed to ask, though the question stuck in his throat. "Could I ask... how did he defeat you? All the information we have points to the fact that he should not have been able to."

Siddharth seemed to chuckle beneath the mask, a low, brief sound that reverberated through the room.

"Then your information is lacking," he said, the words almost laced with amusement. "Just like I was."

Klein blinked, surprised at the honesty in his tone. He waited as the silence stretched again, the weight of Siddharth's admission hanging heavily between them.

"Alonso managed to push his body beyond what I could. He was ready to risk everything, to put it all on the line. In that moment, he feared not death... while I..." Siddharth paused, his voice softening, almost reflective. "I was bound by my role. Death was not an option for me."

There was a sigh, barely audible, but it carried a deep sense of irony. "Yet death has a strange way of working, doesn't it? It hides from those who seek it and hunts those who flee from it. Interesting how life works."

Here was a man who had faced the harshest of truths, who had stood at the precipice and lost—not just his life, but perhaps a piece of himself along the way.

And yet, there was no bitterness in Siddharth's tone. If anything, there was a calm acceptance, a serenity, as though he had already made peace with his fate.

Klein, still trying to piece it together, leaned forward. "Your Shakti, your mastery of swordsmanship... even if Alonso pushed beyond his limits, by all accounts, he shouldn't have been able to break through your defenses, let alone withstand more than a few exchanges. There has to be something more. And forgive me for pressing, but this information is vital for us... for humanity." He paused for emphasis. "How exactly did Alonso win?"

Siddharth's copper mask dipped slightly, as if in thought. His voice was quiet but firm when he spoke again.

"I believe I already told you." He paused, his tone softening slightly. "But if you wish for more details, I will say this: Alonso did not fight like a human. He fought like a beast. And not just any beast."

There was a brief silence. Klein could feel the weight of every syllable as Siddharth continued.

"A beast with reflexes sharper than any I have encountered. A beast that grew stronger with every exchange, learning from his mistakes in moments where it should have taken years. He did not just perceive my Shakti—he adapted to it, countered it after experiencing it just three times."

Siddharth exhaled, as if remembering the battle itself, before continuing with quiet reverence.

"He fought without fear. Without hesitation. Not like a man clinging to life, but like a warrior prepared to meet death. That is how Alonso won—by embracing what most would flee from. By becoming something more."

He paused again, this time for longer, his voice taking on an almost meditative quality.

"Now tell me, sir interviewer," Siddharth said, his voice low but steady, "is it so strange for the beast to devour the man? Or, perhaps, I should ask—can a man defeat a beast when the beast has already accepted death?"

"And now… I'm alive, and Siddharth is dead."

The words fell like stones, heavy and final.

His chest heaved, every breath feeling like fire in his lungs, but his body refused to give in. Alonso raised the sword a little higher, the edge of it catching the light.

"Alonso—wrap it up and sit down," Houston's voice cut in sharply, his tone hard and serious in his mind. "There's a lot I need to say, but first, sit down. I need to cancel Overdrive… now!"

Alonso, between ragged breaths, nodded internally. He knew he was beyond the limit. But… he wanted to bask in it just a moment longer.

That hatred, that sorrow, that desire for revenge—he acknowledged it all. This is what they wanted, wasn't it? His lips curled slightly, bitterness seeping through.

But he knew Houston was right. It was either sit down or collapse. And he would never let them see him fall, not over his dead body.

He took a deep breath, gave the crowd one last look, and then lowered himself to the dirt, carefully folding his legs into a lotus position, trying to maintain his composure as the exhaustion clawed at him.

"If someone comes..."

"I know. Just rest. I'll gradually move you to reverse Overdrive to ease the process."

Alonso's gaze moved one final time and locked with Chiara's. He noted the whirl of emotion in her eyes—grief, shock, disbelief, regret. But he was too tired to analyze them. All that remained was a single question in his mind: Will she respect the outcome of the duel?

His body ached, the adrenaline fading, leaving behind a dull, pulsing pain.

The fight was over.

He slumped slightly in his seated position, the lotus posture collapsing, his arms falling limp at his sides. His head tilted forward, chin resting against his chest as his breathing evened out, slow and deep.

Alonso's mind surrendered, drifting into unconsciousness.

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