Here we are. The Arena.

Nothing fancy, but solid—Lukas and the squads put it together over the past few days. A wide-open field, wooden barricades marking the perimeter, some reinforced with thick planks and whatever scraps they could scavenge.

It's not much, but it works. A place to spar, to test limits, and to watch—one of the few distractions in a place like this.

At one end, a makeshift armory holds an assortment of blunt weapons—spears, swords, axes, warhammers, bucklers. Nothing elegant, just functional. Sturdy enough to mimic the real thing without actually taking someone's head off.

Near the eastern edge, dummy targets stand in a rough line—some reinforced with arthropod shells, others covered in screecher scales. Tough, unpredictable, good for training against something that hits back harder than wood.

Imani and I step into the stands.

It's busier than usual. Groups of climbers sit scattered, watching the ongoing match.

Ayu versus Wang.

And they're really going at it.

Wang steps in. His footwork keeps him just out of reach before he lunges, blade cutting low. Ayu twists, slipping past the strike. Wang doesn't stop. A second slash, upward. A third, straight for her side.

Ayu leans back, dodges by millimeters. A shift in weight. A foot planted. A sharp swing. Wang barely moves in time, his weapon clashing against hers. The impact ripples through the air.

Wang's swordsmanship is improving. But Ayu's counter reactions are a cheat. He needs to stack momentum against her. If he keeps going like that… well…

She steps in, closing the gap. An elbow drives into Wang's ribs. His breath hitches. Ayu doesn't let up. A pivot. A downward strike. Wang deflects but barely.

She presses forward, her body leaning in, her space overlapping his. Wang's slashes pass by her, missing by a hair's breadth, as if aiming at her past self. His movements stall—no space, no way to reposition.

Ayu drops low. A sharp kick.

Wang's stance breaks. His balance tips. Ayu takes the advantage.

The match is over.

"Ayu, Wang; Imani and I are gonna have a spar. Can we split the arena for this one?"

"Huh? Wait… did you Imani?!" Ayu transmits back.

"I'll try something new out today. You can continue with Wang."

"Nope." Ayu turns to Wang. "Let's catch a break. I really want to see this one."

Wang slowly nods. "I'm interested too."

"Alright! So, you have the full arena. Best of luck," Ayu sends back before leaping into the air and gliding toward us.

She's just a tiny bit away from being able to fly. Maybe after the next boss?

"So, you're really going at it? I don't think I've ever seen you spar, Imani. Not even in the Oasis." Ayu's eyes gleam with excitement. "Just keep him in one piece, okay? I only have one."

I turn back to Imani. "Let's get going then."

I jump into the arena, slowing my fall just enough to land smoothly.

Imani follows, but with his massive weight, his waves aren't nearly strong enough to counter gravity. He hits the ground hard.

A cloud of dust explodes around him.

Bang!

I grin. Talk about making an entrance.

I think back to what I know about Imani's awakening. He can convert mechanical shock into electromagnetic energy, storing it within the neurons around his body and releasing it in a blast. There are limits, of course—how much he can store, how long he can hold it—but it's a powerful ability.

And like Chiara's ability, which makes her body lighter and weaker, Imani's is the exact opposite.

He's heavier now. Stronger. Tougher.

If I already weigh over 200 kilos at my current Stage Progress, then Imani has to be 400. Maybe more.

But that weight also comes with a downside. Poor Imani may never be able to fly.

We stare at each other for a moment before we start shedding our gear, dropping it to the ground one piece at a time. My swords. My gauntlets. Even my helmet and leg armor.

I'm left in simple shorts, woven from jungle fibers, fastened at the waist with braided cords. No armor. No weapons. Nothing.

Imani stands across from me, bare-chested, his massive seven-foot frame nothing but sheer muscle. Thick arms, broad shoulders, a body built from war and survival. Even before his awakening, he was strong—now, he looks carved from steel.

I take a deep breath.

We stare at each other.

We don't speak.

We move.

Imani steps forward. So do I.

His fist comes first. Fast. Faster than I expect for someone his size.

I dodge—a sharp turn of my torso, a twist on my heels. The air hisses past my cheek as his knuckles cut through the space I was just in.

I counter. A quick jab to the ribs. It lands, but it's like punching a goddamn wall.

Imani doesn't flinch.

His knee slams toward my gut.

I brace, twist—barely deflect it with my forearm. The force alone sends me skidding back a step.

He doesn't stop.

Another punch. I duck. A kick. I sidestep. I keep moving, keep slipping through the gaps.

But he's fast.

For all my speed, he closes distance like a truck with no brakes.

I throw another hit—a hook aimed at his jaw.

He blocks. His forearm meets mine with a force that makes my bones rattle.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Then, he steps in.

His elbow smashes into my shoulder. I grunt, the impact rippling through my arm.

I retaliate. An uppercut to his ribs. A sharp knee to his thigh. A kick to the side.

It lands. But it doesn't stop him.

He grabs my wrist—iron grip. I twist, breaking free before he can pull me into something worse.

This isn't just brute strength. Imani knows how to fight. His stance is solid, his movements practiced.

I, on the other hand, am not used to fighting without my swords or the wave-body synchronization for speed and maneuvering.

This isn't going to be easy…

I breathe, adrenaline burning through my veins.

I push Overdrive.

No structure to channel it, no wave reinforcement. Just raw, desperate reflexes pushing my body beyond its limits.

I close the distance.

A rapid three-hit combo. Jab. Hook. Spinning kick.

He blocks two, but the last one lands clean against his ribs.

His stance shifts, weight adjusting—but he's still there.

I barely dodge the next hit. A fist the size of a damn boulder grazes past my temple.

My bare feet scrape against the rough ground, dust clinging to sweat-slicked skin.

Every movement pulls at my muscles, still strained from our earlier workout. The ache in my arms is dull but constant, the burn in my legs a reminder that my body isn't fresh.

But none of that matters.

I push through.

Imani presses forward, his footfalls heavy. His sheer mass makes each step feel like it should leave cracks beneath him.

I weave away from his next swing—a brutal cross aimed straight for my jaw. The force behind it could probably shatter bone, and I know it.

I duck low, pivoting on my heel. My ribs protest from the earlier hits, but I ignore it. I launch a sharp counter—two quick jabs to his side, a third straight to his gut.

I might as well be hitting a goddamn mountain.

His muscles barely give under my knuckles. Imani exhales but doesn't falter.

No hesitation. No opening.

I need to keep my distance.

I shift back—not retreating, just repositioning. My feet skim across the packed earth. Imani moves slower, but he doesn't waste a step.

I feint left. His eyes follow, but his stance stays firm.

I kick—a sharp snap to his knee.

It lands. His leg bends slightly under the force.

Then he surges forward.

A punch, straight to my chest.

I barely shift in time. The air roars past my ribs as his knuckles miss me by a hair. The raw force behind it kicks up dust.

Then I see it.

The veins along his arms and chest—faint, but glowing.

I exhale sharply. Shit.

He's storing energy.

If he lands a fully charged hit, that's it for me.

I throw a quick one-two combo to keep him busy, but he blocks without effort. No break in his defense. His arms tense, thick veins pulsing beneath his skin as his neurons hum with contained power.

I need to stay in control. Need to keep my distance.

My feet move—light, fast. I circle him, looking for an opening.

Imani watches me, unmoving, his stance still strong. His breathing steady.

Then, suddenly—he moves.

A forward step—too fast. Too smooth for someone his size.

I barely react in time. I twist, drop low—but he's already swinging.

His fist grazes my shoulder, and even that small contact sends a sharp shock through my body.

I grit my teeth.

Even if I'm landing more hits, I'm still the one losing.

I need to change tactics.

No—I need to push more.

It's time to get serious.

I channel Overdrive beyond full-state.

The world slows.

The crunch of bare feet scraping against dirt.

The heat of sweat rolling down my skin.

The thick, humid air clinging to every breath.

I see everything. Every twitch in Imani's muscles. Every shift in his stance. The faint glow of his veins, pulsing like coiled lightning, waiting to be unleashed.

I move.

I don't think. I don't hesitate. I just hit.

A fist to the ribs. Another to the jaw. A third, straight to the gut.

But he doesn't fall.

Imani takes it—absorbs it. His body barely shifts under the force. His feet remain planted, his stance a fortress.

And he's still charging.

I don't slow down. I hit harder. Faster.

A fist slams into his ribs—solid, sharp.

Imani doesn't even flinch.

His body takes on the blows like they're nothing. A mountain refusing to break.

I press in, twisting, launching a brutal knee toward his gut—

Then I see it.

The glow surging beneath his skin.

Brighter. Stronger. Pulsing through his arms, his chest.

His muscles coil like steel cables tightening, locking power into every fiber.

This is it.

The burst.

His fist moves.

Too fast.

No feint. No tell. Just pure, raw power unleashed.

I see it coming.

I could dodge.

But I don't.

Instead, I plant my feet.

I brace. Angle my body. Push off—not to stop the impact, but to control it.

Both arms cross tight against my chest. Every muscle locked.

The impact—

It's like getting hit by a truck.

A detonation of force ripples through my bones. But I don't fight it.

I move with it.

I let it carry me.

I let it throw me away.

I push off the ground as I go, using the momentum to lessen the impact.

I shoot backward—the world a blur of dust and sky.

The air howls past my ears. The ground vanishes beneath me.

I brace. Tuck. Shift my weight.

The moment stretches—long enough to see the arena edge rushing toward me.

I land—hard.

A blast of dust erupts as my body crashes against the barricade.

Dust billows around me, thick and dry, clogging my throat as I suck in a breath.

My back aches from the impact, my ribs protesting with every inhale. My arms tremble from the sheer force they just absorbed.

I flex my fingers, feel the sting. Blood drips from my knuckles. The bruises already forming along my forearms pulse with dull, throbbing pain. Every nerve in my body screams, but I don't care.

A voice cuts through the haze.

"Alonso!"

Ayu's voice—sharp, urgent.

I exhale, slow, controlled.

I rise.

Every muscle protests, but I force my body upright.

I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck. My vision sharpens through the lingering dust.

Imani stands in the center of the arena, watching.

His breathing is heavy now, chest rising and falling in slow, deep pulls. Sweat glistens on his skin, streaked with dust. Bruises spread across his arms, face and ribs—dark, fresh.

His eyes widen—just slightly—as I take a step forward.

I spit blood onto the ground.

Then I smile.

I walk back to him, step by step, my fist slowly rising.

"That was a good punch."

Imani exhales. His shoulders rise, fall.

For the first time, I see hesitation in his stance.

Then—he grins. A small, knowing smile.

He nods.

He raises his fists.

We go again.

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