The spike came fast.
Faster than the icicles Ethan had faced before.
He barely shifted in time, the blood-formed shard slicing past his shoulder and embedding itself into the wall behind him with a wet, cracking sound. The impact wasn't clean. It spread slightly, as if the material didn't fully decide whether it was solid or liquid.
Ethan didn't wait.
He stepped forward.
The distance mattered.
The man smiled.
"Good," he said softly. "You're not running."
Another spike formed instantly from the pool beneath his feet, rising like something being pulled upward by invisible threads. This one didn't launch immediately. It hovered, trembling, adjusting.
Watching.
Ethan noticed.
"…You're controlling the timing," he said.
The man's smile widened. "I'm learning the rhythm."
The spike shot forward.
Ethan caught it this time.
His hand closed around it mid-flight, and the moment his skin made contact, the mark on his arm flared. The spike shattered—not like glass, not like ice—but like something that lost permission to exist.
Fragments dissolved in his grip.
The man's eyes lit up.
"…That's new," he said.
Ethan didn't respond.
He moved again, closing the gap further.
The floor reacted instantly.
The blood surged upward, spreading, thickening, forming multiple spikes at once. They rose in a ring around Ethan, surrounding him, each one angled differently.
Not random.
Calculated.
Ethan's body tensed.
Then they all launched.
He moved through them.
Not perfectly.
Not cleanly.
But fast.
One grazed his side, tearing through fabric and skin, a sharp line of pain following the motion. Another clipped his arm, but he pushed through it, grabbing one mid-air and shattering it, then another.
Too many.
He couldn't break all of them.
He didn't need to.
He needed to reach him.
Ethan stepped through the last opening and drove forward.
The man didn't move.
He watched.
Studied.
Right until Ethan's hand reached for him—
Then the floor broke.
The blood beneath the man surged violently, pulling him backward, sliding him across the room without effort. Ethan's hand missed by inches.
Distance restored.
The man exhaled slowly, almost satisfied.
"…Better than I expected."
Ethan straightened, breathing heavier now.
"You're not just reacting," he said. "You're adjusting."
The man tilted his head slightly. "Of course. That's the point."
Another body of blood rose beside him.
Thicker this time.
More controlled.
"You see, most people panic," he continued. "They run. They resist. They try to survive."
The shape beside him began to take form.
Not spikes.
Not yet.
Something more defined.
"I'm not interested in that," he said quietly.
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "…Then what are you interested in?"
The man looked at him.
Directly.
Calmly.
"Understanding."
The word hung in the air.
Then the shape completed.
A blade.
Long.
Sharp.
Clean.
Formed entirely from blood, but held like steel.
Ethan's grip tightened.
"…You've done this before."
The man smiled faintly. "Enough times."
That confirmed it.
This wasn't random.
This wasn't new.
This was practice.
The man stepped forward this time.
Not fast.
Not rushed.
Measured.
Every movement precise, controlled, deliberate.
Ethan adjusted his stance.
No weapon.
No distance.
Just him.
The man moved first.
The blade cut through the air in a clean arc.
Ethan stepped back, barely avoiding it, the edge passing close enough for him to feel the pressure of it without contact. The swing didn't stop—it flowed into another, faster this time.
Ethan blocked with his forearm.
The mark flared.
The blade cracked on impact, destabilizing for a split second.
Enough.
Ethan grabbed it.
The moment his hand closed around the weapon, it began to break apart, the structure failing under his touch. The man released it instantly, stepping back before it fully collapsed.
"…Interesting," he said.
Ethan didn't give him time.
He stepped forward again, pushing the momentum, aiming to keep him off balance.
But the man was ready.
The blood on the floor surged again, rising not as spikes but as a wave, forcing Ethan to halt or be overwhelmed. He stepped back just enough to avoid it, his eyes locked on the shifting patterns.
"…You're shaping it differently each time," Ethan said.
The man nodded slightly. "Yes."
"Why?"
A pause.
Then—
"Because it responds."
Ethan frowned. "To what?"
The man's smile returned.
"To me."
The wave collapsed.
Then reformed.
Faster.
Sharper.
More refined.
Ethan felt it.
The change.
It wasn't just the blood.
It was him.
The man was improving.
Mid-fight.
"…That's not good," Ethan muttered.
"No," Aval said quietly. "It isn't."
Ethan's chest tightened.
That was the first time Aval had sounded… concerned.
The man took another step forward, his posture relaxing slightly.
"You feel it too, don't you?" he said. "It gets easier."
Ethan didn't answer.
"…Every time," the man continued, his voice almost conversational now, "it listens more. Shapes faster. Holds longer."
He raised his hand slightly.
The blood responded instantly.
No delay.
No hesitation.
Perfect.
"I think this is what it's meant for," he said softly.
Ethan's eyes hardened.
"…No."
The man tilted his head.
"No?"
Ethan stepped forward again.
Faster.
More direct.
"No," he repeated. "You're forcing it."
The man's smile faded slightly.
"And you're not?"
Silence.
That hit.
Ethan pushed through it.
"I'm stopping it."
The man watched him closely.
Then—
He laughed.
Not loud.
Not insane.
Just… genuine.
"That's what you think," he said.
The air shifted again.
Stronger this time.
Heavier.
The blood surged.
Not around him.
Not toward him.
But outward.
Expanding.
Filling the room.
Ethan felt the pressure instantly.
This wasn't just control anymore.
This was scale.
"…You're overdoing it," Ethan said.
The man didn't respond.
His focus had changed.
Deepened.
Something in his expression sharpened.
And for the first time—
Ethan saw it.
Not control.
Not understanding.
Obsession.
The blood rose higher.
Denser.
More unstable.
"…Yeah," Ethan muttered under his breath.
"This is getting worse."