His palm slammed into the arena floor.
Black-and-white Tao flooded outward like ink spilled in water.
The concrete answered.
A jagged spike tore upward—then another—then three more—screaming toward Akira's chest in a converging pattern meant to skewer, not scare.
Akira moved.
Not refined.Not clean.
Instinct.
He slipped sideways, boots shrieking against stone as the spikes missed by inches. Another burst up behind him—he pivoted hard, rolled across fractured concrete, came up laughing as dust clung to his clothes.
"Is that it?" Akira called. "After the Hunter Games, I was so hyped to see someone strong."
Jackson didn't react.
The ground rippled.
More spikes erupted—faster, tighter, closer. They snapped up where Akira would be, not where he was.
"You're new to Tao," Jackson said calmly, fingers dragging across the floor like he was reading braille. "So listen carefully."
He vanished.
Reappeared directly in front of Akira.
A kick crashed into Akira's teeth.
Bone rang.
"When you say something," Jackson continued as Akira flew back, "act on it. If you can't—"
Akira hit the ground, skidding.
"—you may die that way."
Akira stumbled upright, hand clamped over his mouth. Blood poured between his fingers. His hand glowed faintly with Tao as he pressed it against his face, breath shaking while the bleeding slowed.
I can't heal my wounds.But I can stop the bleeding—for a while.
Jackson's hand snapped up.
The concrete twisted mid-motion, flowing like liquid into a blade.
He slashed.
Akira leaned back just enough for the edge to slice cloth instead of flesh. The wind of it still burned.
Akira stepped in—tight, compact—and drove a fist toward Jackson's liver.
Jackson's knee came up like a piston.
Crack.
Akira's chin snapped sideways.
"I know your dream, Akira," Jackson said coldly. "Don't chase something so lofty. It's better to survive."
He swiped his hand across the ground.
Three dense spheres formed between his fingers—compressed Tao, screaming as they spun, warping the air around them.
He fired.
They slammed into Akira's chest.
Not piercing.
Repelling.
Akira flew backward and hit the ground hard enough to crater it. Stone shattered outward like shrapnel.
The crowd gasped.
Akira coughed, pain blooming late. Dust drifted down.
As it cleared, Akira stood there.
Smiling.
The spheres were stopped dead in his hands, Tao grinding violently against Tao. Blood dripped from his mouth, dark against his chin.
"You don't get it," Akira said quietly. "Living without a dream isn't living at all."
He clenched his fists.
The spheres shattered.
Jackson clapped his hands once, brushing dust from his palms. "I'm not saying you can't have a dream," he said as the ground trembled again. "I'm saying risking your life for something you can only dream about—don't you realize how stupid that is?"
Spikes erupted again.
Not random.
Controlled.
They chased Akira's blind spots, herding him, cutting off angles, forcing movement.
Akira felt it.
This isn't just power.
"That bloodline…" he thought. "He's constantly shifting the ground—turning it into weapons. It's like the floor doesn't even have a shape."
That was it.
Jackson's bloodline: Formless—the ability to alter any non-living matter as long as his hand was touching it.
The spikes closed in.
Akira jumped—barely clearing them as stone grazed his heel.
"Know your place," Jackson snapped. "Weak people don't get to dream."
Jackson charged, throwing a wild kick.
Akira absorbed it.
Rolled.
Stood.
Face bloodied. Smile crooked.
He surged forward and unleashed a raw, ugly blow—his fist slamming straight into Jackson's gut.
Jackson coughed blood.
The impact sent him flying, his head smashing against the arena wall.
"Like that—"
Akira stepped forward.
"Yeah?" he said. "Then why are you backing up?"
He lunged.
No technique.
Just fists.
Short hooks. Body shots. Awkward angles. No rhythm—only pressure.
Instincts.
The instincts of a wild beast that smelled blood: close the distance, stay inside, don't give space.
Something ancient woke up inside Akira—the joy of fighting, and more importantly, winning.
Jackson blocked most of it.
But not all.
A punch slipped through.
Thud.
Jackson staggered.
He's fighting like an animal. I need to get him off me.
Jackson's eyes widened as he fired a blast of Tao point-blank.
Akira was thrown back, skidding.
He wiped blood from his mouth and lowered his stance—shaking, breathing hard, eager.
"C'mon," he taunted. "Fight me, weakling."
Jackson's jacket hardened, spiraling into a drill tethered by Tao.
It shot forward.
Akira dodged.
The drill reshaped midair—unfolding into a scythe.
It hooked him.
Yanked him forward—
straight into a knee.
Akira blocked.
Twisted.
Returned it.
Jackson reeled.
A final punch sent him skidding across the arena floor.
Silence.
Jackson lay there, staring up at the lights.
The world blurred.
He imagined victory.
Cheers.
A monster dead at his feet.
His parents smiling.
Faceless.
…That never happened.
He learned young: only the strong survive.
That was his only goal.
Become strong.
And now—
He sat up, resetting his broken nose with a sickening crunch.
Blood poured freely.
"I was born with the ability to smell strength," he thought. "If I thought I was strong… then why did I lose?"
I trained since I was eight.And I lost to someone who just started.
"At least I lost," Jackson said aloud. "To someone talented."
The image shattered.
Homeless streets. Empty stomach. No name.
This is my present.
Jackson clenched his fists.
"I'll destroy everything I thought strength was," he whispered."I won't live just to survive."
He looked up at Akira.
"I want to find something worth risking my life for."
A pause.
"…Will you help me find that, Akira Yamato?"
Akira nods before entering a fighting stance.