I'm confident.
Not out of arrogance—
out of certainty.
I know what I went through.
I know what I endured.
These last weeks were pure hell—training to death, every day, every night, every damn heartbeat.
After that…
Cygue, the methodical smoker—slow, steady, sure of himself—can't possibly be worse than the other monster.
So I go.
I dash forward.
My Word-energy flows better now. It slides, pulses; it no longer collapses in my veins like a raging torrent. My propulsion is smoother, less chaotic. Not perfect… but controlled.
I feel every step.
Every grain of dust under my soles.
Every vibration running up my legs.
I charge in.
My fist tears through the air—a sharp whistle.
I aim for Cygue's jaw.
He tilts his head aside by one step.
Effortless.
As if he read my trajectory two seconds before I threw the punch.
But I stay grounded.
My stance holds fast.
Energy crackles through my muscles—electric, nervous, ready to overflow.
I follow up.
Left.
Right.
Hook.
Uppercut.
My fists become pistons.
My breath syncs to my strikes.
Every blow is meant to break his rhythm, drag him out of his comfort zone, force him to react.
But he doesn't react.
He glides.
He pivots.
He slips past each punch with surgical ease, his cigar hanging from his lips like a taunt.
He savors it.
And that—I can't bear.
I HAVE to make him move.
Make him breathe faster.
Force him to use his body.
If I let him take his time, he'll grow too strong.
So I accelerate.
I lift my leg and aim for his ribs—a sharp, clean kick.
He jumps.
Over me.
Higher than expected.
I tilt my head up—he's already falling like a steel anvil.
If that hits me, I'm done.
I spring backward—just in time.
The ground shatters under his landing.
A heavy shockwave ripples across the sand.
Too close.
Way too close.
Cold sweat slides down my spine—the spot where his burn will come later.
I breathe.
I center myself.
This fight turns ugly if I let him set the pace.
I must take it back.
Slowly, I bring my hands behind my back.
A calculated motion.
Unusual enough to unsettle him.
Cygue frowns.
— "What an odd stance… what are you planning?"
I don't answer.
I EXECUTE the plan.
I throw the grenade.
BOOM.
The ground erupts.
A thick, suffocating cloud rises.
Dust swallows everything—light, silhouettes, sound.
Perfect.
I drop a trap on the ground under cover of the smoke.
I know he's not dead.
I know he'll reappear.
Pistol in my right hand.
Grenade in my left.
I scan the sky—
There he is.
Mid-fall. Vulnerable.
I hurl the grenade.
It spins upward, glowing faintly.
He can't dodge it.
Except…
he doesn't plan to.
He throws his cigar.
It lands on the grenade at the perfect angle—
EARLY DETONATION.
The blast rips the air apart.
The shockwave slams into me.
I'm torn off the ground, hurled backward.
I tumble, scrape across the dirt, swallow burning dust.
Grit fills my mouth.
My lungs burn.
I grit my teeth and stand.
I raise my gun—
Too late.
A burning agony tears across my back.
Sharp. Immediate.
I spin around—
He's behind me.
Cygue just pressed the glowing tip of his cigar against my skin.
Pain steals my breath.
My legs tremble.
A groan leaks from my throat.
I fire—reflexively.
He steps aside with infuriating nonchalance.
Then kicks me in the ribs.
I fly.
I crash.
My vision wobbles.
I spit blood.
My head rings.
My chest struggles for air.
He stands there, distant, calm—
the cigar still between his teeth.
Then he speaks, voice low, pleased:
— "Now that you're marked, every time I take a puff, I grow stronger… and you grow weaker. I advance, you fall back. A spiral, kid. One you can't control."
He inhales deeply.
Immediately, my energy bleeds away.
My muscles soften.
My fists feel heavier.
My will cracks.
It's a disgusting power.
Cruel.
A violation of another's energy.
He doesn't need to attack to win.
He only needs to breathe.
I have to force him to fight me.
To break his calm.
Strip him of his advantage.
No choice.
Fine.
Heavy artillery.
I step back.
Steady my breathing.
Whisper my will.
A military-grade assault rifle manifests in my hands.
Cold. Metallic.
Perfect weight.
Enhanced rounds.
Grenade-launcher module.
I aim.
I open fire.
Bullets scream through the air.
Shells crack the dust.
The barrel heats up quickly, vibrating against my palms.
Cygue moves like smoke—
shifting, blurring, weaving.
But I SEE HIM.
He tries to raise his cigar again—
Not a chance.
I switch modes.
Grenade launcher.
Angle set.
Shot fired.
BOOM.
Earth ruptures beneath him.
Dust explodes.
Shrapnel showers the area.
Cygue is thrown aside—finally losing stability.
I exploit the opening.
I rush into the cloud.
Half-blind.
Eyes burned by dust.
Breath controlled.
Body primed.
There—
Cygue spinning mid-air like a wounded beast.
Blood trickles down his forehead.
He falls.
I aim.
Full auto.
Bullets punch through the smoke.
A few graze him.
Thin streaks of red appear—
tiny wounds, but the FIRST ones.
He lands—
and charges immediately.
I fire while retreating.
The recoil echoes in my bones.
Each burst forces him to angle away.
I lob another grenade.
He dodges like a tightrope dancer, impossibly balanced.
He leaps above me.
Already swinging downward.
I dive back.
My shoes skid on dirt and debris.
I catch my balance—barely.
I pull out two earplugs.
Jam them in.
Flashbang.
I toss it.
A SILENT SCREAM TEARS THE WORLD.
No flames.
No smoke.
Just a violent shock of pure sound.
Even with the plugs, my chest tightens.
My skull vibrates.
My heartbeat stutters.
Cygue clutches his ears.
His body jolts, falters.
For the first time—
even HE looks vulnerable.
Good.
I turn.
Sprint.
Pivot.
He lunges again.
Faster.
Harder.
More feral.
Perfect.
I see the mark on the ground.
Where the first grenade hit.
Where I planted the trap that's been waiting all this time.
I smirk.
He steps on it.
CLICK.
No flame.
Pure electricity.
White arcs burst upward—
snapping around his legs,
burning through his nerves,
locking his muscles.
His cigar slips from his lips.
Falls.
His eyes widen.
Surprise.
He is frozen.
Right beneath me.
I'm still mid-air.
Perfect angle.
I turn my rifle.
Aim down.
And pull the trigger.
FULL AUTO.
Bullets tear him apart.
Muscle.
Bone.
Flesh.
Blood.
He jerks like a puppet cut from its strings.
I fire until the last shell clicks empty.
Then gravity claims me.
I land.
He collapses.
Riddled.
Shredded.
Finished.
Dead.
I won.
Not because I was stronger—
but because I was smarter.
Because I refused to fight on his terms.
Because I used the ground, the timing, the openings—
everything.
I tighten my grip around the rifle.
The metal is burning hot.
My breath is strangely calm.
My legs steady.
Something settles in my mind—
cold, sharp, efficient.
My Word isn't just the power to summon weapons.
It's the power to summon SOLUTIONS.
Adaptation. Creativity. Improvisation.
I finally understand.
And strangely…
I'm not tired.
I'm still standing.
Still ready.
I turn my head.
Aris.
Fortuna.
Where are they?