POV: Fortuna
(While Heyo is fighting Cygue)
Topi flies.
Not a graceful spin.
Not a controlled maneuver.
No. He takes off like a piece of trash someone kicked off the street.
My fist caught him mid-rotation, right when his spin reached its peak. His body left the ground with no resistance, ripped from his perfect trajectory, thrown backward like a broken toy top.
I don't look away.
I follow the curve of his fall — the pathetic twist of his limbs, the fraction of hesitation in his neck before impact. His back slams into a rusted metal sheet, the entire structure shivers, the dust shakes loose.
Good.
Let him understand.
The game is over.
He no longer belongs on the board.
But of course, in this world, nobody knows when to stop.
He hits the ground.
Crashes.
And then… he stands back up.
Way too fast.
His features are twisted — not just from pain, but from something uglier: raw humiliation. Men like him can take punches. But losing? They can't process that.
His eyes have no strategy left. No distance. No composure.
Only rage — a desperate, frantic kind born when someone's pride is kicked in the teeth.
He begins to spin again.
One turn.
Another.
Faster.
His body twists, pivots, glides across the sandy ground like a blade turned cyclone. The air warps around him, the dust spirals in his wake.
I feel the shift of weight beneath my shoes.
He's fast. Inhumanly fast.
Years of experience. Countless easy wins. All feeding his ego.
But I don't move.
I'm not scared.
Because the coin has chosen.
And when the coin speaks, even the laws of combat bow.
He rushes toward me — drilling, spiraling, a tornado convinced it can tear through probability itself. His teeth grit, his eyes bulge, the Word Toupie pulses through every fiber of his body.
Pathetic.
I let my body line up with fate.
I don't calculate the angle.
I don't measure his speed.
I don't need to.
Something far greater than muscle adjusts my timing.
My fist rises exactly when his spiral snaps into my position.
I extend my arm.
Not too strong.
Not too fast.
Just… correctly.
I don't aim.
I don't have to aim.
I am probability made flesh.
Topi slides along his own trajectory, trapped by the force he created, unable to stop himself. His face meets my fist with mathematical precision.
The impact is sharp —
a crisp crack, a burst of spit and blood.
His body shoots back like a puppet with its wires cut. He rolls across the dirt, limp and spinning, until the friction finally stops him.
I remain still, arm lowered slightly.
I want him to feel it.
To understand exactly what losing a game means.
He screams.
A hysterical, shattered scream.
— You bitch! What kind of power is that?!
I'm Topi! My Word is Toupie! I never slip! My balance is perfect! I never get dizzy!
He clutches his jaw.
— Ever since that stupid game… you're untouchable!
I stare at him like he's a child who lost a game he thought was rigged in his favor.
My voice drops like a blade against his throat.
— Idiot.
The one who loses the game… loses the fight.
His eyes empty out.
His legs wobble.
I see his energy collapse, inch by inch.
He backpedals until he hits a wall of corrugated metal.
— I… I give up. That's it. I can't do anything.
His words fall to the ground like broken coins.
And then — a sound.
Sharp.
Wrong.
Something ripping through the air.
We both turn.
Dust explodes upward under a violent shockwave.
And through it…
A body drops.
Cygue.
The smoker.
Or what's left of him.
His torso is a nest of bullet holes.
His cigar lies near his limp fingers, still faintly smoking.
He doesn't move.
And Heyo is standing above him, rifle still hot, smoke trailing up past his arm.
His eyes…
So much darker than before.
Topi sees him.
And something snaps inside him.
— BOSS!!!
He screams until his throat tears.
Then he runs.
He forgets his defeat.
He forgets the game.
He forgets even that I'm here.
He just runs toward Cygue's corpse —
toward the only gravity point he had in the world.
I grit my teeth, fury rising.
— Get back here, you coward!
I sprint after him.
No player leaves the table without paying.
And I will make him cough up every last stolen chip.
And somewhere behind the dust, vibrating faintly through the air…
I feel Aris.
His game isn't finished either.
⸻
POV: Aris
(Right after sending Mato flying. Still during Heyo vs Cygue.)
I feel light.
Not happy-light.
Functional-light.
My body responds exactly as I want. Heyo's strength and mine blend seamlessly. I feel the structure of his footing, the shape of his power, my own calculations layering over his instincts.
Copying isn't repeating.
Copying is understanding.
Assimilating.
Adjusting.
I don't redo his movements.
I improve them inside my own joints.
Right now, I am twice as strong as I was.
With no pain.
No strain.
No downside.
But the man in front of me isn't a straw dummy.
Mato rises.
I sent him flying — I felt his ribs shift under my fist — yet he stands upright, chest heaving, but not broken.
His body is huge, a slab of muscle wrapped in dark bronze skin. And in his hands, the hammer — that monstrous, oversized weapon heavy enough to snap most spines.
He carries it like a spoon.
One truth is obvious:
If he hits me even once, the fight ends.
He charges.
The first blow is vertical — brutal, meant to crush.
I step aside.
Just enough.
The hammer smashes the ground. Dirt sprays upward, a crack splits the earth. The vibration shakes my bones, but I stay balanced.
Another blow — a sweeping horizontal arc.
I lean back half a step. The steel passes where my ribs were a heartbeat ago.
His power is immense.
His technique is predictable.
I see the pattern.
I see the gaps.
I plant my heel, twist my hips, and punch the opening.
A straight punch — ribs.
The shock forces air from his lungs.
He growls.
Good.
I need to stay close.
Where his size becomes a liability, not a weapon.
I unleash a flurry.
Straight punch. Hook. Liver shot. Jaw.
My knuckles slam against dense muscle. Each strike makes him fold slightly — but he won't go down.
He reaches for me.
His palm snaps shut where my head was.
I pivot aside, duck under his elbow, my knee brushing the sand.
A perfect low kick takes his balance.
He wavers.
I jump.
An uppercut rises clean into his chin, my blow amplified by borrowed strength.
Mato lifts off the ground.
A massive block of stone torn upward.
Then he falls.
On his feet.
Not even a stumble.
That's… wrong.
Then I see it.
His hand slips into his inner pocket.
A subtle gesture.
— Why now?
A sound erupts — a violent, distant thunderclap.
Instinctively, I look toward the source.
Mistake.
Fatal mistake.
Pain erupts in my abdomen.
Not from the big hammer.
A smaller one.
Compact. Hidden. Used with precision.
The blow knocks the breath from me.
My knees hit the ground.
I try to push myself up —
My muscles obey —
But my body… doesn't move.
I'm paralyzed.
I look down.
A small hammer lies at my feet, its surface glowing faintly.
Mato's shadow falls over me.
His voice is thick, smug.
— I'm Mato. The Hammer.
Everything my hammers touch gets nailed to that spot. Can't move. Can't dodge.
He tilts his chin toward the tiny hammer pinning me.
— And yes… I have more than one.
I grit my teeth.
Crude, but effective.
I pull on my muscles — nothing.
Try to access my Word — nothing.
I'm stuck to the ground like a bug pinned to wood.
He raises the main hammer.
The shadow swallows me.
If this hits…
I'm done.
I search for flaws.
Any flaw.
Any angle.
Nothing moves.
And then —
he freezes.
His eyes widen.
He's looking elsewhere.
I follow his gaze.
I see the dust.
I see the smoke.
I see Cygue fall.
I see Heyo standing with the gun still raised.
I see death settling over the battlefield.
Mato understands.
His voice cracks.
— Boss…?
Then he screams.
— BOSS!!!
The hammer doesn't fall.
He runs.
Abandons everything —
The fight, the weapons, even his precious little hammer.
He leaves me pinned on the ground, staring after his collapsing world.
Irony curls at the corner of my mouth.
Even monsters depend on someone.
I'm still immobilized, but not for long.
This power has conditions.
A flaw.
A limit.
And I'm very, very good at finding limits.
The paralysis weakens already.
Second by second.
Fiber by fiber.
Heyo is over there, firing both guns, standing like a storm about to split open.
I let out a calm breath.
— Don't die, you idiot.
Because if he holds…
Then we all will.