FLASHBACK — COVENANT'S BASE — TWO MONTHS AGO
David sat at a table in the common room, his green sketchbook open, his green pen moving in steady strokes. Jonathan lounged on the couch across from him, arms crossed, watching.
Praise stood by the window, half-looking at the street, half-watching David draw.
"How do you actually draw those things?" she asked.
David didn't look up. **"I just visualize it in my head. The shape. The weight. The way it moves. Then I put it on the page."
"That's how you fight too, isn't it?"
David's pen stopped.
"Yeah," he said. "I visualize a scenario where I win. Then I try to make it happen."
Jonathan snorted.
"No wonder you're still so ass at hand-to-hand."
David laughed. "I learn, sha. At the end of the day."
Praise didn't laugh. She was staring at David, her amber eyes thoughtful.
He never backs down from a fight. No matter how outmatched he is.
He's always visualizing a scenario where he wins.
He is really something else.
---
PRESENT —BACK AT THE COVENANT BASE —
Praise moved through the shifting corridors, guiding a mother and her child toward a hallway that seemed stable. The woman was crying. The child was silent, too young to understand.
"Keep moving," Praise said. "Don't stop."
She heard running. Two people—a man and a woman—sprinting down a corridor to her left. Praise moved to intercept. Her crossbow was already manifested, golden light pooling at her fingertips.
She reached the corridor.
The man and woman turned to dice.
Blood sprayed across the walls, the floor, Praise's face. The cubes of flesh clattered to the ground, still warm.
Praise didn't scream. She turned back to the room where she'd left the mother and child.
Empty.
No.
She started moving. Not running—fleeing. She fired bolts behind her, not at anyone, at the rooms. Making them collapse. Making the path unpredictable. She didn't need to see Fiss to know she was there.
She could feel the cuts forming in the air behind her.
"Hey, you," Fiss said, appearing in front of her. "You're still alive?"
Praise skidded to a stop. Changed direction. Fired another bolt. The room shifted.
Fiss chased.
For once, the Phobia was enjoying herself. Hunter and prey. The chase was clean. Simple.
" Sever."
Praise saw the slashes before they landed. Her body recognized the geometry. She threw herself sideways—through a wall, through another, through debris that cut her arms and face.
She broke her fall with a bolt. The explosion sent her rolling.
She scattered bolts around Fiss—not at her, around her. Fiss dodged them. They flew past.
Praise charged a larger bolt. More Faith. More density. She fired.
Fiss tanked it.
The golden light exploded against her silver skin. She staggered—just for a moment—and Praise was already there. Her fist connected with Fiss's face.
A clean hit.
Praise moved back. Created space. Needed distance.
Fiss straightened. Touched her jaw.
"Conviction."
Golden light coated Praise's body. Her crossbow dematerialized. She stood bare-handed, her aura steady, her will absolute.
Fiss sent a Rend at her.
The slash neutralized against Praise's conviction. It didn't cut. Didn't pierce. Just... stopped.
Fiss's eyes narrowed.
Barely how many weeks since we last fought? And she has grown greatly. A human, for that matter. I'm really fascinated. A talent maybe on the same level as that Eloghosa.
Praise turned off her conviction. Manifester her crossbow. Shot at Fiss.
She's alternating, Fiss thought. Keeping her conviction and her Gift alight by switching between them. She used conviction for the first time here. There's no doubt she's working with the profoundness of her talent on a similar level to me.
"You," Fiss said. "What's your full name?"
Praise didn't lower her crossbow.
"Igbunu Praise."
She turned on her conviction again. Dematerialized her crossbow.
They closed the distance.
Praise's combat experience was deeper. She had trained for years—not just in marksmanship, in hand-to-hand. Her kicks were precise. Her footwork was surgical. She read Fiss's movements before they completed.
But Fiss was a Phobia. She didn't think. She felt. Her body knew where to cut before her mind decided.
They exchanged blows. Praise landed a kick to Fiss's ribs. Fiss retaliated with a palm strike that should have opened Praise's chest—but the conviction neutralized the slash. It landed as a push, not a cut.
Praise caught her wrist. Twisted. Drove her knee into Fiss's stomach.
Fiss stepped back. Smiled.
"You're good."
"...."
Praise dematerialized her conviction. Manifested her crossbow.
The moment her Gift appeared, a Sever sliced through her hand.
The crossbow fell. Her hand fell with it. Blood sprayed.
She dropped to one knee, panting, her stump pressed against her chest.
Fiss looked at her.
"Heal yourself."
Praise panted.
"Go on," Fiss said. "Do it."
She tilted her head.
It's laughable, really. No matter how I feel as a hunter, I love for my prey to put up a fight. The pain is as clear as day.
She raised her hand. Another Sever sliced through Praise's other hand. The one that had picked up the crossbow.
"Next is your head," Fiss said. "You'll need to heal yourself. You know that, don't you? Come on. Give it your best shot."
Praise's vision blurred. Blood dripped from her stumps.
My role is to be the eye. Not this.
She remembered David. His pen moving across the page. I visualize a scenario where I win.
She hissed.
--
The bolts she had scattered earlier—the ones Fiss had dodged—returned.
They struck Fiss from behind. Exploded. Golden light filled the corridor.
Fiss stumbled. Turned.
Praise rose from the smoke, her arm healed to the bone, muscle fibers still knitting, skin still forming. She held her crossbow—not to fire, to slam.
The stock connected with Fiss's head.
"Nice shot," Fiss said.
Praise dematerialized her crossbow. Turned on her conviction. Punched Fiss in the face.
"My role," she said, "is to be a Vanguard."
Do I use Golden Hour now? No.
Her conviction flared—not replacing her Gift, running alongside it. She integrated them. Golden light coated her body while the crossbow remained in her hand.
Fiss smiled.
She's doing both now.
---
They fought harder.
Praise's crossbow fired bolts that curved around Fiss's slashes. Her conviction neutralized the cuts that got through. She switched between offense and defense in the same breath—shooting, punching, kicking, alternating.
Fiss got serious.
Rend.
The slash adapted. Praise's conviction neutralized the first layer. The second layer cut through.
Her legs gave out. Blood poured from her thighs.
Before she could move, the labyrinth shifted.
The corridor split. Walls folded. Praise was on one side. Fiss was on the other.
"No," Fiss said.
She stood in the empty corridor, her arms akimbo, her silver skin cracked, her red slice marks flickering.
Why am I upset?
She looked at the wall where Praise had been.
Am I depressed? Because this labyrinth stopped my fight with that Vanguard?
She walked forward. No destination. Just moving.
I've never thought of being satisfied by others. I live the only way I know how. Eat when I want. Kill when I feel like it. Free.
It's perfect. Enough to fill the boredom.
Till the end of the world.
That's what others are for me. I only live on my own extent.
Her jaw tightened.
I despise Sonia for trapping me. A Phobia. Just to gang up and fight one man. I would have loved to go at him myself. Alone.
Because I am enough for myself.
---
SOMEWHERE ELSE IN THE BASE
Praise sat against a wall, her legs healing, her stumps regrowing, her breath ragged. The conviction had faded. The crossbow was gone.
She was exhausted.
The whole day had been unforgiving. The whole week. The whole war.
She closed her eyes.
I'm still alive.
She didn't know if that was victory or not.