I raced alongside Finn across the rooftops, the air slicing past us with each rapid stride. Our footsteps thundered over tile and steel, echoing into the silence below. We leapt across yawning gaps between buildings, our bodies twisting midair. Whenever a chimney or a clothesline appeared in our path, we vaulted or ducked.

  We both knew exactly where we were going—the former Blademasters Headquarters. A fortress-like structure on the edge of the district, its size made it one of the only buildings capable of holding something as massive as the Grillir.

  Glancing down between the rooftop gaps, I noticed how empty the streets had become. Not a soul wandered beneath us. Curtains twitched, lights dimmed. I bet they could hear us thundering across their roofs—two shadows sprinting like gods of war above their mundane world. With the Burnout Tournament win and Trivoko’s freedom under my belt, there wasn’t a person in this city, or anywhere, who didn’t know my name. My face was plastered in newspapers, whispered about in alleyways, shouted in taverns.

  Suddenly, Finn spun around mid-run, turning to face me while still moving backward. I was pushing myself, hitting what I thought was my peak speed, and yet he matched it effortlessly—grinning, relaxed. It was insulting how easy he made it look.

  I yelled, “You think this is a good time to mess around?”

  Finn backflipped over a rusted rooftop vent, landing cleanly on the balls of his feet. “For you, this is a battle for glory.” His voice was calm, teasing.

  He twisted his hips and leaned forward, body flickering with sudden motion. In a single heartbeat, he surged ahead, widening the gap between us. “For me, this is life and death.”

  The wind curved around his form. He roared back at me, voice somehow still crisp despite the distance, “There it is, Vellin.”

  Through the blur of wind and adrenaline, I saw it too. The castle loomed in the distance, dark and grand, flanked by tall spires and a weather-beaten stone wall. Sword banners fluttered proudly from every surface.

  I dug deep, summoning every ounce of muscle power I had left, and blitzed forward. My vision tunneled as I focused entirely on movement—every step landing exactly where I wanted, every breath timed. Finn remained ahead of me. He bent his left knee mid-run and launched himself upward with brutal grace.

  He extended his right leg and with a whip-like motion, kicked clean through one of the upper windows. The glass shattered with a scream, shards spiraling into the air like falling stars. Debris scattered across the floor within.

  Without hesitation, I followed, diving through the hole just behind him.

  Inside, Finn stood casually in the middle of the corridor, thumbs hooked into his belt like he owned the place. He stretched, back arching slightly, and looked around with an amused smirk. “A decent place, for a Major Clan.”

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  The hallway we’d landed in was surprisingly pristine. Chandeliers hung above, glowing with an artificial golden light, and the walls were polished stone, lined with sconces and old swords. Finn's gaze flicked to our left, sharp and focused.

  A gruff voice called, "There you are." from our left.

  Both of us snapped our heads toward the sound. There, lounging like he owned the place, was Geralt. He sat reclined on a creaky wooden chair, just a few dozen feet away. One boot was propped up on a nearby table, and his sword rested lazily across his lap. His relaxed posture didn’t hide the sharp glint in his eyes. He looked like he was sunbathing—still, but ready to pounce at any moment.

  To his right stood an imposing door made entirely of darksteel, its edges seamless with the wall around it. In fact, now that I noticed, the entire room—floor to ceiling—was built from that same darksteel alloy.

  The door’s handle groaned under pressure, and a second figure emerged. A towering man with piercing blue hair stepped out into the open, his presence making the very air around him feel heavier. That’s Zion. Even from this distance, the weight of his aura pressed on me like a rising tide. It was denser than Ewan’s, thicker and more suffocating. Slightly stronger, but less refined.

  Zion closed the door behind him, then turned his wrist and crushed the metal handle effortlessly between his fingers. A deliberate gesture. He's locked the Grillir inside.

  I cracked my neck with a slow roll, trying to ease the tension building in my shoulders. A fight was unavoidable now. I hadn’t fought alongside Finn before, but if we synced up, we could pull off some devastating tag team maneuvers. Maybe even enough to turn the tide. Zion reached out toward the wall. The darksteel responded like putty in his grip, curling inward until he held a dense sphere of it in his hand, nearly the size of a baseball.

  Geralt let out a gravelly laugh, eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Throw it. It'll be fun."

  His arm snapped forward and the ball launched through the air like an arrow from a trained bowman, whistling with lethal speed as it zeroed in on my chest.

  I threw up my forearm just in time, and the impact rattled through my bones like a hammer on steel. My skin warped around the metal, absorbing it for a split second before I flexed and sent it clattering to the floor, steaming. I shot a glance at Finn. “These two... they could take me out no sweat. We need to be careful and use our strength together to stand a chance—”

  Finn yawned, wide and unbothered, “Calm down Vellin. It ain’t a big deal. I’ll handle this.”

  What? My eyes widened. Where the hell is this confidence coming from?

  He began walking toward them without the faintest hint of urgency. His arms swayed at his sides, his steps loose. I mean casually. Like he was strolling through a garden instead of toward two transcendents. Then, with complete disregard for the danger, he turned his head and looked back at me—exposing his back completely. “Who do you think is the strongest in the world?”

  Still stunned, I answered, “Leo?”

  He nodded. “And who do you think is the closest to him?”

  My throat tightened. “T-Toda?”

  In that instant, Geralt sprang forward, his blade flashing in a blur toward Finn’s neck. At the same time, Zion lunged from the side like a carriage with no brakes, aiming to break Finn’s spine with a brutal, full-force charge.

  Finn moved before I could even register it.

  One moment, they were attacking.

  The next, both Geralt and Zion were slammed into the darksteel wall at opposite ends of the room—headfirst. The stone dented and cracked behind them, craters forming where their skulls met the metal. I hadn’t even seen the attack. It was a show of dominance I haven't seen, nor even thought possible.

  Finn stood above them, palms pressed firmly on the backs of their heads. With a single motion, he shoved them down into the floor, grinding their faces alongside the darksteel in the process.

  “It’s me, without a doubt.”