Geralt roared as he slammed the tip of his greatsword into the marble floor, the force sending cracks webbing through the stone beneath him. The sudden impact jolted his momentum to a halt, stopping Finn from driving him forward any further. His teeth gritted from the strain, he barked, "You think that's all we have?!"

  Zion surged forward beside him, muscles tensing as he dug his feet in, halting his own slide across the floor. In perfect sync, both launched heavy punches toward Finn’s midsection—mechanized hooks.

  Finn was faster. Far faster.

  In one impossible blur, he sprang upward, just clearing the blows. His shoes planted with eerie precision on the tops of their fists, crouched. Crouching like that... this can't be his full speed. It was as if he wasn’t even trying.

  Geralt’s eyes narrowed. With a fierce grunt, he wrapped his calloused hand around the hilt of his greatsword, the metal groaning slightly as he bent his elbow and aligned the blade like a javelin. A heartbeat later, he lunged forward, thrusting the weapon in a blinding burst of motion—rivaling my speed.

  Finn saw it coming. His body twisted like flowing water, arms crossed defensively as he leaned into the rotation. The sword tip missed by mere inches, trailing sparks behind it. Zion shot his hand out to seize Finn’s shirt, but Finn, still airborne, snapped a sharp kick outward—striking Zion’s hand and knocking it back with a jolt.

  Zion and Geralt immediately retracted their fists, instinctively repositioning in a synchronized flash of motion.

  A rush of air soon appeared.

  Geralt’s blade came down in a brutal arc, shaving the air beside Finn’s face. The edge sliced a few strands of hair from his temple, the severed pieces spiraling downward. Finn’s face twisted—briefly—his expression caught somewhere between fury and exhilaration.

  Then he vanished.

  Gone, in less than a blink.

  He reappeared directly in front of me, not winded in the slightest, calm yet intense. His voice was firm and resolute.

  "Now go, Vellin. Find Toda. I'll handle this and be right behind you."

  My hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from realization. Alright, Finn. I stared at him, at the unwavering fire behind his eyes. You want Toda dead more than me, but you're letting me go. A rare thing, letting someone else take a lead. Maybe he's just that confident he could catch up and get the kill. Whatever the reason... I understand.

  I pivoted sharply. My fingers tightened into a spear hand. I sliced it against the wall to my right, shearing through concrete. The edge of my hand glowed faintly from the motion. A jagged opening appeared. I threw myself through the breach, launching into the frozen air outside. The cold wind bit into my skin, howling past me like a warning.

  I'm coming, Toda.

  I turned around slowly, grinding against the cracked floor beneath me. My voice was low, cold, and absolute. "Now that he's gone, I can use my Flash with disregard."

  Geralt lifted a hand to his face, brushing the swelling mark forming on his cheekbone. His jaw clenched as he spoke through grit teeth, "Finn, I understand your anger, but do you think you can win? Did I overestimate you?" The bruise was already purpling, but his voice carried no fear—only calm defiance.

  To his left, Zion exhaled sharply and patted the impact mark stamped across his chest. His breathing was more measured—he had taken less damage, and it showed. "I'm sorry about Elia. I know she loved peace." His voice was even, almost regretful.

  It snapped.

  "You don't get to talk about her." My neck veins bulged with blood, my voice a tremor of wrath restrained by the thinnest thread of control.

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  Zion tilted his head slightly, feigning innocence as he stared back at me. "Why not? If I knew, she wouldn't have been killed." A moment passed. Then he smiled—an ugly, deliberate twist of his lips. "Or at least, I would've tasted her before—"

  The thirty feet or so between us might as well have been nothing. Those two could cover that space in a blink.

  It was laughable.

  A hundredth of a second would be generous. I could erase that gap in thousandths.

  And I did.

  His eyes never recognized movement. In one step, I was inside his guard, my fist already cocked back and surging forward.

  I chambered my fist, pivoting my hips with absolute murder intended, and drove it into his chest. Not just once. This wasn’t just a strike—it was a sentence. A punishment.

  Right now, for what he said to me, he will take as much punishment I can give.

  I didn’t pace myself. I didn’t breathe. I didn't blink.

  I unleashed everything.

  I can throw over two thousand punches in a second, but a second is too long for this bastard. A tenth was all he would get. In that tenth, I poured my rage into each blow, letting instinct and emotion take over.

  The wind distorted around my fists—bowing inward, forming arcs that bent the light itself. I broke the sound barrier repeatedly. Not once. Not twice. Dozens of times in rapid succession. The shockwaves coiled around us like invisible whips.

  Zion’s chest buckled. His ribs shattered. The force drove tremors through his entire body. Bones cracked under the unrelenting flurry, muscles shredded at the seams. Every nerve in his body screamed as his flesh rippled and bruised beneath the assault.

  Every inch of his body was hit.

  There was no room for breath. No chance for reaction. My fists moved too fast for sound to keep up.

  My punches did not create sound. Not yet. But I felt them. Each collision, each microsecond of pain delivered.

  I didn’t count how many strikes landed—I couldn’t. But it was at least three hundred, maybe more.

  Then the air caught up.

  The sound came out at once, and nearly deafened me. A thunderclap of violence—raw, terrible, and consuming.

  Zion coughed a stream of blood. His eyes bulged in shock, and he dropped to one knee. His entire body trembled. His skin was blotched in red and deep pink bruises, his clothes shredded like paper caught in a storm. His breath was shallow. Shaky. Almost nonexistent.

  He could barely breathe.

  Me too.

  My arms trembled, my chest rising and falling in uneven heaves. That burst had taken nearly everything. The Flash Style was merciless—on both ends. With every use, it stripped the body bare of stamina. It demanded tribute for its speed.

  I stood there too long. Caught in the heat of my fury. Lost in the adrenaline that still surged through my veins. I felt powerful. Invincible.

  In that one moment, I left an opening for Geralt.

  He swung his greatsword into my lower stomach. That was the weakest body part of any martial artist—the soft underbelly, where speed can't guard and reflexes can't catch up. The blade smashed through the layers of hardened muscle I had trained to perfection, tearing through sinew and tissue. My organs nearly spilled out.

  Only my speed saved me. Just before the full impact, I flexed my stomach inward, tightening every fiber of muscle like coiled steel. It lessened the blow—barely. My hand instinctively shot to my right side, where searing pain bloomed like fire beneath the skin.

  He twisted with mechanical precision and raised the greatsword again, this time aiming for my neck.

  I ducked low, the edge of the blade passing over my scalp close enough that I felt it part the air above my head. In the same motion, I lashed out, kicking him in the ankle, knocking his balance just enough to halt the follow-up.

  I then dropped to the ground and used my foot to slide backward across the stone, dragging myself to safety. Grit and dust scraped across my back. I didn’t stop until I had created a proper gap between us.

  When I looked up, Geralt had already positioned himself. He stood between me and Zion, a wall of iron and fury, clearly protecting him. He drove his sword into the ground, the steel clanging as it embedded into the stone. Then he looked down at me, and sneered.

  "You really are sensitive."

  That bastard! He... he knew. He knew that bringing up Elia would break me, that it would override my logic and drag me into a blind rage. Zion sacrificed himself to win.

  He baited me. I took it.

  Geralt wrapped both hands around the hilt of his greatsword, slowly sliding his right foot across the floor. His leg stayed perfectly straight, his posture low and rooted. He shifted the blade behind him—that’s his signature sword technique.

  My breath caught.

  What should I do? My mind raced faster than my body could. I bet I could dodge it. I bet I could dodge many more of his attacks. But... for how long? My whole fighting style is built on one truth. My strength is not getting hit. That’s what the Flash Style is. Precision. Speed. Reaction. Momentum. Now, the muscles in my stomach were torn. That wasn’t just pain. That was a loss of core power. Without them, my Flash is significantly weakened. I could still move, still fight—but not at the speed I needed. Maybe half. Maybe.

  Damn it, damn it! I could’ve ended this if I just kept my cool. If I just played it straight, I would’ve won! Now Zion is down, but Geralt is still fresh, and I’m falling apart.

  What can I do now?! What should I do now?!