Chiaki's legs trembled beneath her, her breath shallow and uneven. Blood trickled from her mouth, and her side ached with every inhale. The impact had left her bruised, battered—but not broken. One hand pressed against the cracked stone beside her for support as she slowly rose again, eyes fixed on Desmond.
He stood calmly, arms behind his back, posture unshaken. His words followed without urgency, but with the weight of conviction.
"You're clinging to a lie," he said evenly. "A name that won't change what you are. The Empress's vision is fantasy. My orders are clear—and your kind's future was sealed the moment you were born."
Chiaki's hand curled into a fist at her side.
"Just… shut up," she muttered, voice hoarse but steady.
She pushed herself upright, wincing from the pain, yet refusing to let it stop her. Her eyes remained locked on him.
"I've heard enough of your excuses. If this is your truth—fine. But I'm not accepting it as mine."
Desmond tilted his head slightly, curious. "Still choosing denial?"
"No," she replied. "I'm choosing to move forward. With or without your version of the past."
She didn't shout. She didn't raise her voice again. But the stillness in her tone held something firmer than rage—certainty.
Desmond watched her closely, the corner of his mouth twitching, not in amusement—but in calculation.
Desmond raised both arms, his posture exact—methodical. With a single flick of his wrists, he extended all ten fingers toward Chiaki. Without hesitation, radiant energy surged through his hands, and from each fingertip erupted a barrage of concentrated light projectiles, firing in rapid succession like a living machine gun.
The bullets cut through the air in thin, whistling streaks, glowing with volatile force. Dozens of them rained down on her in tight clusters, converging fast enough to drown out the sound of the crumbling debris around them.
Chiaki's eyes snapped wide. Her legs responded before her thoughts could. She twisted to the side, the first barrage clipping her shoulder with searing heat. She hissed through her teeth, then rolled over a collapsed beam just as another series of blasts scorched the space where she'd just stood.
She ducked behind a broken stone pillar, its edge glowing red-hot as the light rounds hammered into it in quick bursts. Sparks and splinters flew past her face. She pressed her back to the fractured wall, chest heaving.
Another volley exploded near her feet. The impact flung her forward and she landed hard, shoulder first—but she didn't pause.
Using the momentum, she vaulted over a fallen crate, closing the gap between them. Desmond tracked her calmly, eyes unblinking as he redirected both arms with calculated precision.
"Good call," he said, rotating his wrists mid-fire to curve the trajectory of the bullets like they were guided. "But you're running out of places to hide."
Chiaki dropped into a slide beneath the next wave. One bullet grazed her thigh, drawing a sharp cry from her lips—but she didn't stop. She slammed her palm against the earth, kicked off the ground, and rolled behind a shattered stone brazier for cover.
"I don't need to hide," she muttered under her breath, feeling the pulse of energy gathering in her arms. "I just need one chance…"
The air shimmered around her fingers.
Desmond narrowed his eyes as he continued firing, the rhythm never breaking.
"Then show me what you've chosen to become."
Chiaki vaulted out from behind a crumbling stone slab just as another streak of light tore through its center. The explosion behind her propelled her forward, but not cleanly—one of Desmond's shots scraped across her side, tearing through the fabric of her sweater and burning a shallow wound into her ribs. She winced but pushed through, breath sharp, eyes locked.
Another volley chased her heels as she leapt again, vaulting over a broken pillar. A second round clipped her forearm mid-air, forcing her to twist awkwardly. She landed hard—only one foot touching down, barely steady.
But in that moment of contact—
Everything changed.
Her body surged with light. A radiant white burst enveloped her form, and a streak of afterimages flashed outward in rapid succession. Like a blink of static across the battlefield, Chiaki vanished.
Desmond's eyes narrowed, sensing the shift a fraction too late.
A wind cracked above him.
Chiaki appeared in front of him in a flash, her body twisted mid-air with incredible torque. Her leg came sweeping in from overhead—an arcing, full-force kick aimed straight at the side of his head. The pressure split the wind, and the speed of it generated a concussive gust before it even made contact.
Desmond reacted with a snap of instinct.
Both arms came up—crossed in front of his face just in time. Her heel collided with the block, and the sheer force of impact sent a shockwave blasting outward, fracturing the stone beneath his feet and kicking up a ring of dust around them.
Desmond's boots skidded slightly—but he didn't fall.
"Trying to hit me, are we?" he muttered, teeth grit behind his guard.
Then, with a sharp movement, he dropped his guard and seized her ankle mid-spin.
Chiaki's eyes widened.
Before she could twist away, Desmond stepped back and with a surge of brutal strength, swung her overhead like a pendulum. Her body whipped through the air, momentum stolen.
He brought her crashing down behind him, slamming her face-first into the ground with bone-jarring force. The earth split beneath her on impact, stone shattering in a cratered ring beneath the blow.
She lay there for a breathless second, stunned, rubble scattered around her face. Desmond didn't release his grip yet—But Chiaki's hand twitched.
Desmond sensed the motion just in time. Chiaki's leg swept low toward his ankles in a tight, hooked arc—a classic low-line sweep aimed to destabilize balance from close range. His eyes caught the drop in her center of gravity, the coiling of her hips, and the tensing of her outer thigh. With sharp footwork, he pivoted his lead leg back and shifted his weight, letting the sweep pass just beneath him.
But Chiaki didn't wait for the result.
As her sweeping leg recoiled, she planted her left palm into the ground, using it as a post. She drove her weight upward and forward, executing a tight front handspring—controlled, deliberate, and born from explosive core engagement. Her legs followed the motion in a fluid arc, and at the peak of her rotation, her heel came crashing downward in a powerful axe kick.
Desmond looked up just as the strike came down.
Her heel landed square beneath his jaw, the angle perfect, her hip fully engaged at the moment of impact. The sudden upward force rocked his chin, snapping his head back with a bone-deep thud. His stance faltered—knees buckling for just a second as he reflexively dropped his weight to absorb the blow.
Chiaki landed from the handspring with both feet, but immediately transitioned her momentum forward. Her back leg stepped through, and she turned her hips into a powerful front kick—snapping the ball of her foot straight into Desmond's sternum. The motion was sharp, mechanically efficient, and drove forward from the floor through her entire frame.
But it wasn't just the kick.
The moment her foot made contact, she released a tightly compressed wave of force—generated through the torque of her hips and the precise drive through the sole of her foot. The pressure wasn't seen, but it hit. The sound that followed was a deep, resonating boom—not like a gunshot, but like a low-caliber artillery blast. Heavy, concussive, and immediate.
Desmond was launched back.
His boots tore into the stone, carving two long grooves into the ground as he slid nearly ten meters. Debris kicked up behind him in a streak, and his coat flared outward from the force. Though he remained upright, his chest expanded with a sharp breath, and his jaw tightened slightly—evidence of the shock he had just taken.
The silence afterward was thick.
Chiaki stood tall, her stance reset, one hand slowly lowering after the strike. Her breathing was measured, but the weight behind her glare didn't falter. She didn't follow up. Not yet.
Desmond lifted a hand to his face, massaging the point of contact where her heel had collided with his chin.
"I've heard of that technique before," Desmond said calmly, brushing the dust from his sleeve as he straightened his stance again. "Only a rare few Resonators ever manage to awaken their own refined combat styles—unique to their nature, shaped by will. I'll admit, I didn't expect you to be among them. But clearly, your bounty isn't just about your lineage anymore."
He took a slow step forward, voice steady and cold.
"They must've seen the same thing I do now… that you're far more dangerous than anyone realized. But don't let it go to your head. No matter how strong you become, to me, you'll always be what you were made to be—a subject. Nothing more than the result of a long-forgotten experiment."
Chiaki didn't move. Her hands were clenched, her body scraped and bruised, but her stare didn't waver. Desmond's words dug deep—but they didn't break her.
"No," she said, her voice sharp and shaking—not from fear, but from rage and disbelief. "You don't get to decide who I am."
She took a breath, grounding herself, even as her chest ached.
"I don't care what you think I was. Or what some file might say about me. You say I was a subject—tested on, made for something I never asked for." Her voice rose with each word, steady and slicing. "But I don't remember being some experiment. I remember a life. I remember people. Emotions. Memories that mattered."
Desmond tilted his head slightly, but said nothing.
Chiaki stepped forward, defiance burning in her eyes.
"You want me to believe I'm just a product of someone's cruelty? Then why do I still feel human? Why do I still cry? Laugh? Hurt?" Her voice cracked—but she didn't falter. "I won't let your twisted version of the past erase the life I've lived."
She pointed at him, her hand trembling from strain and fury.
"You're lying. You have to be. Because if you're not… then the world really is as cruel as I feared. Worse than I thought."
And that, more than anything, terrified her.
To be continued...