Desmond approached with slow, deliberate steps, the scuffed soles of his boots grinding lightly over fractured cobblestone. His once-pristine marine coat fluttered behind him, dirtied by the scuffle, yet his composure remained untouched—he moved not like a man chasing a target, but one sealing a verdict. He halted a few meters from Chiaki, standing amidst the cracked earth and scattered debris, and reached down to adjust the brass-toned wristband on his left arm, twisting it firmly back into place as if re-centering his balance.
His gaze sharpened, expression cold yet refined, jawline stiff as steel under strain.
"You've come a long way," he murmured, voice stripped of mockery now, quiet and exact like the draw of a blade. "But in the end, strength without direction… is just another variable to erase."
The wind swept between them like a dividing curtain—until it tore in half.
He moved.
A focused burst of golden light ignited from the soles of his boots, propelling him forward like a kinetic spear, the sheer force shattering loose tiles beneath him. Desmond's movements were clean only because of that light—it braced every impact, tightened every pivot, erased the inefficiencies that others would've suffered. The space behind him shimmered with residual trails, blindingly fast, and in the span of a blink he was inches from Chiaki, elbow crashing toward her skull with jet-assisted precision.
Chiaki ducked low, her instincts pure and sharpened, her body reacting before thought had time to catch up. The blow cleaved the air above her, striking the stone pillar behind and splitting it clean through, dust showering down in a fine mist. She pivoted on her palms, sweeping her leg in a wide arc toward his support foot—but Desmond surged upward again, using a micro-burst of light from his heels to vault just enough distance to avoid her sweep without sacrificing momentum.
Her attack missed.
But she was already moving.
Chiaki planted one hand to the cracked ground and launched herself upward in a tight front flip, her body rotating with practiced explosiveness. Mid-air, as her form curled inward, her heel came down like a hammer—sharp, precise, devastating.
It struck the underside of Desmond's jaw with a crack that echoed down the empty corridor, snapping his head back violently. He stumbled just once, but his foot caught him—again with a flare of golden light cushioning the recoil and restoring his center of gravity almost instantly.
She didn't stop.
Chiaki landed solidly and launched into a second strike. Her body twisted, foot snapping forward in a fierce front kick that collided with Desmond's chest. The hit connected square, and as her sole pressed deep into him, an eruption of compressed shock force surged out from her foot—not visible, but undeniable.
The impact boomed through the square like a distant tank cannon, deep and thunderous, sending Desmond flying backward. But even as he flew, he countered—light poured from his back mid-flight, slowing his trajectory and bracing his core, allowing him to control the slide and dig his boots into the street to brake the motion. Twin lines scraped beneath his heels as he skidded across cracked stone, arms flexed in preparation for another burst.
There was no smile now. Only focus.
And Chiaki?
She stood at the ready—chest heaving with breath, bruises blooming beneath her torn sleeves, blood at her lip and temples—but the fire in her eyes didn't flicker.
Then Desmond surged again.
Light burst from both his palms, releasing narrow, spiraling beams that curved like lances through the air. Their movement wasn't natural—they homed in with magnetic precision, adjusting mid-flight as he manipulated their trajectory through minor wrist flicks. This wasn't random fire—it was guided, weaponized, relentless.
Chiaki bounded across the terrain, ducking and flipping, sprinting along alley walls and rebounding off window sills, always a half-second ahead of destruction. Every time she escaped, it was close—too close. A burst clipped her sleeve. Another tore a chunk from the wall she landed on. She slipped through gaps in architecture, only to be met again by the golden blur of Desmond—already waiting.
He dropped like a meteor, heel-first—his light condensed into a spear beneath his boot. She barely twisted away in time, and his impact left a crater beneath them, bricks flung upward in a ring of force.
They exchanged blows in the alley's shadow.
Desmond's movements were always accompanied by light—his limbs strengthened, accelerated, and aligned by constant micro-adjustments. His arms flashed gold with every punch. His parries struck with reinforced speed, his dodges tightened by luminous propulsion at his sides.
Chiaki kept low, dodging the swings, hammering a knee into his ribs, then following with a palm strike to his jaw. But Desmond took the hit and twisted with another burst—spinning behind her and attempting a rising strike that could only land because the light at his heel launched him upward like a piston.
Chiaki was slammed sideways, but recovered with a flip, catching a rafter mid-air before twisting and kicking back toward the street.
Desmond met her in mid-air—his hands glowing with a rotating wheel of condensed light, spinning like a charged turbine. She struck first, a hard elbow that grazed his side—but he turned it into momentum, letting the wheel go, sending a pulse of light arcing toward her spine.
It missed by inches.
They crashed into the square.
Chiaki tumbled, rolled, and rose in a crouch, one arm pressed against her ribs. Desmond stood across from her, his shoulders rising and falling. His light was flickering now—dimmer at the edges, though still burning steady at his core.
Chiaki's breath burned in her chest, each inhale dragging like a serrated edge against her lungs. Her body trembled—barely—but she stood. Sweat mixed with streaks of blood on her face, her eyes narrowed into focused blades of light. Across the courtyard, Desmond stood tall, a living beacon of golden radiance, though even his glow showed cracks—its outer edges twitching with instability, like a filament about to snap.
The silence between them was heavy, marred only by the hum of residual energy and the crumbling hiss of shattered brick still shifting under gravity's pull.
Desmond raised one hand to eye level, fingers splayed. Faint rings of light rotated from his palm outward, orbiting his wrist like miniature halos, tightening with each rotation.
"Impressive," he finally said, voice now tempered with thin patience, not admiration. "But strength like that… without control, without allegiance—it's wasted."
He brought his hands together.
The rings snapped inward.
From the contact, a sudden burst of radiant force cascaded across the courtyard. Desmond vanished in the glare.
Chiaki's foot slid half a step back, her stance tightening just before the pavement beneath her erupted.
He came from below.
Using his own light as a drill-like projection to propel himself vertically from underground, Desmond burst up through the fractured street with devastating force, elbow aimed to impale her ribs from beneath. But Chiaki twisted, narrowly avoiding it—his momentum carrying him into a spiraling vault past her. Dust spiraled behind him in a rising column as he landed against a stone wall, rebounded mid-step, and came back at her from the air, a spinning golden spear of limbs and light.
Chiaki's heels scraped stone as she pivoted. She dropped, leaned her weight into a tight crouch, and sprung.
Their collision echoed like a thunderclap.
She caught his descending heel against her forearms, bracing the strike as her boots cracked the earth below her. Desmond didn't wait—he redirected instantly, using the recoil from her block to twist midair and unleash a scything crescent kick toward her head. Light surged along his shin, forming a blade-like edge trailing photons.
Chiaki ducked the arc, bent backward at an impossible angle, then coiled like a spring and struck forward.
Her fist drove up into his chest—one, two, three strikes in fluid succession, each blow carving an audible pocket of wind between them. The third hit connected just beneath his ribcage, forcing the light in his body to flicker wildly.
He responded with a burst from both palms—point-blank.
The force detonated between them.
Chiaki was hurled backward, spinning through the air and crashing into a second-story window, shattering it in a rain of glass and wood. She rolled along the floor of the abandoned home, momentum crashing through chairs and support beams until she finally skidded to a halt beneath a collapsed roof beam.
Her fingers twitched.
Then she moved.
Blood trailing behind her, she rolled beneath the falling timber and kicked off the splintered wall, propelling herself through the hole she'd entered from.
Desmond met her mid-flight again—but this time, she didn't go for a strike.
She shifted her center, twisted, and caught the edge of a broken rainpipe. Using it like a pivot point, she swung around it with flawless control, turning herself into a human pendulum—and used the added momentum to lash her leg upward, connecting her shin against Desmond's jaw.
His head snapped back.
But once again, light saved him.
It flared violently from his back, bracing the rest of his form even as his head reeled. He didn't fall—he pushed, redirecting with brutal elegance. His arm flung upward and caught Chiaki by the ankle mid-air, yanking her downward with seismic force.
He tried to slam her into the cobblestone—but she reacted.
Twisting her torso mid-fall, Chiaki turned the impact into a controlled flip, slamming her palms into the ground and using the force to vault behind him. Her foot came around in a spinning heel kick, crashing into Desmond's spine with a sound like steel shattering marble.
He stumbled—barely.
But then turned, golden light coiling around both fists like serpents.
Chiaki raised her arms, but he didn't strike.
Instead, he released it.
A blinding flash enveloped the courtyard, a pulse of radiant light so intense it burned shadows onto the walls. Chiaki staggered back, vision pierced by the brilliance. Desmond vanished within it—only to reappear moments later, behind her, boots flashing with acceleration.
His fist drove forward.
But she spun.
With perfect timing, Chiaki met his punch with her elbow, redirecting it, her other hand coming up to claw across his wrist and anchor him in place. She pivoted on her heel and used his own speed against him, flipping him over her shoulder and slamming him into the pavement below.
The street cracked under the impact.
Desmond grunted—but light exploded from his spine, cushioning the damage and rebounding him off the surface like a spring-loaded trap.
Chiaki rolled backward as his arm came slicing across the air, just missing her neck.
She skidded to a stop, breathing hard, arms trembling, the ground behind her torn and splintered from where they'd clashed.
He rose again.
They locked eyes.
No words passed.
And once more—without warning—they sprinted toward each other, light against will, refined power against rising defiance, the battlefield itself trembling with each strike exchanged beneath the weight of their resolve.
To be continued...