The air between them was a taut thread, vibrating with the hum of tension, each footfall echoing louder than the last in the abandoned streets of Lyvoria Crest. Smoke curled from fractured rooftops. Dust hung like faded memory across the battlefield, filtering the rising sun into an eerie, golden veil. And through that haze, two figures converged again—one trailed in radiant gold, the other streaked in blood and resolve.
Desmond opened the next exchange without hesitation, the light beneath his boots flaring like miniature suns. With every push, he cut the distance like a blade carving through silk. He appeared before Chiaki in the span of a breath, his knuckles drawn back, coated in a concentrated layer of luminance that buzzed and shimmered like a compressed thunderbolt waiting to be uncoiled.
Chiaki didn't flinch. She stepped in.
She twisted low and aimed a sweeping kick at Desmond's ankle. The move wasn't meant to strike—it was meant to bait, and he took it, leaping just enough to avoid the sweep. But Chiaki was already airborne, springing from her grounded hand into a front flip that narrowed into a tight rotation. Her heel came down with precision, crashing into his shoulder with a thunderous crack that forced him to stumble back, momentarily disoriented.
He staggered, barely remaining upright as his boots dug trenches into the stone. A flicker of light shot from his back to balance him, compensating where his muscles lagged.
Chiaki landed smoothly, spun on her heel, and delivered a second, crushing kick to his chest. The sole of her foot dug deep into him, and from that singular point of contact erupted a sound like a low cannon blast—deep, resonant, and echoing down the length of the alley. Desmond was sent sliding back, boots scraping furrows into the cobblestone, his coat billowing like a wounded banner behind him.
Even then, he recovered, light already refueling his limbs.
Chiaki pressed forward, leaping over a fallen cart, rebounding from a wall, and twisting mid-air for a snapping wheel kick that forced Desmond onto the defensive. He raised both forearms, light forming plates of energy along his sleeves, intercepting each strike as the sound of thunderclaps erupted with every clash.
Desmond retaliated with a sharp burst of radiant force from his legs, launching himself upward. He reappeared behind her, his boot glowing fiercely. But Chiaki dropped beneath him, rotated with one leg extended, and swept toward his landing spot.
He caught it. Not just with reflex—but with precision. His light-infused vision tracked the shift in her weight, the minute change in hip angle. He adjusted, using a flare of energy beneath his sole to leap over the arc.
Chiaki used his airborne state to spring up from her grounded position. She pushed into a front flip and, mid-spin, drove her heel down—not toward his head, but this time to his collarbone. The strike forced Desmond to brace himself, staggering under the force.
She landed, shifted her weight instantly, and rotated into a brutal side kick that connected flush with his abdomen. A concussive pressure rippled outward, accompanied by the sound of something between a sonic boom and a cannon. Desmond was flung backward, his trajectory breaking through a wall and burying him under fragments of stone and dust.
But not for long.
A golden burst erupted from within the rubble, vaporizing debris as Desmond shot back into the fray. His shoulders heaved, light dancing across his skin in radiant pulses—fierce, barely stable, like a star on the brink of collapse.
Chiaki stood at the ready, her leg slightly bent, bruises peppered across her frame, but her posture never faltered. She was winded, wounded, and worn—but unshaken.
Desmond raised both hands, and spheres of blinding energy formed in his palms, spinning faster and faster, pulling from the surrounding light as the very shadows warped in their presence.
Chiaki narrowed her stance.
Then they charged—one wreathed in power, the other burning with will.
They met in a blur of motion—flesh and light colliding with explosive precision. Chiaki's foot lashed outward, a sharp roundhouse that Desmond deflected with a forearm bathed in golden sheen. He countered immediately, a straight knee driven forward with reinforced force, but Chiaki twisted mid-air, narrowly evading the impact and landing behind him.
She struck low—a rising hook kick that nearly caught his side—but Desmond spun, using his momentum and a pulse of light at his heel to deliver a sweeping elbow. She ducked beneath it, her braid cutting through the air like a blade's whisper.
Blow after blow followed, and each was met with equal resistance. Desmond launched a series of jabs, precise and calculated, augmented by threads of golden energy that accelerated his strikes. Chiaki weaved through them, her body dipping and pivoting with ballet-like grace, deflecting attacks with swift turns and retaliating with fluid kicks aimed at weak points—his ribs, his thigh, his side.
The rhythm became faster. Chiaki ducked low again, leg sweeping in a circular arc, but Desmond jumped over, landing with a downward punch that cracked the pavement. She rebounded off a wall behind her, used the vertical momentum to twist her body mid-air and strike down with a powerful falling kick, but Desmond blocked it with crossed arms.
They broke apart only to clash again, strikes flying in a storm of motion. Chiaki's footwork was deliberate and sharp—spinning side kicks, snapping front kicks, backstep pivots followed by spinning heel drives—each executed with fluid elegance and brutal precision. Desmond matched with raw power, his fists flashing like meteors and every move countered by precise blasts of radiant acceleration.
Desmond suddenly lunged forward, his fist drawn back, wreathed in a glowing spiral of light that flickered like a warning beacon. Chiaki braced herself in an instant, crossing both arms in front of her as his punch connected with devastating force. The impact echoed like a thunderclap tearing the sky in two, the collision producing a shockwave that splintered the stones beneath their feet and sent birds scattering from the rooftops.
Chiaki was forced back, sliding along the cracked pavement with her heels digging in, arms aching from the sheer force of the blow. Dust trailed behind her path, swirling in her wake until she came to a halt several meters away.
She lowered her guard, panting heavily, beads of sweat streaking down her dirt-smeared face. Her chest rose and fell with each breath, her stance wide to maintain balance. Desmond stood across from her, calm, collected, his arms crossed again, the golden shimmer at his shoulders faint but steady. Despite everything, he looked nearly untouched, as if the battle had only begun.
Chiaki's fists clenched at her sides.
Her feet finally stopped against a toppled pillar, where she dropped to one knee, gasping and bracing herself with a trembling hand. Blood dripped from her lip as a hoarse cough tore from her throat—followed by another, rougher, deeper. She turned her head and spit crimson into the dust.
Desmond stood tall across the divide, arms folded neatly, posture relaxed and seemingly untouched by the battle that had bruised her so deeply.
Desmond stood tall, brushing the dust from his sleeve and exhaling a disappointed sigh.
"You push yourself with no care for your limits," he said, his voice smooth but tinged with disapproval. "It's admirable, in a way—but pointless. You'll only end up dead, Chiaki. That's all this resistance is buying you. I'll ask one last time... why fight it? Just accept the truth. Accept who you really are. You were never meant to live freely—not with your bloodline, not with your origins. Elian couldn't finish the job. That so-called admiral... he lacked the resolve to kill you. And now, I'm here to finish what he couldn't."
Chiaki forced herself upright, still hunched forward but no longer on her knee. Her eyes, though dulled with pain, sparked with defiance.
"You think I care about dying right now?" she growled, wiping the blood from her lips. "You think just because I'm on the ground, I've lost? That I'll ever accept the things you're saying?" She staggered upright, shoulders trembling under the weight of her wounds, but she took one step forward.
"I don't care what you think I was meant to be! I'm not your belonging! I've chosen who I am—and no matter how many times you knock me down, that won't change!"
Desmond's eyes narrowed slightly, and he exhaled again, almost disappointed.
"So be it," he muttered. "Then I suppose I'll have to break more than your spirit."
He stepped forward once more, light flaring from the soles of his boots, the space around him shimmering as the next wave surged to life.
Chiaki's voice softened, her gaze dropping to the ground. "I've already made up my mind. I don't need anyone else deciding how I live, or what kind of life I'm supposed to have. For once, this choice—it's mine. If that means I have to face you alone, then that's what I'll do."
She exploded forward without hesitation, her heel snapping through the air in a flash of motion aimed straight for Desmond's chest. But as her foot connected, it passed straight through him—his form dispersing into a cascade of light particles that shimmered like falling embers. Her momentum carried her forward uncontrollably, and the next instant, she collided with the wall behind him. Stone cracked and crumbled under the impact, fragments bursting outward as her body dented the surface.
Behind her, Desmond's form began to piece itself back together from the scattered glow. First came his face, calm and precise, then his limbs and torso, reassembling like fragments of stained glass returning to their frame.
"You've forgotten something," his voice emerged before his body fully did, tone casual, almost bored. "Elemental passives. My affinity makes me immune to physical contact the moment I choose it. A little trick most of your kind tend to overlook."
Chiaki remained where she stood, framed by the fractured wall, her arms dangling limply before her, scraped and raw. She didn't move right away. Dust still drifted in the air, catching the light like fading sparks from a dying fire. Her head hung low, breath shallow, shoulders weighed not just by exhaustion—but by something far older, deeper.
"I didn't forget…"
Then, her foot shifted.
A breathless instant passed—and she vanished.
In a sudden eruption of force, Chiaki tore through the air like a bolt of raw momentum. Her silhouette blurred, no longer tethered to the ground but streaking through the broken square in flashes of white light and forceful wind. She zigzagged around Desmond in a cyclone of afterimages, faster than the eye could trace—her form flickering, reappearing only in the briefest stutters of motion.
She launched a soaring kick from the left—only to pass through him.
Spun mid-air with the momentum, twisting behind and firing a second strike toward his spine.
But again—nothing. Her heel sliced through a body made of shimmering particles, light dispersing around her leg like smoke.
She didn't stop.
She came from above this time, dropping with a forceful downward axe-kick, cracking the stone beneath where Desmond stood—but he was already dissolving again, his form breaking into golden dust, recombining a pace away without a scratch.
Chiaki landed, slid, and darted back in with a spinning side kick. It screamed through the air like a blade, fast and precise. She turned on a dime, aiming for his knee with another sharp strike, then followed up with a backflip heel aimed squarely at his face.
Every attack phased through empty light.
Desmond stood amidst the storm like a ghost untouched by chaos, his body constantly pulsing with subtle ripples of radiant defense. His form refused to hold solid under her assault—dissolving, reforming, adapting. His eyes followed her calmly, the light from them glowing faintly brighter with each dodge, as if absorbing the rhythm of her speed.
Chiaki's foot cracked the edge of a nearby wall as she sprang away again, panting now. Sweat mixed with dirt on her face. Her movements had been flawless—perfect even. But every effort ended the same.
Chiaki surged forward once more—her body a streak of speed and fury, her eyes locked on Desmond with a glare that burned through exhaustion. She twisted low and launched herself in a short vaulting leap, her knee driving up toward his sternum like a battering ram.
But this time, he didn't phase.
Desmond's hand snapped forward with surgical precision, his fingers closing around her neck mid-motion like an iron vice. The force of her own momentum carried her upward, but the attack never landed. Her body went rigid, legs kicking mid-air as she struggled in his grip, feet barely brushing the ground beneath.
He held her effortlessly—an unshakable silhouette against the ruins of the street, arm locked as if cast from steel.
Chiaki's fingers gripped his wrist, her nails digging in as she squirmed, her breaths strained and sharp. Her body twisted with instinct, trying to break free, but Desmond's grip only tightened, veins lighting up along his arm as radiant energy pulsed in waves across his skin.
"I told you before," he said, his voice low, emotionless. "You're too eager to fight a truth you've already seen. That denial… it's not strength. It's fear wrapped in rebellion."
His golden gaze met hers—calculating, unwavering. "You have all this power, all this will, but it means nothing when you waste it flailing against inevitability. You're just proving them right. That you were never built to survive on your own."
The pressure around her throat grew tighter.
Dust shifted at their feet.
And still, she refused to look away. Even strangled, Chiaki's eyes burned with defiance. Her lips curled back, not in fear—but in fury.
To be continued...