She was fast.

Faster than Bright's foresight could fully track.

The Multiplier core didn't just enhance her speed—it amplified everything. Strength, reflexes, tactical processing. Every attribute multiplied by a factor that made her something beyond a normal Initiate-rank fighter.

She wasn't just quicker; she was better in every measurable way.

Her chain-blade lashed out, extending in a whip-crack arc that covered twenty feet in an eyeblink. The weapon was a masterwork—segmented metal links that could extend and retract at will, each segment sharp enough to cut through bone.

Bright saw the strike coming. His foresight screamed the trajectory—high right, angling for his throat, intent to kill mapped out in harsh red lines across his vision.

He sidestepped, his enhanced body responding with speed that would have made his old self jealous.

The blade missed his throat by inches, so close he felt the displaced air against his skin.

But Seris was already moving again.

She flowed like water, no wasted motion, no hesitation. Her chain-blade retracted in a metallic whisper and struck from a new angle—low, aiming for his thigh. The movement was so smooth it seemed like a single continuous attack rather than separate strikes.

Bright twisted, his enhanced reflexes pushing him to the edge of human capability, and the blade still found him.

Pain lanced through his leg as the tip pierced flesh, punching through muscle and scraping bone.

Not deep. Just enough to remind him: she's better than you.

Bright staggered, his spatial foresight already calculating his next move, showing him three possible counters—but Seris was faster than his thoughts. She closed the distance before he could commit to any of them, her free hand snapping forward in a palm strike that caught him in the chest.

The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent him stumbling backward.

Seris's eyes locked onto his. Cold. Calculating. Reading him the way Adam read body language—not through talent, but through pure skill and experience.

Then she smiled.

And her intent disappeared.

-----

Bright's foresight screamed—then went silent.

The booming commentator lodged in his head, the one that always warned him of danger, that mapped out threats and trajectories and possibilities, stuttered. Faltered. Went blank.

Because Seris wasn't thinking.

She'd emptied her mind, let instinct take over, become a creature of pure reaction and muscle memory. And his spatial foresight—his greatest advantage, the talent that had kept him alive through impossible odds—couldn't read what wasn't there.

There was no intent to map. No trajectory to predict. Just movement without thought, action without plan.

The chain-blade pressed against his chest. Right over his heart.

Bright froze, his body locked in place by the cold certainty of death.

Is this danger?

The question echoed through his mind, desperate and confused.

Can I dodge? Should I move? Will she strike?

The voice in his head—his foresight, his guide, his survival instinct—had no answer.

For the first time since he'd awakened his talent, Bright was completely, utterly blind.

Seris held the blade there for a heartbeat, letting him feel the point against his sternum. Then she pulled back, flicking her wrist. The chain-blade retracted in a smooth metallic slide, and she spun away, already calling to her squad.

"Tag rotation! Keep them fragmented! Don't let them establish rhythm!"

Her voice carried across the arena, confident and commanding.

And Crimson Fang obeyed like they'd drilled it a thousand times.

-----

What followed wasn't a fight.

It was systematic destruction.

Crimson Fang moved like a machine—coordinated, brutal, efficient. They didn't just fight Sunshine Squad's members; they rotated between them, switching targets mid-engagement, never letting anyone settle into a rhythm or build momentum.

Duncan tried to hold the line, his Bone Guard defense forming protective layers across his arms and torso. Seris's second-in-command—a barrel-chested man with a two-handed axe—slammed into him with enough force to crack stone.

Duncan absorbed the blow, his defense holding, and tried to counter with a sweeping strike.

Before his weapon could connect, another Crimson Fang member fired a crossbow bolt that punched into his shoulder, right above his defensive plating.

Duncan staggered, his counter aborted.

The axe-wielder pulled back immediately, not pressing the advantage. Instead, he rotated to engage Baggen, who was trying to raise another earth wall.

Mara rushed to help Duncan—and Seris intercepted her, moving with that impossible speed.

Her chain-blade wrapped around both of Mara's weapons in a single fluid motion, the segmented links coiling like a steel serpent. Then Seris yanked, using her multiplied strength to rip the blades from Mara's hands.

They clattered across the arena floor, ten feet away.

Mara dove for them, but a Crimson Fang fighter was already there, kicking them further out of reach.

Rolf unleashed a torrent of flame, trying to create space, to force Crimson Fang to back off. Fire roared across the arena in a wave of heat and light.

Crimson Fang's shield-bearer raised a hand, and compressed air formed a barrier—invisible but solid. The flames scattered harmlessly around it, dissipating into smoke and steam.

Adam fired from his position. Once. Twice. Three times.

One of his shots clipped a Crimson Fang fighter in the arm—a clean hit that drew blood.

But then two of them broke off from their current engagements, abandoning their targets mid-strike to charge Adam's position.

He had to retreat or die. He chose retreat, abandoning his cover and falling back to a new position.

But that left Duncan exposed. And Baggen. And Rolf.

The coordination was perfect. Inhuman. Like they were reading Sunshine Squad's intentions before they fully formed.

And Bright…

Bright tried everything.

He extended his blade, using its four-meter reach to keep distance from Seris. She closed the gap faster than he could retreat, her multiplied speed turning his advantage into a liability.

He activated his Body Enhancement, leveraging his newfound strength to drive her back with aggressive strikes. But Seris's Multiplier core meant she hit harder, moved faster, thought quicker.

Every attribute multiplied. Every advantage amplified.

He relied on his foresight, trying to predict her movements, to see the patterns. But she fought without intent, moving on pure instinct and training, and his talent couldn't predict emptiness.

Cuts opened across his arms. His chest. His legs.

Not killing blows. Not yet.

Just reminders.

You're outmatched. You're inadequate. You're not enough.

Bright's vision blurred as blood ran into his eyes from a cut across his forehead. He heard Duncan shouting—something about regrouping, about falling back to defensive positions—but the words felt distant, muffled, like he was underwater.

Seris's blade found him again, slicing deep into his forearm. He felt metal scrape bone, felt his enhanced grip falter.

His weapon slipped from his fingers.

His knees hit the arena floor.

The crowd roared—a sound like thunder, like judgment, like the voice of the universe declaring him insufficient.

Seris stood over him, chain-blade coiled loosely in her hand. She wasn't even breathing hard. Her silver hair caught the lamplight, making her look almost angelic.

"You're good," she said quietly, just loud enough for him to hear over the crowd. "But you're not disciplined. You rely too much on your talent. On luck. On hoping your advantages will be enough."

She turned away, raising her hand to signal victory.

"They won't be."

The gong sounded—deep, final, absolute.

Crimson Fang wins.

-----

Sunshine Squad limped back to the staging area in silence.

Duncan's shoulder bled freely, the crossbow bolt still embedded in muscle. Baggen nursed cracked ribs, each breath a visible struggle. Rolf's hands were burned from overextending his fire manipulation, trying to create openings that never materialized.

And Mara clutched her empty hands like she'd lost more than just her blades.

Adam said nothing. He just walked beside them, his rifle slung over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. But his eyes kept tracking to Bright, measuring, calculating.

The medical staff descended on them immediately—healers with minor restoration cores, field medics with bandages and salves. They worked efficiently, asking questions, assessing damage.

Bright waved them off.

"I'm fine."

"Private, you need—"

"I said I'm fine."

His voice was flat. Empty. The medic hesitated, then moved on to Duncan.

Bright walked to his assigned recovery area—a small section of the staging area with cots and water—and sat down heavily.

His hands rested on his knees.

Steady. Strong. Enhanced.

And completely useless.

Hailen was dead.

The match was lost.

And he'd sealed away last night like it never happened.

But the stones Mara had talked about—the weight of grief, of failure, of shame—hadn't gone anywhere.

They were still there.

Heavier than ever.

Crushing him from the inside.

Mara sat on a cot across from him, staring at her empty hands. She'd retrieved her blades after the match ended, but they felt wrong now. Tainted by failure.

She wanted to say something. To apologize, to explain, to acknowledge what they'd done.

But Bright's eyes were empty.

Sealed away.

And she realized with cold certainty: he's already buried it. Bottled it tight and pushed it down with everything else.

The intimacy. The grief. The failure.

All of it locked away in whatever dark place Bright kept the things he couldn't process.

And that terrified her more than any blade.

Because she'd seen what happened when people bottled too much. When they sealed everything away and let it fester.

She'd seen it in the hollow-eyed veterans who flinched at shadows. In the soldiers who smiled too much and drank too little. In the ones who walked into the Shroud one day and never came back.

Bright was walking that path.

And she'd helped push him onto it.

Duncan sat down beside Bright, his shoulder freshly bandaged. "We'll get them next time."

Bright didn't respond.

"Hey." Duncan's hand landed on Bright's shoulder—firm, grounding. "We'll get them next time. We just need to—"

"There won't be a next time," Bright said quietly.

"What?"

"They're perfect. We're not. The math doesn't work."

Duncan's jaw tightened. "That's not—"

"It is." Bright finally looked up, meeting Duncan's eyes. "She countered everything. My foresight, my reach, my enhancement. She has an answer for all of it. And she's only going to get better."

"So will we."

Bright's laugh was hollow. "Will we?"

The question hung in the air, unanswered.

Because none of them knew.

Around them, the staging area buzzed with activity—other squads preparing for their matches, medics treating wounded, officers reviewing performance reports.

Life continued.

The machine kept turning.

And Sunshine Squad sat in their small corner, carrying stones too heavy to name.

Bright's hands were steady.

But inside, he was shattering.

And he'd sealed it all away where no one could see.

Not even himself.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The Sunshine Squad, once rising, had their brightness torn from them, reduced to something dull and gloomy.

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