I found myself on the ground again, ribs screaming, elbow throbbing. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and my breath came in ragged gasps. Braxton stood over me, unlit cigarette still dangling from his lips, not a hair out of place.

"Had enough yet, viral boy?" he asked, his tone almost gentle. "No shame in knowing when you're outmatched. Sometimes the best move is to walk away and live to fight another day."

"Yeah, give up, Nakano!" Raphael shouted, his voice ringing through the gym. "You're embarrassing the whole guild! Even the reject guild doesn't want your weak ass!"

Braxton's tired eyes flicked toward Raphael without turning his head. Something dangerous flickered there, a glimpse of the predator beneath the lazy exterior.

"Vargas. You want a turn?" His voice was soft but carried an edge. "Think you could do better?"

"Damn right I could!" Raphael stepped forward, cracking his knuckles, his hands already beginning to glow with stored kinetic energy. "I'd have had him on the ground in ten seconds! Watch and learn how real power works!"

"Alright." Braxton jerked his head toward the mat. "Your turn."

Raphael charged onto the mat, his fists pulsing with kinetic energy, a manic grin splitting his face. He threw a massive, explosive punch that made the air crackle with raw power, aiming straight for Braxton's head.

KA-BOOM!

Braxton... vanished. One moment he was there, the next he was behind Raphael, hand resting almost gently on the back of his neck. Before Raphael could even register the miss, before he could even turn, Braxton drove him face-first into the mat with a resounding slam that shook the floor. He put a knee in the small of Raphael's back and just... leaned on him, casual as someone sitting on a park bench. Raphael struggled, roared, his face turning purple with rage and effort, but couldn't move an inch.

"See?" Braxton said to the room, his voice a lazy drawl. "Brute force is a dead end. Power without control is just wasted energy." He shoved Raphael away with a dismissive push. "Now get off my mat before you get it all sweaty. You smell like an angry bull."

Raphael stumbled to his feet, utterly humiliated, and slunk back to the sidelines, muttering curses under his breath.

While this played out, my mind raced. I watched Braxton's movements, analyzed his positioning, the way his weight shifted. Something clicked. His Aspect—High Roller's Ante. He wagers his own resources to amplify his next action. But every move he'd made against us had been small, controlled, minimal. He hadn't used his Aspect at all. He'd been toying with us, teaching us, but fighting at perhaps one percent of his true capacity.

'He thinks I'm predictable.'

I got to my feet, wincing at the pain in my side, a new, desperate idea forming. A true scumbag plan. I let my posture slump, my breathing grow ragged. I made myself look defeated, broken, a student who'd learned his lesson.

"Okay... okay, you win," I panted, hanging my head. "I'm done. You've made your point."

I turned my back, taking a deliberately clumsy step off the mat, as if heading for the water cooler—a universal sign of complete surrender. In any formal duel, this would mark the end. I heard Raphael snort derisively. Heard someone—probably Jacob—let out a sigh of relief that the beatdown was over.

Then I pivoted on one foot, my body coiling like a spring. I'd been saving a sliver of energy for this one, desperate move. No [SEVER]. No [EMBER]. Just pure, unadulterated speed and the element of surprise—the oldest trick in the book.

I launched myself back toward him, targeting not his chest or head where he'd expect an attack, but his legs. A low, dirty tackle—the last thing a master martial artist would anticipate from a retreating opponent.

Braxton's eyes widened. For the first time all fight, genuine surprise crossed his face. He tried to backpedal, but he'd relaxed, too sure of his victory, his hands still in his pockets. My shoulder connected with his thighs with enough force to make several students gasp.

THWACK!

It wasn't a clean takedown. He was too strong, his center of gravity too low, his reflexes too good even when caught off-guard. But he stumbled—stumbled badly. His arms flailed for balance, the cigarette finally falling from his lips, and for one glorious, beautiful fraction of a second, his ass hit the mat.

[SECRET NARRATIVE QUEST COMPLETE!]

[REWARD: 500 SP]

I barely registered the victory notification before Braxton recovered, his expression no longer bored but thunderous. Something had changed in his eyes—they were fully open now, alert, and glittering with something that might have been anger or... respect?

"You little shit," he growled, but there was a hint of something like amusement in his voice.

His hand snapped out and grabbed the front of my uniform. He lifted me off the ground with one hand—my feet dangling helplessly like a kitten being picked up by its scruff—and slammed me into the padded wall with enough force to make my teeth rattle.

WHAM!

The world went white with pain, then faded to black at the edges. The last thing I saw was Braxton's face, no longer lazy but intense, studying me like I was a puzzle he hadn't expected to find.

I floated in a hazy void, vaguely aware of voices that seemed to come from miles away.

"Is he breathing?" Isabelle's normally detached voice carried a hint of concern. "That was... excessive."

"Ah, crap." Braxton sounded sheepish and annoyed, like a man who'd accidentally stepped on someone's new shoes. "He'll be alright. Probably. Kid's got a hard head."

I heard the beeps of a phone being dialed, the sound echoing strangely in my semi-conscious state.

"Carmen? Yeah, it's me. I need you to take one of the puppies to see Dr. Death." A pause. "Yes, right now." Another pause. "Yes, you can take the golf cart, just try not to run anyone over this time."

I felt myself being lifted, strong arms carrying me with surprising gentleness, and then the world dissolved completely into a comforting darkness.

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