Location: Jerkin Residence - Grand Hall
Time: Evening - The Duel
---
Corvin and Leo circled each other, the ruined hall stretching between them. The chandeliers above flickered, their crystals catching the faint glow of the two fighters' auras—one hungry and urgent, the other a quiet, steady pulse.
Corvin moved first.
He came in low, his body flowing like water—a judo practitioner's grace, but something darker underneath. His hands reached for Leo's wrist, his hip, his collar—each motion aimed at pulling him off balance, at dragging him into a submission hold, at emptying him from the inside out.
Leo slipped the first grip. Twisted away from the second. But the third caught him—a palm pressed flat against his chest, the rotating shimmer extending, sinking through cloth, through skin, toward the core.
Leo gasped. Something was being pulled. Something was being taken.
And then—instinct. Not thought. Not plan. Just knowing.
He wrenched sideways, breaking the contact. He planted his feet, shifted his weight, and drove his knee up into Corvin's ribs.
Corvin grunted. He didn't fall.
He smiled.
"You're not like the others," he said, his voice flat, hollow. "Most humans break when the Anima touches them. But you—you push back. You accept it. And that changes it."
He came again—faster now, his movements sharper, more precise. A throw that nearly took Leo off his feet. A hold that nearly crushed his throat. A sweep that nearly cracked his skull.
Leo answered with Aang's grace—flowing, evading, redirecting. Not fighting force with force, but letting momentum carry him. He slipped a throw and answered with an elbow. He ducked a hold and answered with a spinning heel kick. He caught a sweep and answered with a palm strike to Corvin's sternum.
The hall echoed with the sounds of their exchange—grunts, footsteps, the crack of impacts against the marble floor. Dust rose in spiraling clouds. The ground spiderwebbed with cracks.
Corvin's voice was quiet, measured. "You are really impressive, Leo Jerkins. What are you, really? No way some goof like you can reach such a sight—unless you were guided by a Sutran expert."
Leo wiped blood from his lip and answered with a punch. "You talk too much."
---
Corvin broke away.
He didn't retreat—he pivoted. His eyes flicked past Leo, toward the far wall where Irina, Jax, and Ilya lay—still trembling, still recovering.
He moved toward them.
Leo's voice cracked. "No—!"
Corvin's hand shot out—claw-shaped, rotating shimmer extended, reaching for Irina's throat.
Irina screamed. Jax grabbed her arm. Ilya froze.
And then—a palm.
A hand appeared between Corvin's claw and Irina's neck. It caught the strike. It stopped it.
Timo Moriah stood there, his glasses glinting, his expression calm. Around his fist, something radiated—a shimmer unlike the hunger of the Pyre cadets. Something older. Something heavier. Something that smelled of ancient rivers and deep water.
Corvin's eyes widened. "You—you are of that clan."
Timo didn't answer. He simply held the strike, unyielding.
Corvin pulled back, his guard rising, his eyes narrowing. "Why save them? They are just like the others—ignorant fools who blindly jump into treasures, seeking ways to cheat themselves. They aren't weak. But that will never change the iron law."
Timo's voice was light. "Maybe. But I'm not here to enforce iron laws. I'm here to watch."
He stepped back, letting Irina, Jax, and Ilya scramble behind him. Then he raised a hand toward Corvin.
"I won't attack you if you don't harm anyone else. Well—" he pointed at Leo, his grin turning mischievous— "apart from him."
Leo's voice cracked. "Seriously?!"
Timo shrugged. "You're the one who opened his mouth."
---
Corvin's expression shifted—something dark, something decisive.
"If that is the case, then I'm going to savor everything. One last time."
The air around him changed.
The rotating shimmer at his edges intensified—but it wasn't just hunger anymore. It was harvest. A pulse of deep crimson and hollow violet, like blood pooling in a dark room. Auditory, it was a low, wet clicking—like teeth behind a closed door. Visually, the ground beneath him darkened, the marble turning pale and brittle, as if something had been drained from it.
Corvin's aura split—one layer of hungry extraction, one layer of ignited fighting spirit. They wove together, rising, sharpening, until he stood in a corona of double-woven purpose.
Leo felt it. Not with his eyes—with something deeper. The air around Corvin smelled of ozone and old blood. The space between them hummed with a pressure that made his teeth ache.
But Leo didn't retreat.
He accepted.
His own weave responded—not as a shield, not as a weapon, but as a self. The confusion. The puzzlement. The confidence. All of it, woven together. And then something else—something that wasn't there before. A quiet, stubborn certainty. I am here. I am fighting. I am not leaving.
He could feel the difference between himself and the air around him—like the edge of his own skin, but wider, brighter.
Timo's voice carried a note of genuine bafflement. "Just what did Elijah feed this kid?"
His internal voice raced—a private joke only he could hear. If it wasn't for Erikson at Portside Harbor—if that crazy bastard hadn't pointed me at Elijah—I wouldn't be here at all. I don't even know what that man put inside me. Some kind of social errand pet? Fine. But if Elijah can turn a nobody human into a Fully Realized third-gate Circuit Bound... then maybe he really will change the world. Or bring himself down—and drag the rest of us with him. Including me.
He sighed. Note to self: stop accepting favors from harbor lunatics.
---
Corvin came at Leo with everything.
His judo became something else—throws blended into empty-palm strikes, holds blended into soul-pulling grips. Every contact was a drain. Every break was a pursuit.
Leo answered with Aang's grace—flowing, evading, redirecting. But Corvin was faster now. Sharper. The double-woven aura gave him reach and force that Leo couldn't match.
A throw sent Leo crashing into a pillar. A palm strike to the chest stole his breath. A claw to the shoulder drew blood—and something else, something colder.
Corvin's voice was quiet. "You're slowing."
Leo pushed himself up. Wiped blood from his lip. Grinned.
"Then stop holding back."
Something inside him dug in—not surrender, not desperation. Just a refusal. A stubborn, quiet refusal to be taken.
His weave stabilized. His stance steadied. And when Corvin came again, Leo met him—not with a flinch, but with a step forward.
Their strikes collided—arm against arm, palm against palm. The impact sent a shockwave through the hall. Tables shattered. Chandeliers swayed. Dust rained from the ceiling.
Corvin's eyes widened—just for a moment. "Still that? Just that? You refuse to break?"
Leo's voice was quiet. "I've got people watching."
Corvin's smile returned—cold, hungry. "Then let them watch."
---
At the edge of the hall, a crowd had gathered—Jerkin , servants, off-duty cadets. Their voices were low, uneasy.
"Hey—isn't that Leo Jerkins? The new B0?"
"Yeah. Seraphina promoted him. Took the post from Jericho."
"Who's he fighting?"
A pause. Then, quieter:
"That's Corvin. From Pyre Base."
A ripple of dread went through the crowd.
"Pyre? The place where only two out of forty walk out breathing?"
"They say they drink blood. Some say they eat their dead."
"They're carnivores. Operatives raised on souls."
"It's a miracle Leo's still standing."
Someone lifted a phone. VidFlash, live. The screen glowed in the dim hall. A young voice narrated—Gen-Z fast, half-amused, half-terrified.
"Chat, we are LIVE at the Jerkin residence and the new B0 is throwing hands with an actual Pyre monster. This is not a drill. Repeat—this is not a drill."
Another phone lifted. Another stream started. The hall filled with the pale glow of screens.
-
Corvin and Leo broke apart—both gasping, both bleeding, both refusing to fall.
The hall was silent except for their breath.
Corvin's hollow eyes met Leo's—and for the first time, something like respect flickered there.
"You're not what I expected."
Leo wiped blood from his mouth. "Neither are you."
They stood at a draw—two fighters, two paths, two worlds—staring at each other across the ruin of a celebration.
Outside, the night was very, very quiet.
And every phone in the hall was still recording.