After Steven's brutal display of power using the mutant, Talon—who had been watching the show with an interested expression—had his expression slowly twist into one of barely contained rage.
Even though that mutant had been weak according to his standards, it had still been his subordinate.
His property.
And now, he had watched that subordinate get brutally torn apart right in front of his eyes.
The metallic scent of blood lingered heavily in the air.
Steam rose faintly from the corpse as it bled onto the cracked pavement.
The wet sound of crushed bone still echoed faintly in Talon's memory.
His jaw tightened.
The twisted vein-like patterns running along his large, muscular arms began to pulse faintly beneath his skin.
A low, bubbling sound stirred deep within his forearms.
Heat.
The air around him shimmered slightly, like invisible flames licking outward. A faint smell of scorched iron began to spread.
Just as he was about to lash out—his judgment momentarily clouded by anger—
A slender hand rested lightly against his arm.
"Don't."
The voice was smooth. Controlled. Intelligent.
Vespera.
Her crimson eyes were calm, analytical. Her long dark hair shifted subtly in the rising heat radiating from Talon's body, but she showed no discomfort.
"It isn't wise to start a fight without knowing anything about your opponent," she said quietly.
Her tone wasn't fearful.
It was strategic.
Talon exhaled slowly.
A thin line of steam escaped between his fingers.
The bubbling beneath his skin gradually settled, though the veins remained faintly illuminated.
He closed his eyes.
And replayed the entire fight in his mind.
Steven's movements.
The precision.
The efficiency.
The lack of hesitation.
He was certain of one thing.
He could also easily dispatch that mutant as quickly as Steven did.
But it wouldn't have been as clean.
Steven had made it look effortless.
That irritated him.
He imagined a face-off between the both of them.
Steven looked like the Vice Leader of the group. That alone meant he had to be very strong.
But Talon wasn't afraid.
He was cautious.
He didn't think he would lose.
Before the pollution, he had been nothing more than a city mafia goon. Breaking bones. Collecting debts. Surviving through violence and intimidation.
He had always understood brutality.
After the pollution, when the world rotted and the air thickened with corrupted energy, he survived the awakening.
And his power manifested violently.
Liquid lava-like flame energy began flowing through the twisted vein-like patterns on his large, muscular arms.
The first time it happened, he thought his arms were going to explode.
The sensation had been unbearable—like molten metal forced through narrow pipes. His veins glowed a molten orange beneath his skin. The ground beneath his feet blackened from the heat alone. The air around him warped from the intensity.
And when he first tried compressing that energy—
His right forearm nearly ruptured.
Hairline fractures spread along his skin. Flesh tearing under internal pressure. The implosive force rebounded violently against him.
That was when he realized:
His ability was dangerous.
Not just to others.
To himself.
Over time, he learned to compress that liquid-like energy into both palms.
When fully compressed, the energy became dense. Unstable. Vibrating.
The air around his hands distorted visibly. A low humming resonance filled the space. Sometimes the ground beneath him would crack faintly under the pressure of containment.
He could inject the compressed energy at the exact point of contact between his palms and an opponent.
And then—
It would implode.
Not explode outward.
Implode inward.
The liquid energy would invade the opponent's body and collapse from within.
Organs rupturing.
Bones crushing inward.
Blood vessels detonating.
Instant death—if the opponent wasn't strong enough.
Imagine fighting a physically enhanced monster.
Every punch terrifying.
Every palm strike delivering not just force—but internal annihilation.
His physical durability and strength were also under constant reconstruction and strengthening by this dangerous energy.
It constantly refined him.
Reinforced him.
Restructured muscle and bone under pressure.
But it remained dangerous.
If not properly controlled or compressed, the implosion could reverse—
Destroying both his arms from the inside.
From the moment his ability awakened, he hunted relentlessly.
Mutants.
Abominations.
Anything he could use to train.
He refined his control through pain. Through near self-destruction.
Until he met Malcolm's group.
That was when things changed.
He began working as a scavenger under Malcolm, gathering resources and earning blood coins.
With blood coins, he enhanced the durability of his arms—layer by layer—strengthening bone density, muscle fibers, resistance.
He invested heavily into reinforcement to prevent implosion backlash.
His forearms were no longer ordinary flesh.
They were hardened conduits built to withstand catastrophic internal pressure.
Even now, faint heat radiated from them like sealed reactors beneath skin.
His energy was already terrifying enough.
There was no need for any more.
He opened his eyes again.
Across the distance, Steven stood calm and unreadable.
Talon imagined stepping forward.
Closing the distance.
Forcing contact.
Would Steven evade?
Would he counter?
Would he survive a direct palm strike?
The thought didn't make him angry.
It made him interested.
Beside him, Vespera observed quietly.
She had noticed everything.
The heat.
The restraint.
The calculation.
"Patience, you can attack after we've gotten enough information about them..." she murmured.
Talon rolled his shoulders slowly.
The glowing veins dimmed.
The bubbling subsided.
But beneath the surface—
The liquid energy continued to flow.
Waiting.