Back at the faceoff—
Marco stood still.
He did not advance. He did not retreat.
The wasteland wind dragged fine black dust across the fractured ground between him and One.
The air still carried residual heat from the earlier compression of inkforce, faint distortions shimmering briefly before fading into nothing.
He waited.
Quietly.
But agitation brewed beneath the surface.
His fingers twitched once at his side. His breathing was steady — controlled. Yet his eyes did not leave One.
Meanwhile—
One's consciousness drifted in a strange, unstable space.
It was not darkness.
It was not light.
It felt like sinking through thick water — aware, yet disconnected. His thoughts moved sluggishly, as though wrapped in something heavy.
He felt confusion first.
Then anger.
Then fear.
But the emotions did not behave normally.
They were amplified.
Distorted.
Every flicker of irritation became rage. Every doubt became panic. Every uncertainty spiraled into desperation.
He did not understand what was happening.
He did not understand where he was.
He only knew one thing—
He was trapped.
Somewhere between unconsciousness and awareness. Between control and surrender.
His body felt distant.
As though it belonged to someone else.
The more he tried to move, the heavier everything became.
Then—
A voice.
"Stop."
It was not loud.
But it cut through the chaos like a blade through fog.
Concerned.
Urgent.
Familiar.
The spiraling emotions paused for a fraction of a second.
Clarity flickered.
He knew that voice.
He recognized the weight inside it.
Concern.
Expectation.
Command.
But from where?
When?
His consciousness wavered violently, the grogginess deepening again as if trying to drag him back under.
He fought it.
Struggled.
Time lost meaning.
Seconds felt like hours.
Then—
A memory surfaced.
It had been long ago.
Just the two of them.
Marco and him.
The wasteland had been quieter then — or perhaps he had simply known less.
He remembered wandering slightly too far.
Curious.
Unaware.
The ambush had been perfect.
A creature — massive, grotesque — resembling a twisted two-headed chameleon the size of a truck had blended seamlessly into the broken environment. Its skin mirrored the cracked stone and polluted debris so flawlessly that it had been invisible until the moment it moved.
Its attack had been instantaneous.
A tongue shot forward—
But it was not flesh.
It was hardened.
Hooked.
Like a long, sharpened iron spike.
It came for his chest.
He had no time to dodge.
No time to react.
Marco had been some distance away.
The hook-like tongue was already inches from piercing through him—
Then he heard it.
"Stop!"
The same voice.
Booming. Concerned. Desperate.
Before he understood what had happened—
Marco appeared.
Not running.
Not leaping.
He was simply there.
Behind the monster.
His left arm had transformed — mechanical structures erupting outward in seamless succession, plates locking into place with violent precision. Components extended and interlocked rapidly, expanding into a colossal mechanical limb far larger than his own body.
The giant arm moved with brutal efficiency.
It seized the chameleon-like creature by its thick tail.
With one savage pull—
The entire tail tore free.
The attack on One was instantly disrupted.
The creature screamed — a warped, dual-throated shriek of fury and pain.
It attempted to cloak again.
To vanish.
But the mechanical hand tightened.
Lifted it off the ground.
Bones cracked audibly.
The grip clenched harder.
The massive body convulsed violently.
Then slowly—
It went limp.
Marco let the corpse drop.
He turned to One.
His face was clouded with anger.
But beneath that anger—
There had been something else.
Concern.
He demanded to know why One had strayed so far from his protection.
One had stammered in guilt and panic.
It had been the first time he truly felt Marco's anger.
And his concern.
Back in the present—
The memory struck like lightning.
That voice.
The owner.
Marco.
Clarity surged through the fog.
This body—
Was his.
This will—
Was his.
Whatever strange state he had been forced into—
It was still his mind.
And if it was his mind—
Then he could control it.
He gathered everything he had left.
Every fragment of willpower.
Every stubborn instinct.
Every refusal to surrender.
He forced himself upward.
The resistance pressed back.
But he pushed harder.
A violent snap—
Like something breaking internally.
And suddenly—
He was back.
His eyes opened.
The world rushed in all at once.
Cold air struck his skin. Dust clung to his face. The metallic scent of blood and burned pollution filled his lungs.
He inhaled sharply.
Vision blurred briefly before stabilizing.
The colossal inkforce spear that had once towered above him was gone.
Dispersed.
Scattered back into unstable currents of pollution energy drifting faintly in the atmosphere.
Fragments of shattered terrain surrounded him.
The stealth abomination lay frozen and decapitated not far away.
The laser-wielding creature was nothing more than a ruined carcass.
The battlefield was silent.
Too silent.
One blinked slowly.
Confusion settled heavily in his expression.
He did not remember finishing the fight.
He did not remember winning.
His muscles felt strained — as though they had moved beyond their limits.
His body responded sluggishly, as if it had been acting without him.
He pushed himself slightly upward, scanning his surroundings.
Marco stood a short distance away.
Watching him.
Waiting.
One's brows tightened faintly.
He did not understand what had just happened.
He only knew one thing—
That voice.
It had anchored him.
Pulled him back from something he could not name.
And for the first time—
A subtle, unfamiliar discomfort formed in his chest.
Not fear.
Not anger.
Something else.
Something he did not yet have the words to define.