The world didn't just slow for James. It froze.
The thug's punch, aimed at Drake, crept through the air grain by grain. Lucas's triumphant sneer was a frozen mask of stone and flesh. In the absolute silence of his own perception, James felt the raging storm of the Nexus power, once a chaotic sea in his chest, now a single, searing point of light behind his eyes. It wasn't hot. It was ice-cold, a hum of absolute certainty.
He moved. There was no wasted motion. He flowed around Lucas, a ghost in the space between heartbeats, and crossed the few feet to Drake's side in an instant that felt like an eternity.
He didn't strike the thug. He simply placed his open palm against the man's chest.
Then he released it.
It wasn't a blast or a ripple. It was a single, sharp, internal detonation of force. The thug's eyes went wide with shock, not pain. The air was driven from his lungs in a silent whoosh, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious before he even began to fall.
James stood over him, the absolute cold in his veins already beginning to recede. The world snapped back to its normal speed. The sounds of the fight rushed back in—Kara's fiery blast sending another crony scrambling, Xander's precise gusts of wind keeping the last one off-balance.
Lucas stared, his jaw slack, not at his fallen man, but at James. The sight of this silent, effortless takedown—a move with no weight, no impact, no *brutality*—was an insult to his entire philosophy. With a crackle of failing energy, the stone gauntlets around his fists fractured and crumbled into dust, falling to the ground.
"This isn't over," Lucas spat, his voice a mixture of rage and confusion. He grabbed his cronies and retreated, his retreat more of a flight than a withdrawal.
The moment the threat was gone, the adrenaline from James's power surge evaporated. The icy control shattered, and the full, agonizing reality of his injury crashed down on him. A white-hot lance of pain shot through his gut where the stone fist had connected. He gasped, not from exhaustion, but from pure agony, his hand clutching the torn fabric of his uniform. The world dissolved into a grey, swirling fog.
"James!" He heard Kara's voice, distant and distorted.
He felt the hard ground meet his back, and then, the world went black.
***
James stirred, not to a headache, but to a sharp, stabbing pain in his ribs with every breath he tried to take. He blinked his eyes open, the sterile white ceiling of the infirmary coming into view. The air hummed with the soft glow of healing wards. His friends were gathered around his bed, their faces etched with relief.
"Hey, you're awake," Kara said, her voice softer than usual.
James tried to sit up, but a sharp wince and a choked gasp stopped him cold. "I've been better," he admitted, his voice hoarse.
"You were incredible," Drake said, his voice filled with a raw admiration. He sat on a nearby bed, his own arm bandaged, his eyes clear. "You took him down without even hitting him. But then..."
Professor Everhart entered the room, his expression more serious than ever. Master Chawng followed a step behind, his gaze thoughtful and intense.
"You gave us quite a scare, James," Everhart said, his eyes scanning the diagnostic runes shimmering above the bed. He addressed the group. "The impact from Lucas's gauntlet caused severe internal bruising and fractured three of James's ribs. Without Luna's immediate intervention to stabilize the bleeding and begin mending the bone, you would have suffered a punctured lung."
Luna looked down, a faint blush on her cheeks but her eyes showing the strain of the effort.
Everhart then turned his gaze solely to James. "On top of that, your vital signs plummeted. Your energy levels bottomed out as if you had run a marathon in three seconds. That blow should have taken you out of the fight. The fact that you were able to move at all, let alone perform... whatever that was, is deeply concerning."
"I... I felt it," James admitted, the memory foggy. "The power. It's always been a storm, but for a second... I told it what to do."
Master Chawng stepped forward. "What you describe is not the undisciplined release of a magical gift. It is control. Focus. A warrior's technique. Your Valorian heritage may have given you the weapon, but it is clear you have no idea how to wield it without it costing you everything, physically and otherwise."
James looked at his hands, then down at his bandaged torso. Chawng was right. He had won, but Lucas had still broken him. The price was this utter depletion and a body pushed past its breaking point.
"I'm ready to learn," James said, the words firm, fueled by the memory of the pain. "Whatever it takes."
A rare, thin smile touched Master Chawng's lips. "Good. Because your training just became far more difficult." He looked at the others, his gaze sweeping over them. "All of your training. A unit supports its weakest point. And right now, James's lack of control is this team's greatest weakness."