The man with the earring lunges at me. No speech. No hesitation.
He moves with a speed that defies Earth's physics. To anyone else, he would be a blur. If I were a civilian, I'd be dead before I saw the knife.
'Rank A,' my mind registers instantly.
'Muscle density of a heavy lifter, agility of a viper. High-tier mercenaries.'
But they make one mistake. They attack me like I'm green—an innocent 18-year-old. They see the boy, but they fail to account for the soldier within.
Big mistake.
I don't have the strength to block a direct hit. If that knife touches me, it's over. I need the edge. I need the Flow.
[Skill Activation: Flow Cartographer]
[Warning: Atmospheric Sync Critical. Draining Time.]
The world shifts. The colors desaturate into high-contrast monochrome. The apartment becomes a grid of vectors and mathematical probabilities.
I see the earring-man's center of gravity shift forward three milliseconds before his shoulder moves.
I see the air pressure compress around his right hand, telegraphing the thrust.
I see the blue line of his attack trajectory painting the air.
'Too wide. You're overconfident.'
My HUD starts to hemorrhage time. The numbers spin down like a slot machine.
[03:50:00]... [03:20:00]...
I don't dodge away. Instead, I close the distance, stepping deep into his guard.
I twist my torso just enough that the obsidian blade slices the air next to my ribs, cutting only the fabric of my shirt.
The man's eyes widen. He didn't expect me to close the distance.
I use his own momentum and hook my leg behind his ankle—the pivot point highlighted in gold by my enhanced vision—and slam my palm into his diaphragm.
It doesn't need to be a heavy strike. I simply hit the exact pressure point where his breath is anchored.
'Collapse, motherfucker...'
He gags, his balance crumbling. I seize his wrist, using the leverage to spin him around until his body is positioned between me and the second attacker.
The second man—a brute with a shaved head—had already committed to a heavy kick meant for my spine. But instead of my back, his boot slams square into his partner's chest. Ribs snap like dry twigs.
"Friendly fire," I rasp, my voice cold.
The earring-man drops, wheezing and incapacitated.
The brute roars, enraged. The air around his fists shimmers with heat
'He's triggering a skill. Fire Imbuement?'
My clock screams, accelerating my senses to match him.
[02:15:00]... [01:40:00]...
He throws a punch that could shatter a tank, the heat wave singeing my eyebrows.
But Flow Cartographer reveals the turbulence in the air before the fire even manifests.
"You telegraph too much," I mutter. "You're used to fighting monsters that just stand there and take it."
I duck under the haymaker, feeling the heat sear the top of my head as I slip inside his guard. I don't have a weapon, so I use gravity instead.
I drive my elbow into his solar plexus while simultaneously stomping on his instep. The surge of pain overloads his nervous system for a fraction of a second. He freezes.
That's all I need.
I grab his tactical belt, spin on my heel, and execute a judo throw honed by ten years of surviving the Trench. He flips over my shoulder, but I don't let him land softly. I drive his head straight into the corner of the heavy oak coffee table.
Crack.
The sound is wet and final. The brute goes limp, the fire around his fists sputtering out like a dying candle.
I stand over them, panting. My lungs feel like they're filled with broken glass, and my vision blurs as I deactivate the skill. The monochrome grid fades, returning the world to its grim, bloody colors.
I close my eyes to check the remaining time. My heart sinks.
[00:45:00]
I spent nearly three hours of my life in ten seconds of combat.
Priorities...
"Amateurs," I whisper, wiping a line of blood from my cheek. "You have the stats. But you never learned how to dance."
I step over the groaning earring-man. I need answers—I need to know which snake inside the Deepwarden sent them before my clock runs out.
I reach for his collar, but a sound stops me. It comes from the dark corner of the hallway, near the kitchen entrance.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
Slow. Mocking.
I freeze. Flow Cartographer didn't pick up a third person. That's impossible—unless they're masking their presence with a Rank S concealment.
"Impressive," a voice says. "Rough around the edges, but the technique... that was pure art, Dry."
My stomach drops—not as a metaphor, but as a physical lurch, like missing a step on a staircase in the dark. My body recognizes him before my brain can even process the sound.
I turn around slowly, my trembling hands balling into fists.
Stepping out of the shadows, wearing a pristine suit that looks entirely out of place in this slaughterhouse, is him. The dim light catches on his thin-rimmed glasses—the same accessory that always gave him that harmless, studious look. His brown hair is perfectly parted, without a single strand out of place. He looks like he's heading to a board meeting, not a battlefield.
His smile is the same one that greeted me for six years. The same smile I trusted with my life.
"Rae?" I choke out, confusion warring with instinct. "You... you came to help?"
Rae stops a few feet away. He glances at the bodies on the floor, then at the mark on the wall, and finally at me. His eyes don't hold warmth—only a terrifying, calculated pity.
"Help?" Rae chuckles, a dry, hollow sound. "I told you not to bring that book home, Dryden. I told you it was too heavy for you."
He raises his hand. Blue spirit flames—denser and hotter than anything the brute could summon—ignite at his fingertips.
"I didn't come to help," he says softly. "I came to clean up."
The betrayal hits harder than any punch. My knees shake—not from the draining clock, but from the invisible knife twisting in my back.
It was him. It was him all along.