Two figures raced down a poorly lit corridor, their green cloaks snapping behind them as they pushed forward. The air was cold and thick with the scent of rust and old dust, disturbed only by the wind trailing behind them.
Their boots pounded against the stone floor, the only sound breaking the facility's cold silence. Every footstep echoed like a faint warning shot, a reminder that time was running out.
The older of the two, Alan Aguilar—bald, clean-shaven, and all nerves under pressure—led the way. He glanced back and called over his shoulder to his companion.
"It's a little ways from here. Around the next corner."
Behind him followed Nozomu, a towering man in his late twenties with bronze skin and coiled, dark sheep's wool hair.
He nodded once. He didn't speak; his eyes locked forward, silent and focused.
The corridor twisted sharply, their boots skidding on the slick floor as they bent the corner. The cracked stone walls sweated with moisture. The air still reeked of rust, but now it was more electric, like lightning about to strike.
"I'm surprised no guards have shown up yet," Nozomu muttered as they halted before a colossal door.
"Don't jinx us now, kid," Alan replied.
The door was forged from an unfamiliar, shimmering alloy. Its surface pulsed faintly as if it were breathing, casting silvery waves across the corridor's walls like ripples through water.
No knobs. No keyholes. Just a smooth circular indentation at chest height.
"...How are we supposed to get in?" Nozomu asked.
Alan shoved him aside. "If you listened, you would know. I told you before—it's sealed with Dyna."
He pressed his palm into the slot. A soft hum buzzed from the door as energy pulsed from his hand—a spiral of light feeding into the metal, something like veins coming alive.
With a hiss and groan, the door shuddered, then slid open with a thunderous clang. A wave of cool air and soft blue light washed over the two men.
Inside the chamber, at its center, floated a transparent glass box suspended in midair. Within it, untouched by dust or time, a glowing blue crystal prism hovered—calm, steady, and almost hypnotic.
"There it is," Alan mumbled, his eyes fixed on the floating glass container.
They stepped forward, and a sudden red light exploded across the room.
Alarms blared—shrill and mechanical, shaking the silence like a lion's roar over his territory.
The floor vibrated as hidden mechanisms whirred to life. Behind them, the only door began to shut.
"Grab it, and let's go!" Alan shouted.
But Nozomu didn't move. He stood frozen, his eyes locked on the prism as if it were whispering to him. His facial expression was calm, but his body was still—like the glow had cast a spell over him.
"Admire it on your own time, dumbass!" Alan barked, shoving him forward.
Snapped from his trance, Nozomu lunged forward, shattering the glass, and grabbed the prism.
The room seemed to exhale—like it knew it had been disturbed.
They raced through the narrowing door, barely clearing it before it slammed shut. Heavy footsteps thundered behind them.
A squad of guards emerged in armor similar to that of medieval times. The clatter of steel and shouted commands filled the corridor.
"Hey! You two—halt!" one called out.
Alan didn't break his stride. Instead, he clicked his tongue. "Look at that. You went and jinxed us."
"I said halt!" the lead guard cried out again.
His patience was already spent.
This time, with a grinding scrape, he dragged his sword across the ground, the screech of metal against stone, the friction spitting showers of sparks that danced into the air.
"Flame Manipulation… Hephaestus Flame Dragon!"
The sparks glowed a deep red as the air boiled, bursting to life and swirling into a crimson inferno that shaped itself into a serpentine dragon.
Its roar trembled through the corridor as it barreled toward them with scales of molten fire rippling.
The temperature spiked in seconds, heat pressing against their backs like a wall.
Alan let out a shaky laugh. "We just might die tonight, kid."
"Speak for yourself, old man."
Nozomu tossed the prism to him, then hovered into the air with a grace that defied his size. In his palm, a tight sphere of concentrated wind spun.
He fired it.
The gust launched Alan like a slingshot, sending him flying down the corridor like a leaf in a storm.
"Don't waste time on these guys!" Alan yelled as he vanished.
Nozomu turned to face the dragon.
"I'll make this quick."
He inhaled.
"Oxygen Manipulation…"
He clenched his fist. The flames flickered, and the air twisted.
The dragon continued its charge, but it wavered mid-flight, losing shape, spiraling in on itself like it couldn't breathe.
It faltered as its flames thinned and dissolved. Its roar turned to a gasp, then silence as it fizzled into embers.
The heat vanished, and the dragon evaporated into vapor before it could touch Nozomu.
The guards collapsed, dropping to their knees, choking, gasping for air, the oxygen stolen from the space around them and their lungs.
The corridor went quiet. The guards lay silent on the ground, black scorch marks painted the stone walls, and a vacuum-like pressure hung in the air.
A sudden gust filled the corridor, and oxygen returned.
Nozomu landed, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
"The old man should be at the rendezvous point by now..."
He bolted down the corridor in record time, riding the wind. He found a half-open door. No doubt Alan's doing.
Nozoumu burst through. The door's hinges groaned softly as he stepped onto a rooftop.
The air was cold and sharp, filled with the smell of wet gravel. The wind whipped past Nozomu's face, and rain fell in slow, misty sheets. It was light at first, tapping softly against the stone tiles.
And waiting for him—
Radcliffe Ironclawe.
A mountain of muscle. Massive. Broad-shouldered. Orange mohawk faded into black. Sleeveless armor exposed his thick arms.
A giant battle ax rested in one hand. In the other, Alan dangled by the throat.
"Move, and I'll crush his throat," Radcliffe said coldly.
Nozomu didn't hesitate—his sword was already drawn.
"You think I won't?" Radcliffe asked, taunting him with a grin.
He squeezed, tightening his grip around Alan's neck.
"Didn't expect this from you, Alan. I always took you as a coward. A wealking. But a traitor? Selling out to scum? Even this is below you."
Alan gasped, his legs dangling. His vision was fading until a soft blue glow leaked from his pocket.
Radcliffe's smirk faded. He pulled the prism free.
That was Nozomu's cue. All he needed was an opening.
A gust. A blur. Nozomu shot forward, yanked Alan away, and landed behind Radcliffe in a swirl of wind.
The wind howled as the vortex slashed the brute's chest, ripping armor and flesh to shred.
"You alright?" Nozomu asked, crouched beside Alan.
Alan coughed. "Yeah... I'm fine..."
Then his eyes widened.
"Watch out!"
He shoved Nozomu aside as Radcliffe's ax crashed between them, splitting the rooftop.
Nozomu rolled to his feet. "Alan, get going."
"Don't be stupid! You're strong, but you can't beat him! Radcliffe... he's leagues above you!"
Nozomu didn't respond, but then again, he was barely listening. His eyes were fixed on where Radcliffe's body should've fallen.
He stared in disbelief. Where the body was moments ago was now crumbled into grains.
"...Sand?"
Radcliffe grinned. He stomped, and the rooftop quaked violently.
Cracks spiderwebbed across the ground, rattling tiles loose. Thunder rumbled in reply, and rain poured harder, blurring the battlefield.
Nozomu hurled Alan clear with a blast of wind and raised a wind barrier to absorb the shockwave.
Radcliffe rushed through the barrier like a storm, ax swinging in a flurry.
Nozomu dodged, letting the wind guide his steps.
He countered—wind spinning around his sword only to be blocked with a hardened wall of sand.
The fight continued, and their weapons clashed, exploding into a blast of sand and gust.
"I'm surprised," Radcliffe growled. "Wasteland scum like you shouldn't be able to use Dyna."
Nozomu panted. Nothing was working. Every strike left little to no damage. The sand absorbed everything.
Radcliffe wasn't just using it as armor—it was an extension of him.
"Let's end this," Radcliffe declared.
He jumped into the air as sand swirled around his ax, coating it into a monstrous weapon.
"Sand Manipulation... Gaea Cusher!"
Nozomu didn't flinch. There was no hesitation. He raised his sword.
"Storm Manipulation... Twisting Gale!"
He swung upward. The sky split. A cyclone rushed from the storm clouds above, violently clashing with Radcliffe's descending ax.
The rooftop rocked as the clash exploded across the surface like a bomb had gone off before the two vanished in a dust storm and shrieking wind.
From the haze, Nozomu emerged, bloodied but fast. His sword cut through the air toward Radcliffe's throat.
It struck—only to be caught in a wall of rising sand.
Thinking fast, Nozomu retreated. One foot from the edge. No weapon. Chest heaving.
Radcliffe chuckled.
"Now, I've got you cornered. Like prey. Can you smell the blood in the water, scum?"
His chest fluttered with excitement.
"This is the most fun I've had in ages!"
He yanked his ax free from the rubble and marched forward.
"To thank you… I'll kill you in one blow."
Nozomu's body felt like lead. His head spun, and his vision blurred. He was at his limit. He couldn't win.
He knew it, but his pride burned too hot to admit it.
And then—as Radcliffe closed in, Alan made his move. He shoved Nozomu off the edge of the rooftop.
Time slowed. The wind howled.
As Nozomu fell, something glowing followed.
The prism.
"What the hell are you doing!?" Nozomu shouted.
Alan smiled. A quiet, tired smile.
"Keep fighting, Nozomu."
The world held its breath. Silence.
Then came the sound—a single, awful sound. One so sharp and final as Radcliffe's ax found its mark.
The sound of it cleaving through Alan's body echoed through the night sky.
The rain fell harder, like a curtain, over the rooftop, washing the blood into the broken tiles.
Thunder rolled.
Guards burst through the door—too late. There was no enemy left.
Just Radcliffe, who stood alone and victorious over Alan's fallen body.
With a grim smile, he reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the prism.
Victory.
But when he held it up in his hand…
Dust.
His grin faded.
"A fake," he whispered.
The storm swallowed his words.
Alan had won. He outplayed him to the very end, even in death.