As always, an invisible barrier forms around us, and Moe is instantly teleported on the other side.
My opponent, Zarek, stands twenty paces away.
He is bare-armed, broad-shouldered, and completely still. No weapon. No armor beyond shiny leather plates strapped over his chest. His expression remains unnervingly calm, the sort of confidence only possessed by men who know exactly what they can do. And he probably does. He wouldn’t have reached close to ninety points while idling by.
I try to see myself fromhisperspective. He probably sees me as a challenge, but one that he can win. I have more points thanhim but an unknown level. He’s probably guessing it’s either the same as his or lower. Even now as he assesses me, a smirk pulls at his lips as he releases a low scoff. His eyes look me up and down with a daring condescension.
I’m still wearing the same clothes as I did when I arrived, though I doubt they can still be calledclothesafter all they’ve been through.
My shirt hangs loose over my frame, the dark fabric worn thin from constant use and rough washing. The hem is frayed beyond repair, ragged threads dangling where the material has split apart, and several holes mar the lower edge from a few too many stabbings.
One sleeve is ripped near the shoulder badly enough that my skin flashes through whenever I move too quickly.
My trousers are no better. They hang low and loose, stained permanently with dust and old blood no amount of scrubbing has managed to remove. The knees have worn nearly smooth from the number of times I’ve been driven to the ground, and several seams along the thighs have begun to unravel, the stitching giving way little by little with every fight.
I’ve yet to spend tokens on myself. It’s not worth it. As long as these clothes are serviceable, they’re staying. Even my small blade is an inherited from the terminated individual who used to live in our room.
But my appearance must be giving him some insight into me, some unknown satisfaction. Perhaps it’s because his clothes look so brand new that he’s looking down on my battered ones. Or maybe because he’s wonderingwhatI am spending my tokens on if not at least a decent shirt.
He’s underestimating me.
The male’s gaze shifts to her briefly, then returns to me, as if she’s not important in the slightest.
A gong announces the start of the battle.
He lifts one hand.
I move instinctively?—
Too slow.
An invisible force detonates against my chest.
The impact launches me backward. My body smashes through one of the ruined columns, stone exploding around me as I hit the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth.
Pain radiates from everywhere, and I’m pretty sure I feel some wet liquid under my chest.
Am I bleeding?
I barely roll before something heavier than any blow I’ve ever taken crashes down on me.
Gravity.
My entire body slams into the floor. My lungs are pressed against my ribs so tightly it’s hard to get evenoneproper breath in.
“Nyk!” Moe cries out.
My limbs buckle. My face nearly cracks against the stone before I catch myself with shaking arms. Every inch of me feels ten times heavier. My chest compresses so violently I struggle to inhale.
Force Domain.
By the Seven.
Zarek walks toward me without urgency, his palm still raised. Sweat beads at his temple already, but his expression remains composed.
So he can’t hold it forever. That’s the only good news.
Although I never imagined a level two to be so strong, I do remember briefly using those abilities myself and how deadly they were.
