“What do you think will happen if I blast your head off?” Mira said, a devilish smile curling on her lips as she raised her hand. Crimson energy gathered fast, thick and violent, spinning around her palm like a storm that wanted to be unleashed. “Will your regenerative ability come through for you then?” Michael swallowed. He could feel the pressure of her power even before she released it. His heart pounded in his chest, loud enough that he almost thought she could hear it. He tried to focus, tried to pull the blue energy he had used before into his hands, but it didn’t come easily this time. It flickered and surged for a second, then faded, then came back again, crackling like unstable electricity. “Come on…” He muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. Mira didn’t wait, she fired instantly. The crimson blast tore through the air with a deafening roar, filling the room with red light. Instinct took over as Michael threw his hands up in front of his face, bracing himself fo

The entire battlefield froze. Gunfire faded into distant echoes. Shouts died in throats. Even the rain seemed to hesitate as every eye locked onto the figure standing between Mira and Michael. Alex turned slowly, his boots scraping against the cracked stone. Blood spilled freely from the corner of his mouth, dripping down his chin and staining the front of his battered suit. He coughed once, then laughed weakly, shaking his head. “Damn…” He muttered, voice rough but still carrying that familiar humor. “Should’ve brought a charger for this stupid suit.” He winced, then added with a breathy chuckle, “Though… With this rain, I probably would’ve electrocuted myself anyway.” Michael stared at him, confused, relieved and terrified all at once. Then his gaze dropped. Alex’s stomach was gone. Not wounded, not burned. Gone. Mira’s crimson blast had torn clean through him, leaving twisted metal, scorched flesh, and an emptiness that no amount of treatment could ever fix. Michael’s breath h

The noiseless room was now quiet, no echoes, no hum of machines, just the dull weight of silence pressing down. Michael sat on the floor with his back against the wall, right where he and Alex had ended their last spar. The faint marks on the ground were still there, scuffed lines from boots, cracked tiles from impacts. Proof that it had all been real. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. His shoulders shook once, then stilled. “I froze.” He said quietly, his voice sounding strange to his own ears. “I had her. I actually had her… And I stopped.” His jaw clenched. “I hesitated because I thought she could still be saved. And because of that…” His fingers dug into his palms. “You’re gone.” The words sat heavy in the air. “You trusted me. You stood in front of that blast like it was nothing. Like my life was worth more than yours.” A bitter laugh slipped out. “What kind of student lets his master die for him? What kind of conqueror am I if I can't save the peo

The punch sent Michael flying backward across the open space, his body cutting through the air in a sharp arc. For a split second, gravity tried to pull him down hard and fast, but he refused to let it. Not here, especially not while wearing this uniform. He twisted his body midair, boots skimming past the concrete floor, and landed cleanly on his feet with a loud scrape that echoed through the chamber. He straightened slowly, his shoulders squared and his breath even. Then he lifted his head. His opponent stood a few steps away, rolling his neck like this was nothing more than a warm-up. The man was close to Michael’s height and build, lean but solid, the kind of body shaped by years of real combat rather than showy training. He wore a plain, worn-out t-shirt that clung to his torso, revealing arms layered with old scars, knife cuts, burn marks, things that told stories without words. Michael’s eyes drifted upward. Above the open space, behind thick metal railings, five figures

Michael moved through the battlefield like water finding its path—smooth, deliberate, unstoppable. Every step, every turn, every strike carried the weight of Alex’s teachings. He didn’t rush. He didn’t waste motion. He let the chaos come to him and answered it with precision. Soldiers charged, fired, shouted orders, but none of it broke his focus. His body moved on instinct now, muscle memory sharpened by training and grief alike.Each takedown landed heavy in his chest.These weren’t faceless enemies. They were Scofield soldiers. Men and women raised to protect the empire. Raised to protect him. Somewhere along the line, they had chosen Mira. Or maybe they believed in her vision. Or maybe they were just following orders, the same way soldiers always did. Michael felt the sting of it with every blow he landed, but he didn’t stop.They had made their choices.And so had he.A blade came toward his side—he caught the wrist, twisted, disarmed, and struck the soldier unconscious with the