Aric Blackthorn pretended to scan the glowing runes etched into the slanted obsidian platform, standing aloof in the heart of the hollow chamber. But his eyes were not decoding instructions — they were measuring cost.Two and a half devil's fruits.That was all he had left. The pulpy residue of one clung to a shattered vial in his pouch, and the other two gleamed inside smoked-glass capsules like captured suns.Each fruit was a miracle: pure vita condensed through forbidden cultivation, evolved to rupture the limits of the flesh for precisely two doses. After that, it was diminishing returns, and worse, biological rebellion.He clenched his jaw, tongue flicking over dry lips. The phantom ache in his bones had returned.The surge from his last dose had nearly shattered his collarbone from inside out. Aric had conditioned his nervous system through years of residual overload, threading each synapse with tolerance built on agony. It was the only reason he hadn’t already exploded from the

CLASH!The scream of steel against steel tore through the chamber.Kael spun, heart jackhammering against his ribs, just in time to witness Garrick’s twin swords crashing against Aric Blackthorn’s sweeping scythe, halting it inches from opening Kael’s throat.His instincts didn’t ask—they screamed. He hurled himself backward, boots shrieking across the polished obsidian tiles as he skidded away.“What in the burning hells?!” he shouted, but his voice was consumed by chaos.No one heard him.Not Aric. Not Garrick.Their eyes locked onto each other, worlds shrinking into a tunnel where only the other existed.There were no words.Only sparks and silver arcs, flashing and scattering like starlight on a black ocean.Kael clutched the space where the scythe almost ended him. His breathing rattled. His soul hadn’t caught up.“I nearly died…” he whispered.But the sparks stopped.Aric slackened his grip in the clash. The sudden shift let Garrick’s blade surge forward, forcing the scythe back