The corridor was cold, quiet, and long forgotten.
Two figures tore through it like bullets, green cloaks fluttering behind them in tattered arcs. Their boots slammed against the stone floor, the sound sharp and hollow, echoing through the silence like gunfire in a tomb.
A reminder that time was running out.
The air reeked of rust, oil, and the kind of stillness that came after too many years without sunlight. Each footfall stirred ancient dust, painting their boots in forgotten history.
Alan Aguilar led the way—bald, middle-aged, and lean with nerves of steel-strung taut. Behind him ran a younger man, taller and broader in the shoulders, his dark bronze skin glistening with sweat beneath flickering overhead lights.
Nozomu.
Neither spoke.
The only sound was their breathing—heavy but steady—and the fading clatter of their boots as they turned a corner.
Alan raised a hand. "It's just ahead."
"I'm surprised no guards have shown up yet."
"Don't jinx us now, kid."
The hallway bent into darkness before opening to a massive door—ten feet tall and made of a strange, silvery alloy that shimmered like a moonlit lake. It pulsed gently as if it were breathing.
No handle. No keyhole. Just a circular slot in the center.
"...How are we supposed to get in?" Nozomu asked.
Alan shoved him aside. "With Dyna, genius. If you listened to me, you would know."
He pressed his palm against the circle. It lit up instantly, rays of soft white light pulsing from his skin into the door's surface. Lines spread like spiderwebs across the metal—veins waking from slumber.
With a hiss, the door split open and retreated into the walls. A cold wind greeted them.
Inside, at the center of the chamber, a suspended glass case hovered—weightless, untouched by dust. Inside it floated a single object: a glowing crystal prism.
It pulsed blue. Rhythmic. Calm. Like it had a heartbeat.
"There it is," Alan mumbled.
They stepped forward—and the room exploded in crimson light.
Alarms howled. The floor beneath them trembled. Somewhere deeper in the facility, gears groaned to life.
Behind them, the massive door began to seal shut.
"Take it and go!" Alan barked.
But Nozomu didn't move. His eyes locked on the crystal, like it was speaking to him. The noise vanished in his mind.
The red lights. The tremors. The alarms—they all blurred into nothing.
Something about the prism pulled at him.
Like the glow had cast a spell over him.
"Hey! Move it!" Alan shouted, slamming into his shoulder. "Admire it on your own time, dumbass!"
Nozomu snapped out of the trance and dashed forward, shattering the glass with one blow. He grabbed the prism just as the floor vibrated again.
They sprinted back, barely sliding past the closing door. The sound of footsteps filled the corridor behind them—a squad of armored guards charging in formation, swords drawn.
"Stop! You two! Halt!"
Alan clicked his tongue. "Look at that. You went and jinxed us."
"I said halt!" the lead guard called out again.
His patience was already spent.
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 ignited, twisting into a serpent of fire. The heat warped the air, the corridor turning into a furnace.
Alan's face went pale. "Kid, we're screwed. We just might die tonight."
Nozomu tossed him the prism.
Wind gathered at his feet. "Speak for yourself, old man."
He launched Alan like a missile down the hall with a burst of air, like a leaf in a storm, and then turned to face the fire dragon.
"Don't waste time on these guys!" Alan yelled as he vanished.
The dragon's roar trembled through the corridor as it barreled toward them with scales of molten fire rippling.
"...I'll make this quick."
He clenched his fist.
"Oxygen Manipulation…"
The air twisted. The dragon roared again—not in rage, but in panic—its flames suffocating, curling in on themselves.
It faltered as its flames thinned and dissolved. The heat vanished, and it fizzled into embers before it could reach Nozomu.
The guards dropped to the floor, gasping, eyes bulging, clawing at the air that was no longer there.
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, exhaling slowly. "He should be at rendezvous point by now."
He bolted forward, down the corridor in record time, the wind curling at his heels. Riding the wind, he burst through a half-open door.
No doubt Alan's doing.
The door's hinges groaned softly as he stepped onto a rooftop.
He was met with rain that fell in slow, misty sheets. It was light at first, tapping softly against his cloak.
The rooftop was slick and sharp with wind. Clouds churned overhead like ink in water, and the storm wept softly on the cracked tiles.
Standing at the center was a mountain of a man.
Radcliffe Ironclawe.
His armor was sleeveless, his arms thick with muscle. A mohawk of orange bled into black, and in one hand, he held a battle axe as tall as a man.
In the other… Alan, by the throat.
"Move, and I crush his throat," Radcliffe said coldly.
Nozomu didn't pause.
His sword slid free from its sheath.
Radcliffe squeezed, taunting him with a grin. "You think I won't?"
He turned his attention to Alan.
"You disappoint me, Alan. Always thought you were a coward… but a traitor? Selling out to scum? Even this is below you."
Alan choked, the world blurring, his legs dangling—until the soft blue light of the prism in his pocket caught Radcliffe's eye.
He reached for it.
That was the opening Nozomu needed.
He flashed forward in a gust. Alan vanished from Radcliffe's grip in an instant. A gust-slash carved across Radcliffe's chest, tearing armor and skin.
Blood sprayed.
"You okay?" Nozomu asked, crouching beside Alan.
"Yeah," Alan rasped. "...I'm fine..."
Then his eyes widened. "Look out!"
Radcliffe's axe came down like a meteor as Alan shoved Nozomu out of harm's way. Nozomu rolled to his feet, the impact splitting the rooftop.
"Alan, go! Get out of here!" Nozomu shouted.
"Don't be stupid! You're strong, but you can't beat him! Radcliffe... he's leagues above you!"
Nozomu didn't answer. But then again, he was barely listening. His eyes were fixed on the sand trickling from Radcliffe's wound.
"…Sand?"
Radcliffe grinned, stomping hard. The rooftop quaked, and cracks spiderwebbed out beneath them.
Thunder rumbled in reply, and rain poured harder, blurring the battlefield. Rain lashed sideways, and the wind howled.
A sandstorm erupted from Radcliffe's body. The axe swung. Nozomu blocked—barely—with a shield of wind, but it wasn't enough.
Radcliffe's control over sand was absolute.
It bent to his will like a third limb—armor, shield, weapon, all at once.
Nozomu dodged, letting the wind guide his steps. He slashed again. The wind spun around his sword, only for it to be met with a hardened wall of sand.
Every blow was eaten. Nothing stuck. Nothing broke through.
"You're good," Radcliffe growled. "I'm surprised. Wasteland scum like yourself shouldn't be able to use Dyna. But let's end this here."
He leapt.
"Sand Manipulation… Gaea Crusher!"
Nozomu stood firm. He didn't flinch. There was no hesitation.
He raised his sword.
"Storm Manipulation… Twisting Gale!"
The sky split open. A cyclone rushed from the storm clouds above, violently clashing with Radcliffe's descending axe.
The rooftop detonated like a bomb had gone off in a whirl of pressure and sand, the blast sending tremors through the clouds themselves.
From the haze, Nozomu emerged—bloodied, staggering—but alive.
He lunged.
His sword reached Radcliffe's throat—only for a wall of sand to stop it cold. The sand began to swallow the sword, and Nozomu retreated.
One foot from the edge. No weapon. Chest heaving.
Radcliffe laughed, stepping forward. "You're cornered now. Like prey. Can you smell it, scum? The blood in the water."
His grin widened. His chest fluttered with excitement.
"This is the most fun I've had in ages!"
Radcliffe yanked his axe free from the rubble and marched forward.
"To thank you… I'll kill you in one blow."
Nozomu's knees buckled, his arms shook, and his body felt like lead. His head spun, and his vision blurred.
He was at his limit. He couldn't win. He was done.
He knew it, but his pride burned too hot to admit it.
And then—as Radcliffe closed in—
A shove.
It was Alan.
He tackled Nozomu over the edge of the rooftop—just as the axe came crashing down.
Time slowed. The wind howled again.
As Nozomu fell, something else fell with him.
The prism.
"What are you doing!?" Nozomu screamed.
Alan smiled. A quiet, tired smile.
"Keep fighting, Nozomu."
The world went quiet as if it held its breath.
Silence before Radcliffe's axe landed.
Then came the sound—a single, awful sound. One so sharp and final. The sound of the axe 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. But it was too late. There were no enemies left.
Just Radcliffe, who stood alone and victorious over Alan's severed body.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the prism.
But when he held it up in his hand…
It crumbled into dust, and his grin faded.
"…A fake," he whispered.
The storm swallowed his words.
Alan Aguilar—coward, traitor, and fool—had won.
Outplaying Radcliffe to the very end, even in death.