Point of View: Lihan.
The slaver's fist didn't simply descend; it fell like divine judgment.
There was no time for fear, only for the instinctive reaction etched into Lihan's muscles after months of hell in the dungeon. He raised Steel Ash in a high block, a forty-five degree angle meant to deflect kinetic force rather than absorb it. He channeled every ounce of mana and physical strength his Rank B body could muster toward his arms, tensing triceps and shoulders until they felt like steel cables about to burst.
The impact occurred in a fraction of a second that seemed to stretch for an eternity.
KRAAAA-BOOOM!
The sound wasn't metallic; it was the sound of the world breaking.
The force of the blow traveled through the sword's blade, down the hilt, ran through the bones of Lihan's forearm, shattered the capillaries in his elbows, and crashed into his shoulders like a hydraulic battering ram. His teeth clashed together with such violence that he tasted blood as he bit his tongue.
The ground beneath his boots simply ceased to exist.
The ancient stone of the alley was instantly pulverized, turned to gray dust and shrapnel. Lihan felt his feet sink into the soft earth beneath the cobblestones as a two-meter crater formed around him. The shockwave was visible: a distortion in the air that expelled dust and trash from the alley outward in a perfect ring of destruction.
"Gghhh...!"
An involuntary groan escaped his throat. His vision blurred, violently shaken. His left arm—the human one—screamed in white, blinding agony. He felt ligaments stretching beyond their natural limit, micro-tears occurring in real time.
This...is this a Rank A? The thought crossed his mind, though with doubt, after all, he had never faced another Rank A. His mind tinged with cold, rational horror. It's not just strength. Its weight. It's like trying to stop an avalanche with a spoon.
The slaver, a giant of a man whose sadistic smile hadn't wavered a millimeter, pressed down. Lihan saw the man's arm muscles ripple, dense and grotesque under the skin, applying more pressure. Steel Ash's blade began to groan, the high-quality metal bending dangerously.
"Interesting!" the man roared, his voice resonating in Lihan's chest like a war drum. His gray eyes gleamed with maniacal amusement, completely ignoring the blood flowing from the cut on his shoulder. "Most rats get crushed under this blow! You've got a hard spine, brat!"
Lihan couldn't respond. He had no air. His lungs were compressed by the pure pressure of the man's aura.
If I stay here, I'll die. He'll crush me into paste.
Then, he saw the movement. A subtle shift in the giant's balance. His right hip rotated slightly.
A kick.
With a cry of effort that tore his throat, Lihan released the tension in his legs and let himself fall backward, yielding to the man's weight instead of resisting it.
The slaver's boot whistled through the air, occupying the space where Lihan's head had been a microsecond ago. The air displacement was so violent it cut Lihan's cheek like an invisible razor. The kick connected with the brick wall behind them.
The wall exploded. It didn't crack; it detonated. Bricks and mortar shot out like cannon projectiles, creating a person-sized hole.
Lihan rolled on the dirty ground, ignoring the sharp stones digging into his back. He got to his feet in a fluid movement, though his knees trembled violently. He panted, his breath visible in the cold night air, mixing with the brick dust that now floated like fog.
"Tired already?" the slaver mocked, turning slowly. He shook his leg as if he'd kicked a soccer ball and not a load-bearing structure. "I'm just warming up."
Lihan spat blood on the ground. His mind raced at a thousand kilometers per hour, analyzing, calculating. Physical strength: overwhelming. Speed: superior to mine. Technique: brutal but refined. He's not a street thug; he's a trained warrior.
He thought of his sisters. Of Ashe and her gentle smile. Of Rei and her indomitable spirit. If he died here, Trent... that bastard Trent would put his hands on them.
Over my dead body.
Fear transformed into fuel. Adrenaline flooded his system, sharpening his senses until the world became hyperrealistic. He could hear the dripping of blood from the slaver's shoulder. He could smell the rancid sweat and steel.
"I don't get tired," Lihan growled, adjusting his grip on the sword. "Not until your head rolls across this ground."
The slaver laughed, a deep, dark sound. "Come and try it!"
And hell broke loose.
The man charged. He didn't run; he propelled himself. He closed the five-meter distance in a blink.
Lihan didn't try to block this time. He knew his bones wouldn't withstand another direct impact. Instead, he danced.
He slid left, Steel Ash tracing a defensive arc to deflect the man's right fist. The fist passed, grazing his ear, and Lihan seized the opening. He pivoted on his heel and launched a vicious slash toward the giant's ribs.
The steel bit flesh.
But it wasn't deep. The man's muscles were so dense they acted like natural armor. The sword cut skin and the superficial layer of muscle, but stopped before reaching vital organs.
"Hahaha! That stings!" The slaver rotated with the blow, using the momentum to launch a backhand with his left arm.
Lihan ducked, feeling the man's knuckles comb his disheveled hair. But the slaver had anticipated the dodge. His knee came up in a brutal arc, seeking Lihan's chest.
There was no time to dodge.
Lihan crossed his arms, using the gauntlet of his transformed arm and his sword's guard to absorb the impact.
BAM!
It was like being hit by a carriage at full speed.
Lihan went flying. His feet left the ground, and he was thrown backward, cutting through the air like a rag doll.
He crashed into the wall of an abandoned building. The rotten wood of the structure immediately gave way with a thunderous crunch. Lihan went through the outer wall, through an inner plaster wall, and finally crashed into an old table in what appeared to be a deserted living room, reducing it to splinters.
The world spun dizzily. Pain. Everything was pain. His ribs felt like they were on fire.
Get up. You have to get up.
He coughed, and a cloud of plaster dust filled his lungs. He spat more blood.
Through the irregular hole his body had created in the wall, he saw the slaver enter. The man walked calmly, plucking a piece of splintered wood from his shirt as if it were lint.
"Hiding place?" the man asked, his eyes scanning the dark room. "You can't hide from me, boy. I can smell your fear. I can smell your blood."
Lihan forced himself to stand, using Steel Ash as a crutch. His vision cleared. He was in a small, ramshackle house.
And it wasn't empty.
In the farthest corner, huddled under a threadbare blanket, was a family. A father, pale and trembling, held a rusty kitchen knife with unsteady hands. Behind him, a woman clutched two small children who cried silently, their eyes wide with terror.
Lihan's heart stopped for a second.
Civilians.
The slaver followed Lihan's gaze. A cruel smile curved on his lips.
"Well, well," the giant said, taking a step toward the family. "Looks like we have an audience. Think they'll enjoy the show of watching me rip your limbs off?"
"Leave them alone!" Lihan shouted, stepping forward, interposing himself between the monster and the family.
The slaver shrugged. "They're Celes Street trash. No one will miss them."
Without warning, the slaver grabbed a solid wooden chair that was nearby and threw it. Not at Lihan.
At the family.
The chair flew like a deadly projectile, spinning through the air with enough force to kill any of them instantly.
"NO!"
Lihan didn't think. He moved.
He pushed his battered body to the limit, launching himself into the projectile's trajectory. He couldn't block it with the sword without risking fragments hitting the children.
He had to take it.
He turned his back toward the chair and embraced the impact.
CRACK!
The chair shattered against his back. The wood struck his spine and shoulder blades with agonizing force. Lihan screamed, falling to his knees in front of the terrified father, but he didn't collapse.
"Get... out of here...!" Lihan gasped, looking at the man over his shoulder, his eyes bloodshot. "NOW! RUN!"
The father, snapped from his paralysis by Lihan's scream, grabbed his wife and children. They rushed toward the house's back door, stumbling in their panic.
"How noble!" the slaver applauded sarcastically, walking slowly toward Lihan. "Sacrificing your body to save the rats. You're a real fairy tale hero, eh? Too bad heroes always die at the end in the real world."
Lihan stood up slowly. His back burned. He felt hot liquid running down his spine under the armor—blood.
But strangely, his mind was clear.
"I might die," Lihan said, raising his sword once more, the tip pointing directly at the slaver's throat. "But I assure you... I'll take you to hell with me."
The slaver's expression changed. The amusement disappeared, replaced by cold irritation.
"I'm tired of you," he said. "I'm going to stop playing."
The air in the room changed. It became heavy, dense, with a musky, wild smell that made the hairs on the back of Lihan's neck stand up.
"Behold," the man roared, his muscles beginning to convulse, "the reason I'm about to ascend to Rank S!"
The transformation was a biological nightmare.
Lihan watched, horrified and fascinated, as the man's anatomy rewrote itself. His shoulders widened with a wet sound of bones dislocating and repositioning. Black fur, glossy like oil and dense like armor, sprouted from his pores, covering his arms and legs in seconds.
His human hands contorted. Fingers lengthened, thickening, and from the tips sprouted curved ten-centimeter claws, black and sharp as obsidian daggers. His legs broke and reformed in a digitigrade structure, knees inverting to give him the leaping posture of a feline.
A long, muscular tail ripped through the back of his pants, whipping the air with a dull crack. His face elongated into a short snout, his teeth becoming fangs designed to pierce skulls.
He was no longer a man. He was a hybrid. A humanoid Jaguar, a perfect killing machine, two and a half meters tall.
"Grrrraaaaaaaa..." The roar that came from his throat vibrated the house's remaining windows until they shattered.
Shit. Shit squared.
The Jaguar disappeared.
Lihan didn't see him move. He simply wasn't there anymore.
Pure instinct—that street cat luck Rei always mentioned—was the only thing that saved Lihan. He threw himself flat on his stomach to the floor.
Something whistled over him. The Jaguar's claws cut through the air where his torso had been, and the force of the attack's wind lifted Lihan slightly off the ground.
The Jaguar landed on the opposite wall, clinging to it with his claws as if gravity were a suggestion, and propelled himself toward Lihan again in an impossible rebound.
Lihan rolled, raising his sword desperately.
CLANG!
The claws clashed against Steel Ash. This time, Lihan couldn't hold it. The sword flew from his numb hand, spinning through the air until it embedded itself in the ground meters away.
Lihan was disarmed.
The Jaguar fell on him.
It was a maelstrom of violence. Lihan raised his arms to protect his face and throat. He felt the claws tearing his reinforced leather armor like it was rice paper. He felt the flesh of his forearms opening.
"Die! Die! DIE!" the beast roared, each word punctuated by a slash.
Lihan kicked desperately, connecting his boot with the beast's stomach, but it was like kicking an oak trunk. The Jaguar didn't even flinch.
A claw caught Lihan's right shoulder. The pain was blinding. The sharp tips dug deep, seeking bone.
"Got you!" the Jaguar hissed, preparing his other hand for the final blow, a direct slash to the heart.
Lihan looked death in the eyes. He saw his own reflection in the beast's yellow, vertical pupils.
No. Not yet.
Desperation broke the last barrier in his mind.
If he was going to die, he would use everything. Absolutely everything.
Lihan pushed his mana toward his right arm. Not normal human mana. He pushed deep, toward the essence he had absorbed in the dungeon. Toward the Fire Colossus's core.
His right arm, trapped under the Jaguar's claw, began to heat up.
Not fever. Heat.
The magic glove hiding his arm began to smoke. The seams came undone. The fabric blackened and then disintegrated into gray ashes that floated upward.
And the truth was revealed.
Lihan's arm wasn't flesh. It was black volcanic rock, veined with cracks that glowed with a furious, pulsing orange. In the darkness of the destroyed house, it glowed like an ember in the heart of a forge.
The Jaguar stopped, his eyes widening in surprise. The sudden heat radiated waves that distorted the air.
"What the—?"
Lihan didn't let him finish.
He roared, a primitive sound that rivaled the beast's, and released the power.
The cracks in his rock arm burst in white light.
BOOM!
An explosion of compressed fire detonated from his forearm, right in the Jaguar's face.
The beast howled—an agonized, high-pitched sound—and was thrown backward by the detonation's force. The fur on his face and chest was on fire. The smell of burnt hair and charred flesh instantly filled the room, nauseating and acrid.
Lihan got to his feet, staggering. His right arm was bare now, glowing with a malevolent, incandescent light. Drops of something that looked like liquid lava dripped from his fingers, hissing as they touched the wooden floor.
"Surprise," Lihan gasped, his voice hoarse.
The Jaguar rolled on the ground, putting out the flames on his face. When he got up, he was furious. Half his face was burned, the fur gone, the skin red and blistered. One eye was closed from swelling.
"DAMN FREAK!" the beast screamed. "I'M GOING TO EAT YOU ALIVE!"
The Jaguar charged, but this time blindly, driven by pain.
Lihan ran toward his sword, rolled to recover it with his left hand, and at the same time launched a hook with his magma right arm.
The rock fist connected with the Jaguar's side.
It was like hitting flesh with a red-hot branding iron. There was a hiss of steam and burnt fat. The blow had so much weight that it broke the beast's ribs even through his enhanced musculature.
The impact sent both of them through the house's final wall, falling toward the outer market plaza.
They landed on the cold cobblestones under the moonlight. The plaza was empty now, the battle's screams having driven away anyone with common sense.
It was the final stage.
"No more hiding!" Lihan shouted. Blood ran down his face from the cut on his forehead, blinding one eye, but the other gleamed with the reflection of his own fire. "Here and now!"
The slaver shook himself, getting on all fours. The damage to his body was severe, but his near-Rank S vitality kept him standing. Regeneration was occurring; Lihan could see the skin trying to weave over the burns.
"You're right," the beast hissed, his voice distorted by the damage to his jaw. "Here you die."
They began to circle each other. A young human with a nightmare volcanic arm and a sword in his left hand, against a burnt and bleeding chimeric beast.
The Jaguar attacked first, leaping in zigzags, bouncing between a stone fountain and a market stall to confuse Lihan.
Lihan closed his eyes for a second. Don't trust your eyes. They're too slow. Feel the heat. Feel the air movement.
He felt the pressure coming from the right.
Lihan spun, Steel Ash cutting low while his firearm launched a burst upward.
The sword cut the Jaguar's leg tendon mid-air. The beast stumbled upon landing.
Lihan didn't hesitate. He advanced, launching a rain of blows.
Sword. Fire. Sword. Fire.
Cut! Burn! Cut! Burn!
Each sword blow opened a bleeding wound. Each punch cauterized the wound instantly but cooked the internal organs.
The Jaguar, desperate, launched a wild swipe that caught Lihan in the stomach. The claws pierced armor and flesh. Lihan felt the cold of steel inside his guts.
He screamed, but didn't retreat. Instead, he stepped inward, impaling himself more to get closer.
He caught the Jaguar's head with his volcanic rock hand.
The heat was immense. The beast screeched, trying to free itself, clawing at the rock arm uselessly. The claws bounced off the hardened obsidian.
"For every person you've hurt!" Lihan roared.
He channeled everything. Every drop of magic. He felt his core emptying, felt consciousness beginning to fade at the edges.
His hand became a white star.
"BURN!"
KAAAAAAA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
It wasn't a fireball. It was a column of thermal destruction.
The explosion engulfed them both. The force threw Lihan backward like a corked bottle. He flew twenty meters, crashing into the remains of a fruit stall, splintered wood raining on him.
The world became silent. Only a high-pitched ringing in his ears.
Lihan lay staring at the night sky, the stars spinning above him. He couldn't feel his legs. He couldn't feel his right arm. He only felt an invading cold crawling from his extremities toward his heart.
Did I win?
With titanic effort, he raised his head.
In the center of the plaza's blackened crater, the smoke was dissipating.
And there, on his knees, was the figure.
The Jaguar was gone. Only the man remained, naked, his skin black and red, smoking. He was missing an ear. His left arm hung uselessly, bone exposed.
But he was breathing.
He was alive.
No... it can't be... Desperation hit Lihan harder than any fist. I gave everything. Everything.
The slave raised his head. His eyes were burned, blind, but he was smiling. A skull's smile. From his belt, miraculously intact, he pulled out a throwing dagger.
"I... I hear you breathing..." the man croaked. "You... didn't win..."
He raised the dagger, aiming at the sound of Lihan's agonized breathing.
Lihan tried to move. His muscles didn't respond. He was paralyzed by mana exhaustion and physical trauma. He was going to die here, at the hands of a living corpse.
The slaver's arm tensed to throw.
And then, a red line appeared on his throat.
It was so fast that the man's brain took a second to register it.
The slaver's head slid from his shoulders. A gout of blood exploded as the head separated, then it fell to the ground with a wet, dull sound, followed moments later by his body.
Behind him, emerging from the shadows like a specter of vengeance, was Kara.
She held her twin daggers, and though she was covered in bruises and held her side in pain, her posture was firm.
Lihan let his head fall back, releasing the air he didn't know he was holding.
"Damn..." he whispered, a weak smile tugging at his cracked lips. "Kill steal..."
The world darkened.
He felt movement.
Not pain. Gentle movement. Like being on a boat rocking in calm waters.
He opened his eyes with difficulty. Everything was blurry.
He was floating. No, he was being carried.
He looked up. He saw the line of a soft but firm jaw. He saw heterochromatic eyes looking ahead with intense concentration.
Kara.
She was carrying him. In her arms. Bridal style.
He, a man (well, almost a man), was being carried like a princess by the woman he had just saved.
"A-awake?" Kara's voice sounded close, a bit tense from the effort.
"Put me down..." Lihan croaked, though the request lacked conviction. "I can... walk..."
"Shut up," she said, without malice. "You have three broken ribs, a concussion, severe magical exhaustion, and a hole in your stomach. If I put you on the ground, you'll collapse like a house of cards."
Lihan tried to protest, but the movement made his head fall against her chest.
And then he noticed it.
The softness.
Despite the tactical armor, despite the blood and sweat, the warmth and softness against his cheek were undeniable. He could hear her heartbeat, fast and strong, a reassuring rhythm telling him they were both alive.
Lihan's face burned, and it wasn't from the fire magic.
"Oh," he murmured, his brain stunned by the concussion, losing its filter. "This is... comfortable."
Kara stumbled slightly, her step faltering for a fraction of a second. She looked down, and Lihan saw a furious blush spreading across her cheeks, visible even in the alley's darkness.
"P-pervert!" she hissed, but she didn't let go. In fact, she adjusted her grip, pulling him closer to her so he wouldn't fall. "You barely survive a fight with a near-Rank S, and the first thing you do is... Gods, men are incredible."
"Not complaining," Lihan murmured, closing his eyes again. The pain was returning, sharp and stabbing, but the feeling of safety in this deadly assassin's arms was stronger.
"Your name..." he whispered, feeling the darkness claiming him again, this time in a gentler way.
"Kara," she answered softly, her voice losing its hard edge. "My name is Kara."
"Kara..." Lihan repeated, savoring the syllables. "Pretty name... for a dangerous woman..."
He felt her smile. He didn't see it, but he felt it in the way her chest moved.
"Sleep, idiot," she whispered. "I'll handle the rest. I've got you."
And for the first time in a long time, Lihan fully trusted someone other than his sisters. He let his body shut down, lulled by the rhythmic movement of Kara running through the shadows, carrying him away from the fire, away from death, toward a new dawn.
.
.
.
Point of View: Kara.
Kara's house was small, hidden in one of Celes Street's few decent corners—a two-story building with solid stone walls that she had reinforced herself with concealment runes. It wasn't much, but it was hers, and more importantly, it was safe. No one who didn't know exactly where to look could find it.
She climbed the stairs carefully, each step measured so as not to jostle the unconscious young man in her arms too much. Her muscles protested—she had used almost all her energy in that fight, and carrying someone after taking a beating wasn't exactly ideal. But she wasn't going to leave him lying in the street. Not after what he had done.
Brave idiot, she thought, briefly looking at the boy's pale face. He jumped into the fight without thinking twice. Against a damn near-Rank S. What was he thinking?
But she knew the answer. She had seen it in his eyes when he had looked at her before attacking the slaver. It wasn't the look of someone seeking glory or recognition. It was the look of someone who simply couldn't stand still watching an injustice.
Like me, she admitted to herself, feeling something warm and strange expanding in her chest.
She reached the guest room—a simple space with a bed, a nightstand, and a wooden chair. She hadn't had guests since... well, since never. This room had been more of a storage space than anything else.
Carefully, she deposited Lihan on the bed. His head fell to one side, revealing the full extent of the damage he had suffered. Dried blood covered half his face, his clothes were shredded, and she could see claw marks through the torn fabric.
I need to remove his clothes, she realized, and immediately felt her face heat up. To heal him. Just to heal him. Stop being stupid, Kara.
She forced herself to move with professional efficiency. She had seen male bodies before—she was an assassin, for the gods' sake, she had killed enough men not to get nervous over a bit of bare skin.
But somehow, this was different.
Her hands trembled slightly as she unbuckled what remained of his leather armor. The front piece was completely destroyed, the Jaguar's claws had pierced the reinforced material as if it were paper.
Focus, she ordered herself firmly.
She removed the armor and then, more carefully, began to remove the tunic underneath. The fabric was stuck to his skin in some places due to dried blood, and she had to moisten it with water from a jug she had brought.
When she finally exposed his torso, Kara gasped.
It wasn't just the damage—though that was impressive on its own. Three claw lines ran diagonally across his chest, deep but already coagulated. Extensive bruises covered his ribs, dark and ugly. A hole in his abdomen, just below the ribs, where the claws had penetrated completely.
But what really captured her attention was... well, everything else.
Holy father, she thought, feeling her face burn even more. For being so young, he's... well-formed.
He wasn't muscular in an exaggerated way like the slaver had been. He was slender, yes, but every muscle was defined with the precision that only came from constant training and real combat. Marked abs, firm pectorals, broad but not bulky shoulders. The kind of body a swordsman developed—functional, agile, lethal.
And his skin was surprisingly smooth under her fingers when she began to clean the blood.
Stop noticing it, she scolded herself mentally. You're healing a wounded man, not admiring a model.
But her eyes kept wandering. Especially when she had to lean close to examine the deeper wounds, her face inches from his bare chest.
She could smell—even through the blood and sweat—something warm. Like burnt wood and spices. Not unpleasant. Actually... quite pleasant.
Kara! She straightened abruptly, feeling her face must be the color of a ripe tomato. Focus on healing him, damn it!
She reached for her supply bag, which she had brought, and pulled out three high-quality healing potions. They weren't cheap—they had cost her a fortune on the black market—but she had saved them for emergencies.
If this isn't an emergency, I don't know what is.
She opened the first potion and, carefully, lifted Lihan's head to pour the silvery liquid into his mouth. She had to massage his throat gently to make sure he swallowed.
The effect was almost immediate. The more superficial wounds began to close, the skin slowly weaving. But the deeper ones—the claws on his chest, the hole in his abdomen—barely changed.
He needs more.
She gave him the second potion, then the third. This time, the major wounds began to respond. The hole in his abdomen slowly closed, the flesh regenerating from the inside out. The claw lines on his chest became more superficial, though they didn't completely disappear—they would leave scars.
At least he won't die, she thought with relief.
But he still needed to bandage the remaining wounds. She reached for rolls of clean bandages and began to work.
She had to lean over him to wrap the bandage around his torso. Her hands slid under his back, feeling the warmth of his skin even through the fabric. Each time she pulled the bandage, her knuckles brushed his chest.
I think I'm still affected by that spell, she thought, biting her lower lip as she worked, deceiving herself, not wanting to admit having a perverted side. Yes. That must be it.
When she finished with his torso, she moved to his arms. The left one was covered in superficial cuts and bruises. She bandaged them efficiently, though her fingers trembled slightly when she had to hold his arm against her own chest for a better angle.
Then she came to the right arm.
Kara stopped, her breath catching in her throat.
The transformed arm.
In battle, it had glowed with orange-reddish light, radiating heat she could feel even meters away. She had seen how it detonated with the power of a miniature volcano, how it had burned the Jaguar until almost carbonizing him.
But now...
Now it was off. Silent. The black volcanic rock still glowed faintly with orange veins in the cracks, but it didn't emit heat. When she extended her tentative hand and touched the surface, it was... warm. Like a stone that had been under the midday sun.
It didn't burn her.
Fascinating, she thought, sliding her fingers over the cracks. The texture was rough, like polished obsidian, but the glowing veins were smooth, almost like glass. She could feel something pulsing faintly beneath the surface—not a heartbeat, but something deeper. Like the slow beat of a dormant heart.
What happened to him to end up like this? Kara wondered, tracing the lines where the rock fused with his normal skin just below the elbow. The transition was surprisingly organic, as if his body had learned to accept this new part of himself.
Without realizing it, she had been caressing his transformed arm for several minutes, completely absorbed.
She stopped abruptly when she realized.
What am I doing? She withdrew her hand as if burned. This is invasive. He's unconscious, and I'm... touching him like I...
She didn't finish that thought.
Instead, she forced herself to focus on the rest of the healing. She cleaned the dried blood from his face with a damp cloth, revealing surprisingly soft features under the grime. His nose was straight, his jaw defined but not aggressive. Disheveled black hair that fell over his forehead.
He really is... cute, she admitted to herself, feeling that familiar blush returning. In a gangly, youthful way.
There was a deep cut on his forehead that had bled profusely—head wounds always bled too much. She cleaned it carefully, applied healing ointment, and bandaged it with a strip of clean cloth.
When she finished, she sat on the edge of the bed, observing her work.
Lihan looked... better. Still pale, still covered in bandages, but alive. His chest rose and fell with regular breathing. His lips, previously blue from blood loss, now had a touch of healthy color.
He'll survive, she thought with certainty. The potions did their job. He just needs time to recover.
But then she noticed something strange.
The wounds she had bandaged—specifically the claws on his chest—already looked different. More closed. More healed than they should be after only thirty minutes.
She frowned, leaning closer. She carefully lifted the edge of the bandage on his chest to examine.
What...?
The claw lines that had been deep and bloody were now barely superficial grooves. The flesh was regenerating at a rate that wasn't normal—not even with high-quality potions.
He's healing faster than normal, she realized. Much faster.
Her gaze slid toward his transformed arm.
Is it because of that? she wondered. Did his transformation give him some kind of enhanced regeneration?
It was the only explanation that made sense. Whatever the reason he had obtained that arm, she was sure it had been for something significant—that arm, from what she knew, had given him the ability to generate and manipulate fire. A magic that was considered dangerous, and he mastered it easily. Healing must be an extra.
I'll ask him again about the story behind the arm, she decided. When he wakes up. If he wakes up and trusts me enough to tell me.
The idea that he might not trust her hurt more than she expected. This boy—this complete stranger—had risked his life for her without hesitation. He had given her a reassuring smile even when facing death. He had promised to protect her.
No one has done something like that for me, she thought, feeling something warm and dangerous expanding in her chest. Not even Lyra, and we were close friends. Though to be fair, it's not like she had the chance to save me; this is the first time I've been in real danger.
Lyra.
The thought of her missing friend brought sharp pain. Lyra, the only decent guard in this rotten city. Lyra, who had worked with her to expose the trafficking network. Lyra, who was probably being sold as a slave at this very moment.
I'm sorry, Lyra, she thought bitterly. I was so close tonight. If that bastard hadn't set a trap for me...
But then she looked at the unconscious boy on the bed.
If I had fallen into that trap and he hadn't appeared. I probably would have just been another slave to be sold later. The thought gave her a horrible shiver through her entire body, feeling sick in her whole being for a moment, like a deja vu.
She pushed away those dark thoughts that hadn't happened, and the teenager in her bed had saved her. Almost as if fate had conspired for their paths to cross at exactly that moment.
Don't be ridiculous, she scolded herself. Fate doesn't exist. There are only coincidences and consequences.
Still...
Without thinking it through completely, Kara leaned forward. Her hand moved of its own volition, gently brushing the hair from Lihan's forehead.
And then, before she could stop herself, she pressed her lips to his forehead in a soft kiss.
Thank you, she thought, briefly closing her eyes. Thank you for saving me. For being stupid and brave enough to step in.
She straightened quickly, feeling her face burning with such intensity she could probably cook an egg on her cheeks.
What am I doing? She covered her face with her hands. Kissing an unconscious man! What was I thinking? He doesn't even know I did it. And he'd probably hit me if he knew. Or call me a pervert. Or...
Calm down, she ordered herself firmly. It was just a kiss on the forehead. A gesture of gratitude. Nothing more.
But the heat in her face didn't diminish.
She needed to do something with her hands before she did something even more stupid. She dragged the wooden chair from the corner of the room and placed it next to the bed. She sat, her eyes still fixed on Lihan's peaceful face.
His transformed arm rested on the white comforter, standing out starkly against the pale fabric. Almost unconsciously, Kara reached out and took that arm.
The rock was warm under her fingers. Not hot—just pleasantly warm, like holding a cup of tea. She slid her hand down until she interlaced her fingers with his.
Even transformed, his fingers maintained their basic shape. She could feel how they curved around hers, their weight and solidity.
It's strange, she thought, gently turning his hand to examine the palm. It feels like rock, but also like... him. As if it were just another part of his body.
She began to gently massage his hand, working her thumbs in circles over his palm. She wasn't sure why she was doing it—maybe some instinct telling her that physical contact would help with healing. Or maybe she just wanted to touch him.
Probably the latter, she admitted to herself with resignation.
Minutes passed in silence. Kara continued massaging his hand, her fingers tracing the glowing cracks, learning every contour of this strange and fascinating part of him.
And then, finally, she spoke. Her voice was soft, almost a whisper in the silent room.
"Wake up," she said, squeezing his hand gently. "Please, wake up."
There was no response. His chest continued rising and falling with regular breathing.
"I need to know your name," she continued, feeling something vulnerable in her voice that she hated but couldn't suppress. "You saved my life. The least you can do is tell me your name."
Silence.
Kara sighed, leaning back in the chair without releasing his hand.
"I guess I'll have to wait," she murmured. "But don't think I'm going to forget this. I owe you a debt—a big one. And I always pay my debts."
Her eyes slid over his face once more—the bandages on his forehead, the soft lines of his jaw, the slightly parted lips as he breathed.
Brave, stupid, and cute, she thought, feeling a small smile tugging at her lips. What a dangerous combination.
Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten with the first touches of dawn. Celes Street never really slept, but there was a subtle change in the quality of sound—fewer drunken screams, more sounds of honest people waking to start their days.
Kara settled in the chair, her hand still interlaced with Lihan's.
I'll just wait a bit longer, she told herself. Just until I'm sure he's stable.
But even as she thought that, she knew the truth.
She wasn't going anywhere. Not until he woke up.
Not until she could properly thank him.
And maybe—just maybe—discover why her heart beat a little faster every time she looked at his face.
Idiot, she thought affectionately, squeezing his hand once more. Wake up soon. We have a lot to talk about.
Her gaze drifted one last time to his transformed arm, fascination and curiosity mixing in equal parts.
What secrets do you hide? She wondered. What turned you into this?
But those questions would have to wait.
For now, she simply sat at his side, silent guardian in the dim light of dawn, waiting for the moment when those emerald green eyes would finally open.
Waiting to discover the name of the young man who had changed everything in a single night.
Her savior.
Her...
Kara shook her head sharply, cutting off that thought before it could complete itself.
Too soon, she told herself firmly. Much, much too soon for that kind of thought.
But the warmth in her cheeks suggested her heart wasn't listening to her brain.
And in the stillness of that room, as the sun began to rise over Celes Street, Kara allowed herself to simply be—not an assassin, not a slaver hunter, just a woman holding the hand of a man who had been brave enough to save her.
And waiting.
Always waiting.
Wake up, she thought once more, her fingers squeezing his. Please, wake up.
.
.
.
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