ELARA's POV
Griffin had just left the locker room, leaving Jaime and me alone.
He didn't let the silence last long. With a dramatic sigh, he dropped his head into my lap.
"I forgive you, y'know."
I stared down at him and slowly started heating my lap.
"For what, exactly?"
"For hitting me, obviously. And for burning my favorite jacket."
I raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think I want your forgiveness?"
"Well," he said, eyes closed, "you seem pretty desperate for Griffin's. Figured mine would matter too."
'So he can be talkative.'
"Anyway, now that I—wait..."
He sniffed the air. "Do you smell burning?"
Something was burning.
The back of his head caught fire.
"Oh crap!"
He sprang up, slapping at his hair like a headless bird. It was wildly entertaining.
'Idiot.'
The sound of the TV pulled my attention away from Jaime flailing like an utter fool.
Griffin had just walked out of the tunnel—confident, determined, and, as always, with that flicker of greed in his eyes.
His opponent stood still, expression unreadable, but his presence was sharp. Grounded.
He was strong.
I smiled, wondering how Griffin planned to win this time.
Then the chanting started, loud, unified, almost deafening.
"The Anomaly?"
Jaime, still smacking at the back of his head, paused. "Did you say something?"
"Why is he called such a strange name?"
"Oh, that." Jaime dusted ash off his shoulder. "It's what they call him because of his ability."
"Ability?"
"Well… no one here knows he doesn't have a system," Jaime explained, arms crossed. "So he made one up to keep up appearances."
"Oh? And what does he claim it is?"
"Weapon Mastery," Jaime replied with a smirk. "He says he traded away raw strength for perfect control over any weapon."
I blinked. "That's… absurd. Sounds exactly like something he'd make up."
"Yup."
"But then… wouldn't he actually need to be a weapon master?"
Jaime just smiled and turned back to the screen.
'No way… right?'
***
GRIFFIN's POV
The match had started, but neither of us moved. Facing an adapter was always a pain, abilities like theirs were dangerous, and their physical stats were usually off the charts.
But right now, we were evenly matched. Same strength. Same speed. No risk of being overwhelmed.
'I need to figure out his personality trait.'
I drew my revolver and took aim. Ryan's face was unreadable—flat, emotionless. Hiding whatever lay beneath.
I fired twice.
Before I could blink, his sword was out. Two clean arcs, both bullets sliced apart like paper.
'A speed-type ability?'
I dashed left and fired three more shots, he slipped past them like wind.
Too fast. My eyes could barely track him, and with my body in this state, if he attacked now, I'd lose. He's keeping his distance… probably cautious of my so-called "ability."
'If his power is based on speed, then his personality trait must be—'
Before I could finish the thought, he was already there, right in front of me, katana arcing toward my throat.
I raised my revolver out of instinct. The blade slammed into it, sending me flying meters away.
I barely had time to breathe before he reappeared, launching a kick straight for my temple. I ducked, but he twisted mid-strike, his heel cracked against the back of my head.
Pain exploded behind my eyes. My vision spun. He was going to follow up; I could feel it in my gut.
I rolled.
Steel pierced the ground where I'd been a heartbeat ago. His katana stood buried in stone, inches from where my skull would've been.
'So much for him being cautious.'
Just as the thought finished forming, he was already in front of me, fist cocked and crashing forward like a hammer.
Too late to dodge. I threw my arm up.
A mistake.
The hit tore through my guard like paper. Pain burst through my forearms as I was launched backward, the ground scraping past in a blur.
I dug my hand into the ground to slow my momentum. Dirt and blood filled my fingernails, but I managed to stop myself.
When I looked up, he hadn't moved.
Just stood there. Eyes flat. Like I'd let him down.
"Is this it?"
Ryan's voice rang out—smug and razor-edged, like he was savoring every word. He looked at me with something like pity... or maybe certainty. Like my loss had been written from the start.
"Did you really think you could beat me like this? Half-dead, dragging one arm like dead weight?"
He tilted his head. "At this rate, you'll lose before I even have time to savor my victory."
'Why's he getting so talkative?'
"You're quite famous, y'know. The weapon genius, what a joke."
He chuckled. "Let's end this farce shall we?"
Ryan yanked his katana free from the floor. Sparks danced across the blade, crawling over his skin like hungry vines. His blue eyes lit up—brighter, electric. His hair stirred from the energy pulsing off him.
'...Lightning.'
He smiled faintly, closed his eyes, and slowly sheathed his sword. A stance. Calm. Focused.
I locked onto him, reading every inch of tension in his body, every muscle twitch—waiting for the strike.
And then… blood.
It filled my vision before I even registered the pain.
A numbness bloomed at my side.
My arm—my splinted arm—was gone.
I turned, trembling, just in time to see Ryan holding it. Fingers wrapped around it like a trophy. That same smug grin stretching across his face.
Pain caught up a moment later.
White-hot. Blinding.
I dropped to one knee, clutching the wound, barely able to breathe. My thoughts frayed at the edges. The world tilted. It felt like reality itself was slipping through my fingers.
Ryan threw my arm over his shoulder like it was a bag of ice.
"I just took care of your dead weight," he muttered, that smug little grin plastered across his face.
"You're welcome."
He was still talking, but I wasn't listening. Not because of the pain — I'd long stopped feeling that.
It was something else.
Something sharper.
I finally understood.
I pulled away, staggering, and tore the bandages from my chest. The blood was still warm. I wrapped the cloth tight around my useless arm, knotting it with my teeth. The wound over my heart pulsed in the open air, a raw reminder.
Ryan whistled low.
"Damn. You really did get your ass kicked, huh?" he said, voice light.
I exhaled. Not in anger. Not in desperation. Just… release.
Then I drew my sword.
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "You're not serious."
"It's over," I said.
He laughed, quick and cutting. "That's my line."
In a blink, he moved, not faster, but lazier, like he already saw the ending. His katana came down, angled sharp for my shoulder.
But I didn't block.
I stepped sideways, just enough. Just in time.
The blade cut air.
Ryan landed, skidding a foot before turning. His grin faltered for the first time.
I met his eyes. No words escaped my lips.
He dropped my arm and lunged again, faster now, both blade and body a blur.
Steel screamed as our swords met. I matched every strike, my longsword flashing, shoulders burning, but I didn't falter.
Then he shifted — a thrust aimed straight at my chest.
I twisted, narrowly dodging, and slammed my boot down on the flat of his katana, locking it in place.
Before he could react, I pivoted. The hilt of my sword cracked against his temple.
He stumbled back, clutching his head. Eyes wide. Breathing uneven.
"What... the hell is this?"
He was confused, irritated, and embarrassed. Emotions I was all too familiar with.
I sheathed my sword and spoke calmly.
"My ability is Weapon Mastery," I said.
"Yeah, I know that much," Ryan muttered. "Doesn't explain how you're suddenly moving like that."
I pointed to his katana. "But it does."
"What?"
"Weapon Mastery doesn't mean I can just swing a sword better than most people," I explained.
"It means I've mastered it — completely."
His expression tightened as the truth began to sink in.
"Your posture. Your stance. Muscle tension, breathing, eye movement, footwork — I see it all."
"Every time you swing your katana, I already know where it's going."
Sweat beaded on Ryan's forehead. His lips parted slowly.
"Then… the reason you couldn't do this before was—"
"Your speed," I interrupted.
"But when you went all out — when you took my arm — I saw your top speed."
I tilted my head slightly. "And I adapted to it."
Ryan gritted his teeth and screamed, "Bullshit! How do you know that's how fast I can go?!"
I raised my hand and gestured for him to come at me.
"Bastard."
He sheathed his sword, then slid into his stance once more. I drew my revolver and waited calmly.
His eyes snapped open. Lightning cracked around him.
He vanished—or at least, he would have, before.
But now, I could see him. Even if only a little.
I stepped to the side.
His katana sliced through the air and struck the ground in one clean, fluid arc. He missed.
His face contorted in shock.
"Did you think I hit your temple for no reason?" I said quietly.
I leveled my revolver at his leg and pulled the trigger.
*BANG*
He screamed, staggering backward, pain flooding his expression.
I stepped toward him as he stumbled back, trying to steady himself.
My revolver rose, barrel locking on his face.
He froze.
His eyes, wide and wild, tracked the gun — then lowered. Shoulders slumped. A faint tremor in his voice.
"I lost."
A beat of silence.
Then—
"THE WINNER OF THIS MATCH IS… GRIFFIN STRATUS!!!"