After I was announced the winner, I holstered my gun and walked toward my severed arm. It was surreal; my limb lay on the ground like a discarded doll's, separated from reality and flesh alike.
I knelt, picked it up, and held it near my shoulder. A few seconds passed before a white light enveloped me, warm and pulsing. My shoulder tingled as the severed limb fused back into place. Pain vanished. I felt lighter. Whole.
I looked over at Ryan. He sat hunched, eyes downcast, fists trembling. I didn't blame him. But pity wasn't my burden to carry.
The crowd roared, but it all washed over me, noise without meaning. I turned away, toward the tunnel, each step pulling me further from the fight.
"Yo, Griffin!"
I heard Jaime's voice as I entered the locker room. He was stretched out in the hot tub, steam curling around him lazily. Elara was still on the couch—lying upside down, her head hanging off the edge, crimson eyes flicking from the TV to my chest, then up to meet mine.
"You fought well," she said, a smirk curling her lips.
I didn't let it show, but her words stirred something in me. A quiet satisfaction.
"Thanks," I replied flatly.
"Griffin! Join me, why don't ya!" Jaime called again, splashing water for emphasis.
I glanced at the steaming tub, then at Elara lounging like she owned the place, and immediately got the vibe.
I began to strip off my gear. Elara chuckled, watching me.
"You're getting awfully comfortable around me... wouldn't you say?"
"Decisive arrogance," I said.
Elara blinked, her brows drawing slightly. Confusion, fleeting but visible.
"My opponent's dominant trait," I clarified, stepping into the hot tub with Jaime. The heat wrapped around me like silence after a storm. I tilted my head back, closed my eyes—but kept speaking.
"Adapters are bound by their strongest traits. The one that defines them most. It's their blade... and their leash."
I exhaled slowly.
"He masked it at first. Played cautious. But the moment he thought he had me? That mask slipped. He mocked instead of finishing the job. Then, when I outmatched him, he couldn't accept it—he had to prove I was beneath him. It wasn't strategy. It was compulsion."
I opened my eyes, met Elara's gaze.
"That's what you were going to ask me, right?"
Elara smiled, then stood. She sauntered over to the hot tub and crouched until we were eye to eye, steam curling between us.
"I was actually going to ask about that weapon mastery ability of yours."
I blinked.
'That's what she was curious about?'
"The name's a little exaggerated," I muttered. "But yeah… I've mastered a few weapons."
"Like?" she asked, tilting her head.
I hesitated. She looked amused.
"…Katanas. Longswords. Guns. Bow and arrow. Greatswords. Bo staff. Kusarigama."
She stared at me for a moment, then smiled—not the usual smug curve of her lips, but something softer. Warmer.
It caught me off guard. My chest tightened, breath hitching for half a second. I opened my mouth to say something, when—
A splash of water smacked her shoulder and sprayed across my face.
"Get outta here, El. You've got a match in five," Jaime called out, lounging like a king in his bubbling throne.
The water on Elara quickly evaporated, and the smile that had graced her face vanished. She looked like she wanted to strangle Jaime, and would probably do the same to me if I interfered.
'Scary.'
"What? Gonna forget our bet?" Jaime asked.
'What bet?'
Her expression didn't soften, but it didn't grow any worse either. She was stuck in limbo, teetering between ignoring him or murdering him. After what felt like an eternity, she made her choice—she turned away and started walking toward the tunnel.
"Hey! Don't forget about this," Jaime called.
He reached forward, like grasping at the air, and in the next moment pulled out a scythe. Long, black, and curved with a red blade—it radiated a deadly elegance.
He tossed it to Elara. She caught it easily, studied it for a moment, then turned and disappeared into the tunnel.
I stared at Jaime, brows furrowed. "Isn't that your scythe?"
"Eh, we had a bet to see if she could use it better than I could."
I raised a brow.
"I told her you'd only achieved mastery, not perfection. They sound the same, but they're not. I've actually perfected a weapon."
In the middle of talking, Jaime reached into the air again, pulled out a pack of smokes and a lighter, and tossed them to me.
'How'd he know?'
I lit up a cig and took a drag. It felt amazing. I tossed it back, and he did the same. After exhaling, he continued.
"Anyway, she got all pissy about me 'perfecting' the scythe and told me I still had a lot to learn. So I said if she could use it better than I could, I'd do whatever she told me."
Taking another drag, I asked, "And if she couldn't?"
Jaime smiled. "Then I get to call her whatever the hell I want."
'Didn't you just call her El though?'
"Speaking of wagers," he added, "that Ryan guy, how much gold did you guys agree on?"
"A thousand."
"Nice."
Jaime leaned back, snuffed out his cigarette, and let the silence linger for a while. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost its usual playfulness, like someone flipping a switch behind his eyes.
"You know we have to see her first, right?"
My chest tightened.
The words hit harder than I expected. My fingers curled around the rim of the tub, knuckles paling. I already knew who he meant. Of course I did.
"...Yeah," I said, but even to me, it sounded uncertain.
Jaime gave a dry chuckle. "No, I don't think you do." He looked at me then, really looked. "We don't set foot on Volcaris without her blessing."
The air felt hotter than before, suffocating. My pulse thudded in my throat.
I stared into the water, watching the ripples distort my reflection.
"I know," I muttered. "I just… haven't figured out how to tell her."
Jaime scoffed at my reply and said, "Of course you haven't, cause there is no way to tell her."
I didn't respond.
The silence between us lasted for longer than I would have liked, but Jaime, being Jaime, didn't let it linger for long.
He jerked his chin towards the tv. "Anyway. El's match is starting."
"Let's see how good she is with my scythe."
I turned to watch the TV.
Elara stepped out into the arena, confident as ever. Wearing my jacket, wielding Jaime's scythe, and with her horns on full display, she looked like a demon ready to reap souls.
'My jacket really ties it all together.'
Her opponent entered from the other side, a well-built man with mid-length black hair and brown eyes. His physique made it clear he trained regularly. He wore a military vest and cargo pants.
And his weapon of choice?
Pistols.
'That's a little underwhelming.'
The match started in a blur of motion, her opponent raised his pistols and opened fire without hesitation.
Elara didn't flinch. With a fluid sweep of the scythe, she sliced through the bullets like they were paper.
But he wasn't done. He shifted his aim, firing shots toward the walls and floor. The bullets began to ricochet, striking from unpredictable angles like a hailstorm of steel.
'Impressive.'
Elara danced between them, spinning her scythe in precise arcs. One by one, she intercepted the bullets—deflecting them, guiding them, until they clung to the edge of her blade like magnets drawn to their master.
Then, with a twist of her wrist, she flung them skyward, caught them midair, and sent them hurling back toward her opponent in a burst of deadly precision.
He barely rolled out of the way, a few rounds grazing his waist and shoulder.
In response, he slammed the two pistols together. They fused, shifting shape and snapping into place as a sleek M16 appeared in his grip.
"I want that," I said.
"I want that," Jaime echoed.
We glanced at each other. No more words. Just a shared understanding before we turned our eyes back to the screen.
He fired in full auto, bullets thundering through the arena. Elara's expression didn't change.
Fire ignited across the scythe's edge, and she spun it in front of her like a burning fan. The bullets met the blaze and vanished, ash before a wildfire.
Despite that, he didn't lose his cool. Instead, he charged.
In a fluid motion, he dismantled his M16, removed the slide and barrel from one of his pistols, and fused the pieces together—creating a compact, brutal hand cannon.
He hurled the leftover pistol casing at Elara. She slashed it midair with her scythe, cleaving it in two and triggering a sudden explosion.
Smoke flooded the arena. For a moment, the screen turned white with haze.
Then a blur.
Elara swept her scythe outward, dissipating the smoke like it was mist.
On the other end, the barrel of the hand cannon was already aimed squarely at her head.
BANG!
A shockwave ripped through the arena. The ground where she had stood was completely annihilated, scorched black and cratered.
It was the kind of blast that could end most matches.
If it had landed.
The camera panned. Elara stood behind her opponent, the blade of her scythe resting at his throat.
The match was over. Utterly one-sided.
'She's unreal. She only fought at maybe forty-five percent... and still wiped the floor with him.'
"I gotta admit," Jaime muttered. "I don't think I'd beat her in a fair fight."
I glanced at him, then back at the screen. I didn't argue. He was right. Her strength was obvious, but it was more than that. Her experience, her control... it was humbling.
And yet, as the dust settled and her opponent surrendered, her expression didn't change.
Still calm.
Still unreadable.
Almost... irritated.
But by what?