My head ricocheted backward from the force of Finn’s right fist. The strike snapped my neck sideways and sent a violent tremor through my jaw, teeth clacking together hard enough that sparks flashed behind my eyes. The blow carried real intent behind it—not reckless, not wild. It was a punch thrown by someone who knew exactly how much force to use and where to place it. A power to be proud of, without a doubt. Facing the open air, I spat blood from biting my tongue, thick and warm, the taste spreading across my mouth as it hit the stone below.

  Before my balance fully returned, Finn spun on his ankle. The rotation was tight, controlled, almost graceful—and then he was gone. The space behind me collapsed in an instant. “Not so talkative now, bastard!”

  His left hook slammed into my spine. The impact drove straight through muscle and bone, folding my body forward as if my back had been hinged. Pain detonated outward, sharp and blinding, forcing a rasp of air from my lungs. My vision dipped low enough that all I could see was the top of his head, blurred by motion. His speed will be a problem. I’m still not as fast as him. I can’t defend from these attacks. He was able to curve just now—adjust mid-movement—which means he’s become unpredictable.

  But being at a disadvantage has never stopped me before.

  He curved again, reappearing in front of me before my body had fully straightened. There was no pause, no wasted motion. His elbow came down like a hammer, smashing into my stomach. The blow crushed my core inward. My diaphragm seized, lungs emptying violently. I slammed into the ground, stone fracturing beneath me, and bounced back up nearly a foot from the recoil before gravity reclaimed me. My limbs felt sluggish, distant. I need to negate his speed. I formed my spear hand and drove it into the floor, fingers biting deep into the stone. I twisted my wrist, then my shoulder, dragging my body into the rotation until my entire frame spun with it. The arena floor screamed as it was torn apart. Dust, gravel, and pulverized concrete exploded outward. A smokescreen should work against you.

  Finn retreated a few steps, not out of fear, but calculation. He watched instead of advancing, eyes tracking the movement. The dust thickened, rolling outward until the arena was swallowed. Visibility dropped to nothing. I pushed myself upright inside the haze, slowed my breathing, and forced my presence inward. Intent compressed, erased, until there was nothing to sense.

  He felt it anyway.

  I sensed him before I saw him. The pressure of his movement, the disturbance in the ground. He advanced. Each step cracked the stone harder than before. The speed increased again. He launched a right uppercut at the space I had occupied a second earlier. The stone there detonated upward. He was still tracking me, still reading me—but not perfectly.

  That was enough.

  I slipped behind him and curled my arm around his throat, forearm locking beneath his jaw. My grip tightened immediately, every muscle engaged. His reaction was instant. He seized my forearms with surprising strength, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

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  I wasn’t going to let go of this hold.

  His breathing hitched. He coughed once, sharp and strained. He shifted our combined weight ninety degrees to the right, trying to wrench free with torque I thought.

  Then he flashed.

  Space folded. With me still attached, we reappeared back-first into a rack of arena weapons. Steel shrieked on impact. The collision jarred my entire body. Blades bent and snapped, cutting shallow lines across skin and muscle. They were normal steel—nothing fatal—but the landing was uneven, brutal, wrong. The sudden loss of alignment broke my leverage. My grip slipped.

  We rolled apart across the ruined stone.

  He recovered first.

  By the time I pushed myself up, he was gone.

  I scanned the arena through the thinning dust, pulse pounding in my ears, but there was nothing to lock onto. I reached back and pulled a short sword free, the familiar weight settling into my palm. I flexed, forcing the torn flesh in my side to knit back together, the sensation tight and unpleasant as it sealed.

  A voice echoed from nowhere, distorted by motion and ricochet, impossible to pin to a single point in space. It didn’t come from in front of me or behind me, but everywhere at once. “I’m just a flash in your eyes!”

  Then he was everywhere.

  Not a blur—blurs could still be tracked—but fragments. Afterimages snapping into existence and vanishing before my brain could assemble them into something coherent. The wall to my left cracked as his foot touched it for less than an instant. The floor spiderwebbed beneath another step. He rebounded, redirected, reversed momentum mid-stride, using vertical surfaces, angled debris, even the curvature of the arena itself. There was no rhythm to follow, no pattern to predict. He never committed to a single line of movement long enough for me to read it.

  I couldn’t follow it.

  Flash was supposed to be linear. Explosive acceleration in one direction, brutal and honest. Curving movement was something possibly learned later—something refined, controlled. What he was doing wasn’t refinement. It was excess. Sloppier in theory, but overwhelming in practice.

  This doesn’t make sense... unless...

  The realization hit as another shockwave rattled the ground near my feet. He wasn’t preserving anything. He was tearing himself apart. Every redirection demanded torque his joints weren’t meant to survive. Microfractures. Torn fibers. Cooked nerves. He’s damaging his legs. Burning them out. Sacrificing longevity for unrestricted movement. Right now, he’s faster than Tektite was with Surge—faster because he doesn’t care what’s left afterward.

  I tightened my stance despite the tremor in my legs, drawing my elbows inward, lowering my center of gravity. My ribs screamed in protest. My lungs burned shallow. I have to protect my vitals, try and sense him, and hope to launch a counterattack. One mistake—one blind spot—and it’s over.

  Finn Actoin was too fast for mere caution.

  He materialized directly in front of me.

  No warning. No transition. A darksteel dagger was already buried deep in my chest before my eyes fully registered his presence. The blade punched through muscle and slid between ribs. The force carried me backward and slammed me flat onto the grass. He came down with me, weight crashing onto my torso, knees pinning my hips, forearm pressing into my shoulder to keep me grounded. The dagger twisted slightly as he shifted.

  He pushed it in further, slow enough to make sure I felt it.

  “You and this rebellion shall be erased from history, and erased from memory.”