Chapter 101: The Storm Part 6
BOOOOOM!
Nathan took a hammer strike to his left side.
The impact folded him sideways and sent him skipping across the broken ground like a stone across water. He hit a concrete barrier, went through it, and came to rest in a pile of broken debris on the other side.
He lay still for a moment.
Everything hurt. That last attack was too strong.
’Get up. I can’t lose here like an idiot.’
He pushed himself to one elbow. His left arm wasn’t responding normally, the fingers slow to close.
Looking down, he saw the sleeve of his gear had burned away from the heat cycling. Beneath it, skin along his forearm was split open, blood running freely down to his wrist.
’Get up.’
One knee first. Then the other. He straightened slowly, breathing through his teeth, and found his opponent already walking toward him through the dust with the same unhurried pace as before.
No urgency. Just a man finishing a job that was nearly done
Nathan raised both arms.
The vents sputtered.
PSSHT — PSSHT —
The rhythm was wrong. The intervals were too long, the pressure behind each pulse thin compared to what was before the strike.
He was running out.
’One more. I just need one clean —’
Tron swung again.
Nathan caught it on crossed forearms.
BOOOOOM.
The force picked him up completely and drove him backward into what remained of the barrier wall.
The concrete didn’t stop him — he went through it, through the gap, and into the open ground beyond. He landed hard on his back, the air leaving his lung.
He stared up at the smoke-filled sky.
Couldn’t move.
He couldn’t feel his left hand anymore.
The heat inside him was still there — still burning, still present — but the channel between that heat and his limbs had gone quiet, like a wire pulled loose from its connection.
Tron stepped through the gap in the wall.
He stopped over Nathan and looked down at him with that same flat expression.
He raised the hammer above his head with both hands, the obsidian head catching what little light broke through the smoke.
Nathan looked up at it.
’So this is my end huh.’
Then a shadow crossed the smoke above Tron’s shoulder.
CRACK!
A claw drove into the ground between Nathan and Tron with enough force to split the concrete in multiple pieces.
Francis rose from the crater.
Tron studied him.
Francis studied him back.
Behind them, Nathan dragged himself upright against the broken wall, one arm braced against the concrete, blood dripping steadily from his forearm. His breathing was ragged.
"So you’ve decided to help us. Be careful—his ability absorbs force. I think he can store it now too, to release a devastating counterblow."
"Oh? That’s interesting," Francis said, voice distorted through his transformed form, curious rather than surprised.
"His body—" Nathan stopped, forced a slower breath. "Normal hits won’t do anything. He hardens when he takes damage. The force stops dispersing." A pause. "You’ll feel it the second you touch him."
Francis was quiet for a moment.
"How long did it take you to figure that out?"
Nathan’s jaw tightened. "A while."
Tron didn’t move. He watched the gray-skinned figure close the distance slowly . Whatever this new opponent intended, his body was ready to receive it.
Francis stopped just inside reach.
He looked at Tron’s hardened skin. The sealed fractures. The dense, dark surface where flesh used to be.
"Can you really take my shot ?" Francis asked.
"How about you try?" Tron responded.
"Alright." He drew his right fist back slowly. No heat shimmer around it. No visible buildup. Nothing that looked like a finishing blow at all.
Just a fist.
Tron stood exactly as he had been standing and waited for the impact to pass through him.
BOOM!
The sound arrived before the result did — a single, clean powerful punch that had no business coming from a bare fist. Then Tron left the ground very quickly.
He crossed the area in a single trajectory, hammer still in hand, and hit the far building with enough force to collapse the lower face of it entirely.
Masonry avalanched down over the point of impact. Dust exploded outward in a wave that swallowed the street.
"W...What the fuck..." Nathan stared at the cloud of debris.
Francis lowered his arm, unbothered, rolling the wrist once like he was shaking off a cramp.
"How did you do it?" Nathan asked.
"Simple. I just threw a punch stronger than his limit."
Nathan opened his mouth. Closed it. Looked back at the collapsed building front.
The hammer was sticking out of the rubble at an angle, half-buried, still rocking faintly from the impact.
"You didn’t even —" Nathan stopped. Started again. "I was hitting him with heavy shots for minutes."
"You were hitting him within his range," Francis explained "He’s built to absorb up to a certain threshold. Past it, his talent doesn’t matter. You just didn’t have enough power to reach it."
Nathan could not argue with that logic.
He prided himself on being one of the strongest in raw power, but compared to the creature before him, he was nothing.
Francis didn’t wait. He walked toward it at an even pace.
He reached the edge of the rubble field and crouched.
WHOOSH —
His body moved before his mind finished processing it — twisting hard to the right, dropping low, claws scraping the concrete.
Not fast enough.
Something caught him across the left side of his ribs. It carried enough force to spin him off his crouch and send him skidding across the broken ground.
A woman stood before him. She was smiling.
A slender rapier rested lightly in her grip, almost too casual in how she held it.
Forty meters back down, two figures were down.
Leah on one knee, barely holding herself up. Harlan flat on his back, chest rising but unmoving beyond that.
Both alive. Neither functional.
"How about you dance with me first." Her eyes settled on him with interest.
Francis straightened slowly, one hand briefly pressing his ribs.
"I’m coming."
She closed the distance in less than a second. A blink of movement that erased space.
CLINK—
Metal kissed his claw mid-adjustment.
Then came the second.
And the third.
Too fast to count cleanly. Each strike arriving from a slightly different angle, each one chained into the next without pause for recovery.
Lyrica wasn’t trying to overpower him.
She was trying to erase the gaps between defense and reaction.
The rain of steel came down nonstop.
Unlike Vance, whose speed was explosive in a straight line, her wasn’t about distance. She was about volume.
Insane attack speed wasn’t even the right term.
It was density.
Every second she didn’t move was a second she was building strikes.
CLANG—CLANG—CLANG—
Francis blocked again.
Then again.
Then stopped blocking altogether.
Lyrica’s eyes sharpened.
There it was.
Break point.
Her blade flickered forward in a chain so tight it looked like a single motion splitting into dozens of angles.
"You’re getting carried away." Francis activated his Advance Trajectory Reading.
CLANG—
Another strike from her came instantly.
Missed again.
Then another.
Missed.
Missed.
Missed.
Each attack still existed.
But none of them connected to him anymore.
"...I need to kill this thing fast." she gritted her teeth in annoyance.
Faster this time.
But he was already past all of them.
He didn’t dodge late.
He moved before her intent fully formed.
CLANG—!
Her blade struck empty air one more time.
"Don’t be too full of yourself Beast!" Lyrica reacted immediately—too many strikes to count forming at point-blank range, a storm designed to shred anything that got close.
CLANG—CLANG—CLANG—
Steel rang against claw and hardened forearm in rapid succession.
But Francis was no longer in the mood to play around.
One hand came up casually, like he was brushing dust off his shoulder.
Then he slapped her.
Lyrica’s head snapped sideways.
She was gone from his front instantly, skidding across the ground, boots carving lines through shattered concrete until she caught herself with her blade, stopping only after a dozen meters.
Silence dropped in heavily.
Her hair hung slightly out of place. Her cheek stung bright red.
She didn’t speak at first.
She stood there, unable to believe what had just happened. She knew Francis could have killed her in that moment, but he didn’t.
"...You hit me with your filthy hand?"
"I did, and I have a good reason."
"You were getting too predictable," Francis said, clearing his throat. "Is this all you’ve got? Why don’t you take that drug you were carrying and drink it. Either way, you’ll die in my hands."
The air around him changed.
She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. The sting on her cheek was still fresh, but her expression already settled back into focus.
"You really think you can catch me if I use it? You’ll die before you even see what hit you," she warned.
Francis tilted his head slightly. "You talk too much. Just do it."
