[Oliver’s POV]

  The crushing weight vanished.

  For a heartbeat, Oliver thought Alan had given up. The sudden release of pressure was so abrupt that his body nearly buckled from the absence of it. His lungs expanded greedily, dragging in air that no longer felt like molten lead.

  Relief washed through him. 'Did he stop?'

  Oliver almost smiled. Every attack he’d thrown had been agony. His body was screaming under the gravity, his muscles tearing as he moved. And through it all, he’d held back, careful not to kill Alan outright.

  'He must have surrendered,' Oliver thought. 'I didn’t expect that from him. If I’d known, maybe I would’ve tried to talk him down…'

  He paused. 'No. We’re enemies. If I’d spoken, it would’ve only made him angrier.'

  The tension in his back finally eased. His legs trembled as the strain of channeling dense Energy into every muscle fiber caught up with him. The ache was deep, but the lightness was intoxicating.

  And then he heard it.

  The faint metallic clink of a boot against steel.

  Oliver’s eyes snapped up. Alan had stepped back. The sound had come from where Demi had fallen.

  And at his feet—

  The trident.

  “No…” He knew what was coming.

  Alan wasn’t surrendering. He was escalating.

  [Gravity Hell.]

  Two black spheres materialized before Alan’s outstretched hands, spinning violently, their edges distorting the air around them. They were small, just larger than his fists, but the power radiating from them was suffocating. The light in the room bent toward them.

  They danced for a moment, circling each other like twin stars on the verge of collision. Then, with a deafening crack, they merged.

  The fusion sent a shockwave of darkness crawling up Alan’s arm. The black energy spread like ink through water. By the time it reached his elbow, his entire forearm was cloaked in swirling shadows.

  Only then did the darkness begin to change.

  It shifted, pulsing like a living thing, expanding outward from Alan’s hand. The black Energy crawled up his arm, spreading in tendrils that twisted and coiled before solidifying into shape. The shadows gathered above his fist, forming a guard, and from its tip, something began to grow, a blade.

  A long, slender weapon took form, forged entirely from that Energy.

  A rapier.

  Its surface rippled like liquid obsidian, vibrating with a low hum that resonated in the bones. The air around it quivered, the light itself bending and dimming near its edge.

  Alan raised the weapon, the black blade steady in his grasp. He turned its point toward Oliver, the motion precise, deliberate.

  At the same time, he bent his knees, reaching with his free hand toward the trident lying on the ground.

  'I can’t let him!' The thought roared through Oliver’s mind as his body moved before reason could catch up. He launched forward, the air cracking around him as his regained speed surged back to its peak.

  His muscles screamed in protest. His lungs burned. His body hadn’t recovered, not even close, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to care.

  Others had their techniques, their boons, their weapons forged from Energy and legacy. Oliver had none of that. He had only himself, his body, and his will.

  Every fight like this took something from him, something he could never get back. His Energy burned faster than it could replenish, his cells crying out as he forced them past every natural limit.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  He had long since stopped receiving notifications of growth. No new milestones. No new breakthroughs. The system that once guided him had gone silent, as if he had reached the end of what it could teach.

  Even the [Left Eye of Learning] flickered uselessly now, recording techniques weaker than the ones he had already mastered.

  But none of that mattered.

  Because right now, survival was all that existed.

  Time seemed to fracture.

  The world narrowed to the sound of his own pulse and the shimmer of Alan’s dark blade.

  In one heartbeat, Oliver was across the chamber.

  In the next, he was there, face-to-face with Alan.

  The general was still crouched, his knees bent, his hand halfway to the trident. But the rapier, that thing forged from darkness, moved like it had a will of its own.

  Its tip tracked Oliver with perfect precision, following every faint shift in his motion. No matter how fast he darted, no matter how sharply he pivoted, the blade mirrored him, always a moment away from his chest.

  Finally, Oliver struck.

  A low kick; fast, sharp, meant to cripple rather than kill. It was a calculated move, one that would sweep Alan’s legs out from under him, force him to yield ground. His foot connected cleanly with Alan’s shin, the impact cracking through the chamber like a muffled gunshot.

  The hit landed exactly where he wanted it to.

  But something was wrong.

  He felt no resistance, no bite of flesh or bone. It was as if his leg had passed through the air. His body reacted instinctively, pushing off the ground, leaping back to create distance. But mid-motion, a strange heaviness gripped him. His limbs felt sluggish, his movements thick and delayed.

  'What ?'

  Alan’s blade moved.

  The rapier shimmered, vibrating with a low hum that made the air ripple. Alan swung once, twice, three times. Each strike was faster than the last. The weapon’s edge never cut him. It didn’t need to. Every time it touched him, it struck flat, glancing off his body like a dull rod.

  But with the second strike, Oliver felt it.

  And by the third, he understood.

  The weight returned.

  The crushing pressure he had escaped moments ago was back, pressing against his bones. The world seemed to drag him down. The floor beneath him cracked under his own weight.

  'Every time that blade touches me,' Oliver realized, 'it increases the gravity. It doubles it?'

  The first hit had been tolerable. Two times the normal pull. The second had doubled again. By the third, it was eightfold, and his legs already screamed from the strain.

  Two more, and he’d collapse.

  Three more, and he’d be crushed.

  Alan still couldn’t bend fully, the wound in his abdomen limiting his motion, but he didn’t need to. He had a new weapon now, a weapon that turned time itself into his ally.

  They were both running out of strength, out of time, but neither could afford to stop.

  It had come down to this: one exchange, one mistake, one final strike.

  Every punch, every swing, every heartbeat could decide which of them would fall.

  'I can think of a few ways to end this. But not without revealing who I really am.' Oliver’s thoughts raced. 'No… maybe there’s still another way.'

  He had one boon left. One he hadn’t shown to his friends. Not to Katherine. Not to Alan. One he had acquired after reaching [Bishop].

  He’d have only one chance to use it before Alan figured out how it worked.

  Across the chamber, Alan adjusted his stance, lowering himself again, his rapier angled forward. He was baiting him, setting the same trap he’d used before.

  Oliver recognized it immediately.

  The next move would decide everything.

  He exhaled slowly. His boots pressed into the cracked floor, and then, he moved.

  He launched forward, the ground exploding beneath his feet.

  This time, he didn’t aim for a kick or a sweep. He aimed for the end.

  His fists were dark with condensed Energy. Two, maybe three strikes, each one clean, each one final, would be enough to knock Alan unconscious and end this without killing him.

  But Alan was ready.

  The general’s eyes narrowed, his rapier steady. As Oliver closed the distance, Alan shifted his weight, the blade poised to thrust the instant his opponent came within reach.

  It was a perfect counter.

  Oliver saw the motion, the intention, the split-second alignment of body and weapon.

  He smiled.

  [Emperor’s Pressure.]

  A ripple of invisible force burst outward from Oliver’s outstretched hand. It wasn’t an attack in the traditional sense; it was a manipulation of Energy itself, a focused surge of pressure that could push or crush.

  The wave struck the trident at Alan’s feet. The weapon jolted upward, its haft slamming against Alan’s legs.

  The general’s eyes widened in shock. His stance broke. The rapier wavered, its deadly tip veering off course.

  ‘This is my opening!’