Aylar stared in muted shock at the magical display showing the result of Leonidas’ fight in the pit. Around her, the box was equally silent. All eyes, upon seeing the Hydra’s head descend to snatch up Leonidas, turned toward Ceruviel.

  The Dusk-Lord stood silent, her gaze not on the screen, but directed toward the pit. Aylar felt nausea in her gut, and watched the Duchess with a mix of empathy, wariness, and a small amount of traitorous fear. Ceruviel Latherian had not taken an apprentice since she became an Archon. She had refused all comers, defied all petitioners, and thrown a royal prince out on his rear when he’d attempted to strong-arm her compliance, idiotic as that had been.

  Now the only person to have ever impressed her was dead.

  Aylar’s was not the only face showing a mix of apprehension. In some cases, the fear was worn outright, and nobles that had spoken ill of the Terran—the same nobles that had been forced to begrudgingly acknowledge his potential—watched the most powerful woman in Dawnhaven with naked terror.

  How would she react? Would she erupt? Would she go on a rampage?

  Would she take vengeance on those that had wished ill upon her apprentice?

  Aylar breathed to steady herself, and then abruptly, she frowned.

  Her eyes focused fully on Ceruviel, and she realized something strange; the Duchess did not look sad or angry, which she could understand she may have been hiding—but something more puzzling struck the Princess when she fully focused on the cast of Ceruviel’s features.

  The Duchess did not look afflicted, instead, she looked almost the opposite.

  Aylar’s eyes widened when she realized what she was seeing, and she felt her heartbeat increase immediately. Her gaze turned back to the magical display, and she fixed her eyes on it while refusing to blink. It made no sense, but Ceruviel was the most powerful psionic in Dawnhaven—perhaps on the entirety of [Planet 42], at that present moment.

  The look on her face was what had alerted Aylar.

  Not grief, not sorrow, not rage.

  It was expectation.

  * * * * *

  Leonidas floated in darkness, complete and absolute, with no sense of self. He was drifting, bouncing, floating in a tide of the void. He was dead, defeated, crushed by his own hubris and the fallacy of his own arrogance. Ceruviel’s lessons, Miranda’s teachings, his five years in Elatra—all of it had amounted to nothing.

  The void hearkened to him.

  Death called his name.

  So then why, why could he not answer?

  A moment later, the blackness was split by the appearance of a screen. It hung along, surrounded by darkness, and its words twisted and distorted—blurring as he read them, with cracks across the writing.

  When he finally managed to read them, he felt something stirring in his Core.

  A storm, an earthquake, a typhoon, an avalanche, a volcanic eruption.

  Leonidas’ eyes burned, his body burned, his soul burned.

  The darkness gave way to incandescent crimson light, and he felt himself falling—down, down, further down still; down into a maw of a thousand teeth; down into a pit of liquid flame; down into a grinding abyss of rage and primordial devastation.

  Reality broke, sensation became agony, and his existence resolved itself into a singular and imperative point: a pinprick, a superanova, a coruscating emanation of radiant detonation that wiped away all sense of doubt. He was destroyed a hundred times, and put together each time, faster, stronger, better. His soul remained the only constant—a litany of stubborn resistance, singing a tale of immutable defiance.

  I want to live.

  Pain and pleasure melded into a single sensation as he was atomized, vaporized, burned, frozen, and crushed. Awareness was a burden, alertness was a curse. He was drowning and he was buried, and his actualization became a burden he wanted to doff more than he wanted anything else in the world—barring a single repeating line.

  I want to live.

  A staccato symphony of off-key notes and screeching violations of sound assailed him, physical brutality beat him, and he relived every second of suffering he had ever endured. He suffered as a child, he suffered as a man, he suffered in Elatra, he suffered on Earth—on, and on, and on again; an endless replay of every moment that the world itself had failed him.

  Why did he fight? Why did he bother caring?

  I want to live.

  Why?

  I want to live.

  Why?

  I. Want. To. Live.

  Fire burned him, water drowned him, earth crushed him, air suffocated him. He was in freefall and he was pinned, held, broken beneath the weight of two worlds, two fates, two lives. Again and again that burden slammed into him, again and again it demanded his surrender. It wanted him to give in. It wanted him to give up. Did he forget how badly he had wished for this? It would be so much easier, so much faster, so much more comfortable to just… let go.

  “I…”

  His body firmed.

  “...Want…”

  His spirit bloomed.

  “...To…”

  His mind fortified.

  “...LIVE!”

  The light exploded and shattered into glass, Leonidas Achilles Romulus Paendrag breathed, and his Core ignited.

  * * * * *

  Synthra pulled the hood of her cloak tighter over her head, and sank down lower in her seat while her leg shook violently against the floor. She had chosen a particularly nondescript part of the stands, but even with her features obscured and her lower face hidden by a mask, she was garnering looks. A tight brassiere and unflattering clothes couldn’t fully hide her figure, and her aura was palpable even to those with none to speak of themselves.

  Draconic blood did not do well in suppression, and the Sorceress knew that.

  Still, she had not wanted to be recognized—she had come to observe the fight.

  When Achilles—no, Leonidas—had fought against the Hydra, she had been sure he would die. After all, the creature was a dragon. It was a lesser species, and more of a draconic off-shoot than anything else, but it was Tier Two, he was Tier One, and it was still a dragon. She had thought the man and the strange, complicated things he roused in her would finally be done in.

  So why was she glad when he managed to land a decisive blow?

  Synthra scowled at herself and stared at the screen projecting the fight in the bowels of the Arena. That move, she begrudgingly admitted, had been inspired. Terrifying, but inspired. How an Untempered Novice could so readily bait a Tier Two draconic beast into a situation like that was beyond belief. She had watched him running around, taunting it, playing with death the entire time, and she had very nearly broken the armrest of her seat while watching him.

  Someone had said something to her, and she’d unwittingly glared hard enough that fire had sparked around her eyes.

  No one had bothered her after that, but she still regretted it.

  Synthra lifted her manicured thumb to her lips and gnawed on it quietly, watching him dance with death in the holding pen below. The fight was brutal and visceral, and while she knew he was capable, the man was asking for death—trapping himself in an enclosed space, dealing with a seven-headed Hydra that had no distractions from its rage.

  Yet somehow, some way, he had survived, and not only that; he had thrived. It beggared all reasonable expectation, and yet her mind could not doubt the results she had seen. Her mother, her insufferable mother, was going to be gloating for days when she found out. Sinalthria had told her, before she’d gone to the match, that Leonidas would shock them all—but Synthra hadn’t believed it.

  Well, she hadn’t wanted to believe it.

  Then she watched him fight and traitorous hope bloomed in her heart for him to triumph. She told herself it was simply because she wanted him to prove that she wasn’t weak, he was just absurdly powerful. After all, if he defeated a Tier Two Hydra, then her loss to him would seem far less absurd. That was all it was. She wanted to ameliorate the bruised ego that had been left in his wake, nothing more.

  When he had started killing the heads, she had been contained.

  When he killed the first she had grumbled.

  When he killed the second she had clapped begrudgingly.

  When he killed the third she had sighed in relief.

  When he killed the fourth she pumped her fist and cheered.

  Then he had taken that hit, that awful hit, and her heart had gone into her throat.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Now she was watching him stand there, sword in hand and facing down the Hydra, and her heart was beating like a thunderous drum against her ribcage.

  “Come on…” she mumbled to herself, while her teeth gnawed on her thumb. “Do something, you idiot. You’ve still got mana. Do something.”

  The people near her were muttering as well, uncertain, wary, afraid.

  Eyes turned toward the Royal Box where Ceruviel Latherian, her surrogate Aunt, stood there imperiously; her lavender eyes trained on the pit, not a screen, and an impassive expression on her timeless features. Ceruviel would not let her Squire die. Synthra was almost certain of that. She clung to that hope, as much as she hated acknowledging she had hope. Ceruviel was the strongest person in the City, even compared to the Guild Mistress.

  Ceruviel would not let Leonidas die. She would not—

  The Hydra reared back, and Synthra looked toward Ceruviel again.

  She did nothing.

  Her eyes went back to the screen.

  The Hydra descended, Leonidas died, and the feed abruptly terminated.

  Synthra bit through her nail.

  * * * * *

  Leonidas opened his eyes to find himself standing within a cocoon of pure cataclysm mana. His Core snarled in his chest, but it was different—it was a controlled frenzy, like a tamed beast; fundamentally wild, but not absent an understanding of expectation for command. His eyes lifted to the Hydra, and the creature was frozen in shock several yards out of range, its eyes fixed on him with naked disbelief, and in each one he saw abject terror.

  A System screen floated in front of him, and Leonidas looked down at it silently.

  Unlock parameters have been Achieved.

  Leonidas arched his eyebrow, and swiped it away, only for another to take its place. His eyes swept the text, and a frown came upon his lips as he read over it, all while the Hydra loomed ahead—unwilling to move, while its heads hissed at each other in confusion and distress.

  Congratulations, you have fully unlocked your [Core]!

  CATACLYSM CORE

  [Rarity]: Unique

  [Description]: Through trials and tribulations, you have successfully managed to unlock your [Cataclysm Core]’s primary and secondary effects. Your Willpower and sense of self have managed to tame the raging energies in your Core, and as a result, your body has been reconstituted after destruction to better withstand its power. Be aware that each new level of power will require new Feats to further Unlock new tiers of functionality. Go forth, O Great Destroyer, and shake the very foundations of the World!

  [Core Effect 1 (Formation Stage)]: +10% Elemental Resistance

  [Core Effect 2 (Formation Stage)]: +100% Mana and Affinity Pool

  “I see,” Leonidas said calmly and dismissed that screen as well. “I suppose this little bubble is the System’s way of doing me a solid.”

  His eyes swept over the net of mana, and then looked up at the Hydra once more. There he tilted his head, and reached into his [Cataclysm Core]. When he did, he noticed a comparable ocean of Mana and Psi awaiting his use, and his lips twisted into a wry smile. So it was true. He had earned something very useful after all.

  “If my bonuses are additive, then that means I just gained a very useful tool for the rest of these fights,” he said while lifting his right hand, and tapping his knuckle against the bubble of energy surrounding him. “Shall we pick up where we left off?”

  The Hydra’s eyes slitted in fear as Leonidas felt power surging through his body.

  “Yeah,” he said softly, “I’d be scared too.”

  The bubble of mana detonated outward, and the Hydra reeled when it did. The creature’s heads snapped at one another again, and then focused on Leonidas with the hatred, fear, and desperation of a cornered animal.

  “Round three,” he declared while extending his hand and summoning his sword.

  The Hydra snarled in response and roared at him in defiance, its heads already bubbling with poisonous smog. Apparently it wanted to end him before he could get close. It was probably the smarter strategy, in fairness.

  In response, Leonidas activated [Psionic Swordforce] and found he had already passively initiated his [Psionic Focus] through muscle memory.

  That was nice.

  Leonidas bounced on his feet as the corrosive cloud of poison built up, and lifted his left hand, palm out toward the Hydra.

  When the beast reared back in preparation to spray it, like a snake readying to strike; Leonidas exerted his psi through [Psionic Force].

  Each head was wrapped in a bubble of power and forcefully turned upward.

  The breath attack surged toward the hole in the ceiling like a sulphuric eruption.

  Leonidas smiled and killed his exertion of power while simultaneously exploding forward and activating [Chivalric Charge]. He had gone about the fight all wrong, he realized: he didn’t need to kill it head-by-head, despite hoping each one would give him individual experience. He needed to just kill the body. The heads would still die individually, and he’d still reap the benefits.

  He had made things harder by overcomplicating his thinking, and through greed. If not for the System’s intervention due to his meeting some esoteric requirement, he’d already be dead.

  Mistakes like that were completely unacceptable.

  Leonidas charged into the Hydra’s proximity at full speed, and when the heads lashed out to attack, he was already moving. [Psionic Focus] kept him aware of his enemy, and a burst of [Psionic Force] smashed away ‘Six’ when it almost struck him. ‘Three’ and ‘Seven’ tried to twist around and downward, and Leonidas gave them no time: launching upward with another trigger of [Chivalric Charge]. The ability sent him airborne nearly ten yards above the Hydra’s heads, and he smiled to himself.

  “Hey asshole!” he called while he ascended. “How about some more XP?”

  The Hydra roared at him, and Leonidas used conjurations of [Psionic Force] to create platforms in the air, jumping from one to the next while draining more and more increments of his considerably boosted psi pool each time. He didn’t care. He had enough, and he knew his objective.

  ‘Seven’ and ‘Six’ struck at him from below and to the side, and Leonidas conjured two [Psionic Shield]s for them to slam into, draining more psi but dazing the heads. At the same time, ‘Three’ attempted to attack from head on and Leonidas simply allowed the platform he’d landed on to disappear.

  He dropped when it did, and conjured another one near the middle of the third head’s neck.

  When he did, he lifted his blade and triggered [Coup de Force: Premier].

  The [Archon’s Psiblade] decapitated the third head in one sweeping blow.

  “That should do the trick,” he said in satisfaction and launched himself off the platform and downward, his eyes locked onto the base of ‘Six’ and ‘Seven’. Both heads turned toward him, and he could hear and feel ‘Three’ regenerating through both his ears and [Psionic Focus].

  Its scales split apart, its flesh tore asunder, and it melted into three separate heads like some sort of rapid-speed mitosis. A mixture of binary fission and something akin to hammerhead worm reproduction was occurring, but Leonidas hardly cared. That was what he wanted. He was testing a theory.

  He dropped the final ten feet to crash into the Hydra’s main body, and his blade sang even as ‘Six’ and ‘Seven’ turned toward him with hisses of outrage.

  “Third Sword Art: Parting the Waterfall!”

  Stamina fled from him once more, and Leonidas decapitated both heads in one broad, sweeping strike—cutting through them like paper with his [Psionic Swordforce].

  The two decapitated necks hit the ground, and a moment later, the flesh of their stumps bubbled, wriggling and writhing until three new growths began exploding outward through a transparent membrane.

  “Nice,” he said simply, and dropped off of the Hydra as the heads shook free. “Now, let’s see what you’re going to give me, you fucking pi?ata.”

  Was what he was doing reckless? Absolutely. Did dying for a second time—as weird as that was—screw with his mind a bit? Probably. Would anyone watching him think he was a total moron? Very likely.

  Did he care?

  Not one fucking bit.

  Leonidas lifted his sword and rammed it into the Hydra’s side while wrapping himself in a cocoon of [Psionic Force], and pouring his remaining psi into it to thicken and sustain it. No sooner had he done so, than four new heads slammed into it fangs-first with frenzied hatred. He almost wanted to laugh, but that seemed far too arrogant. Instead, he simply did all the remained: he almost emptied his cataclysm mana directly into the Hydra’s body.

  All nine new heads froze and twisted when he did so to stare at their body, to stare at the incandescent bomb of energy Leonidas had just poured inside of them. The scales of the Hydra did not simply rot, they blackened almost instantly. Lines of magmatic scarlet power spread like lightning across its hide, and Leonidas’ instincts screamed at him to get away.

  So he did.

  Leonidas pulled out his [Archon’s Psiblade] and staggered backward, glancing up at the heads that were spasming in the air, and then turning on his heel.

  [Chivalric Charge] triggered once, and then a second time, and Leonidas came to a stumbling, staggering halt as his stamina bottomed out. Behind him, he heard something rumbling and the earth shook under his armored feet.

  His gaze turned over his shoulder, and his eyes widened.

  In the seconds since he’d made a spirited retreat, the Hydra had ballooned.

  The cataclysm mana within it wasn’t simply corroding it as it had before, it was reacting to something, and that reaction was causing the equivalent of putting mentos into a cola bottle. The heads were flailing wildly, like they were drunk or having a seizure, and Leonidas actually ducked when one of them outright exploded.

  The head, what he thought was the ‘Two’ spawned from the original ‘Three’, detonated in a spray of blood and flesh abruptly and Leonidas realized he may have miscalculated. When the new ‘Nine’ exploded next, he realized he almost definitely miscalculated. The Hydra’s body was still bloating, and now gouts of erupting blood and melting flesh were spraying from its mass as it bubbled and boiled like an overinflated balloon.

  “Okay. This is going to suck,” he said to himself while taking a breath and moving as far back as the limited space would allow.

  Leonidas put a wary eye on the Hydra and searched his reserves.

  He still had a surprisingly decent amount of psi left, though it would need to be concentrated to work properly. For good measure, he summoned his helmet as well.

  “Hell if this isn’t going to make Ceruviel kill me again,” he muttered while lifting his left hand and preparing to channel his Affinity.

  The Hydra’s body let out a disgusting, gurgling gout of blood and a low whine.

  “Fuck me.”

  A second later, the monster exploded with the force of a conventional bomb.