It had been a while since Jorg had a fight that had pushed him to his limits. The only semblance of such an event happening was when he faced Zorak the Pactbound Warrior.
Zorak had been a good fight, but not much of a challenge. The last opponent that made made him go all out was the mber of the Hollow Court he enacted revenge against.
He had lost his eye, almost lost his life at multiple points.
But he had been victorious.
Now though, to Jorg, Bol was a good opponent to push him, make him cross that threshold, He had been stalling too much as an Adept. He had to beco an Elite.
Both of them had two very powerful sub-routes of the warrior route. He was a Graviton Sovereign, one who understood mass, weight, gravity, while Bol was an Inertia Breaker who understood montum, inertia, speed.
Jorg knew this was his chance, His chance to gain enlightennt through combat, His chance at advancing and he was going to take it.
BOOM!
His Route Core pulsed, full of his will and comprehensions he had honed over the years.
This was not going to solely be a battle of martial arts, The winner here was the person who had understood reality the best, the person with comprehensions more powerful, the person with the stronger will.
Jorg knew this, and he had decided to be that person.
His Ashe, will and comprehension flooded the bounded field, multiplying the gravity everywhere, while his body maintained the original weight.
Dust collapsed to the ground mid-swirling. The street lights of the parking lot groaned.
Every movent now required ten tis the effort. Jorg had made sure of it.
He made sure Bol should not be able to move here.
He knew montum was mass tis velocity, He knew that if movent beca harder, velocity dropped and that affected the montum Bol could display.
He indirectly attacked Bol’s main weapon, speed.
Bol felt it, his legs had grown heavy, his arms were slower. It felt like he was in quicksand.
But.
His Ashe surged.
His boots sank half an inch into asphalt. His lungs compressed as blood thickened in his veins and Ashe in his Ashe pathways.
WHOOSH!
Bol blurred as montum overrode the gravity pull, SLASH! He struck,
CLANG! The sound exploded.
Jorg caught the blade, his hand weighted and unmovable. He looked at Bol and BANG!, he redirected gravity downwards, slamming Bol into the pavent.
A crater ford with an imprint of Bol’s body.
Jorg slamd Bol into the ground again.
BOOM!
And again.
BOOM!
Bol’s body should have been broken. His bones should have shattered. He should have been in despair, but his look said sothing else.
It was steady.
He is using gravity to pin down. Constant pressure. Constant pull.
Bol’s mind raced even as his body suffered.
But gravity is external force. My inertia is internal. If I cancel my own resistance to motion, his gravity has nothing to anchor.
He could not lose here. He could not get captured by these guys. Not after everything. Not after the promises.
Jorg appeared above him, fist hurtling down, the weight of it bearing down on Bol.
BANG! The floor cracked.
Jorg’s fist landed.
But.
Bol had disappeared.
For one instant, he had cancelled his own inertia. No mass resistance. No anchor for gravity to grip. He slipped through Jorg’s field like water through fingers.
"Oh!" Jorg’s eyebrows raised. He turned around looking for Bol.
Moving here should not have been possible.
How did he do it?
He only had the thought before Bol appeared behind him, dagger aid at the spine. But Jorg’s gravity sense was absolute. He felt the shift in mass, the disturbance in weight distribution.
He spun, redirecting gravity sideways.
Bol’s trajectory bent mid-motion. His blade missed. He stumbled.
Jorg punched. His fist carried the weight of a falling building.
BOOM!
Bol dodged by resetting his montum, stopping instantly, then accelerating perpendicular. The punch missed, cratering the wall behind him.
Jorg pressed forward. SLAM! His palm struck Bol’s chest.
Bol flew back, ribs cracking. He coughed blood but rolled to his feet.
Bol countered. SLASH! His dagger cut across Jorg’s forearm. Blood dripped.
Jorg grabbed for him. Bol reset, vanished, reappeared at his flank. STAB! The blade sank into Jorg’s thigh.
Jorg roared, increasing gravity around Bol. Bol’s knees buckled but he burst free, leaving the dagger behind.
They separated. Both bleeding. Both breathing hard.
....
On the other side, Cheryl and Alia had started fighting.
Cheryl as a Puppeteer knew she needed matter from her opponent to get control of them. Blood, saliva, hair. However, fighting Alia was a tedious task. Alia appeared and disappeared like she never existed. And every ti she appeared, her attack aid at a vital spot on Cheryl’s body.
SLASH!
Alia appeared again, her blade aid at Cheryl’s heart.
PUCH!
Cheryl parried with her hand, sustaining another injury. The blade cut deep into her palm, blood flowing freely between her fingers.
Her petite body was covered with scars. A gash on her shoulder from an earlier strike. A cut above her eye that dripped blood into her vision.
She had no weapon to parry, and had no hardening technique like Zack York or like Jorg. The only way was dodge or sustain less important injuries. She turned around and launched a punch, carrying more strength than she should generate.
SWOOSH!
She missed. It was as if Alia was never there to begin with.
Cheryl gritted her teeth. She was getting angrier. Everything had gone against them since earlier, yet she did not move. She closed her eyes, waiting for Alia’s next attack.
WHOOSH!
Alia flashed at speed that went beyond normal human asures, her blade aid for the throat, Ashe coated on it. She wanted to finish this.
However, as if awaiting this, Cheryl’s hand reached for her throat and she held the blade, a wound opening on her hand.
The steel bit into her flesh, cutting to the bone. As soon as she held the blade firm enough for it not to budge, she felt Alia drop it.
Alia spun, a second blade coming out of nowhere, aiming for the back of Cheryl’s neck.
But Cheryl had anticipated that. She sent her hand at her back and GRAB! Instead of holding Alia’s blade, she held her hand.
Alia could not escape. She felt incredible strength keep her in place. She could not attack. She had lost a blade and her second hand was fixed in place.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Cheryl’s onslaught started. Blood sprayed everywhere as she hit, clawed, punched, slamd Alia. A blow to Alia’s jaw. Her lip split.
A claw across her cheek. Three red lines welling with blood.
BANG!
A punch to her stomach that made her double over.
She was not leaving her hand behind. She was pissed.
Who did these guys think they were? Why were they stopping them from achieving their goals, as if it had anything to do with them?
She scread. Her Ashe extended. The pressure of imnse weight fixed on Alia. Her claw reached for her tied hair.
SLASH! SLASH! SLASH!
Part of Alia’s hair fell on the porcelain doll who had been floating. Eerie dark energy coated Alia. She was being taken control of.
However, contrary to Cheryl’s belief, Alia’s presence completely disappeared.
It was as if she was never there to begin with.
The dark energy that spread was searching for prey but found no one.
Alia was a Stealth Warrior, an Assassin sub-route.
Her entire path was built on suppressing her Ashe, erasing her spiritual signature, becoming nothing.
The hair Cheryl had taken held no resonance. Alia had long learned to sever the connection between her body and her presence. What Cheryl captured was empty matter. A shell with no soul attached.
Cheryl’s eyes widened. "What?"
Alia reford behind her, blade already swinging.
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