As a Level 9 Ascendant, Golden Booster had achieved what few in the Main World could even dream of—he had cultivated one of his abilities to the Mythic Rank, a realm reserved only for the truly transcendent.
That ability was known as Temporal Zone.
At a glance, it appeared simple—a prison of accelerated ti, a radiant do that distorted the flow of temporal reality. But beneath its golden glow lay mythic intricacy.
Within the do, ti moved at such a dramatically accelerated pace that to the outside world, everything seed frozen. It was more than a battlefield—it was a clockwork cage.
But what gave this ability its Mythic status wasn't just the ti dilation.
It was its dual-edged chanic:
Golden Booster's ta essence recovered at hyper-accelerated rates inside the do. Wounds healed faster. Exhaustion faded quicker. It was as if he had plugged into an infinite reservoir.
His opponent, however, experienced the inverse—their ta essence drained rapidly with every breath, every move, every thought. It was like fighting while bleeding from a wound that wouldn't clot.
Worse still, teleportation—the favorite escape tool of high-level beings like Sarpa—was completely neutralized.
Trying to teleport out of the zone was like trying to leap from a speeding train moving at the speed of light.
The spatial distortion would pulverize anyone attempting it.
It was a mythic-level counter to spatial and teleportation abilities. And it was working.
Golden Booster didn't wait.
A beam of golden energy exploded from his palm, screaming toward Sarpa.
Sarpa reacted fast—teleporting several feet to the side within the zone.
He grimaced instantly.
"Tch. What a petty ability," he muttered.
The mont he reford, he felt it—the drain. His ta essence was being siphoned, like soone had torn open a hole in his soul. Every microsecond he spent in the zone was accelerating his collapse.
Golden Booster appeared right in front of him, his movent a golden blur.
"You talk too much," he sneered.
His fist, cloaked in radiant, mythic energy, smashed into a barrier Sarpa barely erected in ti to protect himself. The barrier shattered on impact, sending Sarpa flying backwards through the golden haze.
But Booster wasn't done.
Another blow followed. Then another. Like a glowing cot made of fists and vengeance, he closed the gap and struck with the relentless precision of soone who knew the clock favored him.
Sarpa's responses grew slower—each teleport weaker, each barrier more fragile.
"This is… very bad…" Sarpa growled, beads of sweat forming under the hood of his cloak.
He could feel it now—his power bleeding away faster than he could conserve it.
The Temporal Zone was a battlefield stacked against him, a crucible built to burn his kind alive.
And Golden Booster?
He was just getting ward up.
****
Golden Booster and Sarpas clashed with the fury of titans, their battle within the Temporal Zone a symphony of light, distortion, and unrelenting pressure.
Golden Booster was dominating.
Sarpas, while powerful, was being pushed further and further into a corner. His ta essence was draining like water through a sieve, and every second in the Zone was another nail in his coffin.
But Sarpas wasn't so inexperienced fighter overwheld by circumstance—he was a veteran ascendant, honed by decades of brutal training under the infamous Saint Drakos, a man who forged warriors through agony and mind-shattering conditioning.
Sarpa's body was battered, but his instincts had been tempered to a razor's edge. He didn't waste movent, didn't waste power. Every ounce of ta essence he still had was funneled into dodging, deflecting, evading—desperately buying himself ti.
Golden Booster stayed glued to him, unleashing a torrent of precision strikes, refusing to give Sarpa even a second to breathe.
Then, Booster surged forward for what should have been the finishing blow—both fists raised high, radiant energy screaming with potential devastation.
But then—
He froze mid-swing.
His eyes widened. His golden aura wavered.
As Sarpas just smiled, his breath ragged, his grin feral.
"You thought you had ," he said, voice low and trembling with dark amusent. "But unfortunately for you… I had a backup plan."
Booster remained frozen, unable to move, confusion tightening in his chest.
Sarpa's expression twisted into a crooked smile as he began to explain.
"You're not the only one with a mythic ability. Mine is called… Shadow Mist. Anyone who inhales it becos bound to their own shadow—and now, you are trapped by your own essence."
Golden Booster's body locked in place. His shadow beneath him now pulsed faintly with a black mist, anchoring him to the ground.
Sarpa couldn't help himself—he started monologuing.
It was a flaw beaten into him by the chemicals and psychological warping Saint Drakos used to train his elite soldiers.
Sarpa's mind, while sharp in battle, always frayed at the edge of victory. He rambled—about how unbeatable he was, how Booster underestimated him, how the Zone was impressive but ultimately futile.
"Now, all I have to do," he sneered, "is kill you—and your Zone dies with you."
Sarpas raised his hand toward the immobilized Golden Booster.
"Any last words?"
Booster's expression didn't show fear. He smiled. Calmly. Wryly.
"In my thirty years as a hero… I never thought I'd et a villain who actually monologues about their abilities."
Sarpa blinked. "Those are… weird last words."
Booster chuckled.
"You said your ability binds a person to their shadow, right?"
That question cracked sothing in Sarpas.
His eyes widened as the realization hit him like a freight train.
"You… you can't possibly be—"
Before he could finish, Golden Booster altered the Zone.
In an instant, the lighting inside the Temporal Zone shifted. The radiant do intensified, turning into a pure, directionless field of light.
And Booster's shadow vanished instantly.
"Now that the anchor is gone I can finally deal with you."
With a sudden burst of motion, Booster broke free, lunging toward Sarpas with a gleaming golden fist—
But just as the punch was about to land—
The Zone shattered.
A tear in space split the air open, and from it erged a figure cloaked in dark majesty but injured nonetheless.
White hair, eyes like carved obsidian, and dark skin that radiated an oppressive pressure.
Saint Drakos had arrived.
Defeated at the Crownspire by Saint Theresa, he had escaped, and now, his gaze fell upon Tartarus and the two combatants like a blade descending from heaven.
Sarpas stepped back, stunned.
As Booster's eyes narrowed.
The situation was spiralling out of control.
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