Emery ran.

This is ridiculous. Absolutely, painfully ridiculous.

It had started as a simple errand. He had gone out to procure additional materials for his latest project—one that, in theory, would revolutionize small-scale combustion mechanics. But of course, nothing could ever be simple.

The vendor had tried to overcharge him. And being Emery—logical, meticulous, and utterly unwilling to be scammed—he had done what any reasonable man would do.

He lectured the vendor.

For five minutes.

In excruciating detail. Citing economic principles, material costs, and the merchant's own incorrect arithmetic.

"I don't know what kind of half-wit clientele you usually deal with," Emery had said, crossing his arms. "But I assure you, I will not be extorted like some clueless farmer's son. Your prices are as inflated as your ego, and quite frankly, an insult to basic market integrity."

It was only when the vendor's face darkened and a man in the back cracked his knuckles that Emery began to suspect he had miscalculated.

The vendor's lips curled. "You talk too much."

Then, with an almost casual flick of his fingers, he muttered something to a shadow lingering behind the stall.

"Kill him."

And that was how Emery found himself sprinting through the dark, clutching his life's work, praying to every scientific principle he had ever respected that he wouldn't die because of a damn overpricing dispute.

His breath burned in his throat, his legs screaming for relief. His satchel, filled with his life's work, slammed against his back with every desperate step.

Behind him, the pursuer was gaining.

Think, damn it. Think!

His mind raced through possibilities. He had no weapons, no training in combat—but he had knowledge. That would have to be enough.

His eyes darted to a thick, gnarled tree up ahead. There. He fumbled into his satchel, pulling free a handful of chemicals wrapped in parchment. Homemade explosives. Crude, unstable—but desperate men don't have the luxury of refinement.

With a flick of his fingers, he ignited the fuse and hurled the bundle behind the tree.

BOOM.

Bark and dirt erupted into the air, sending a cloud of debris into his pursuer's path. Emery pushed forward, barely buying himself three seconds of distance—

Pain. A sensation he was not familiar with.

A blade pierced into his left leg. His body twisted as he stumbled, hitting the ground hard. White-hot pain shot through his leg, spreading like fire with every twitch of his muscles. Blood pooled beneath him, his vision blurring. He tried to move, but the wound sent another sharp jolt through his body, forcing a ragged gasp from his throat.

Damn it—how much blood am I losing?

His fingers clawed into the dirt as he fought to stay conscious. I just need to move. Just a little more. But the pain was relentless, his body betraying him as his strength bled away with every passing second.

No. Not now.

His pursuer stepped forward, blade dripping with his blood. The air between them was suffocating, filled with a presence Emery could barely comprehend. His mind, so used to equations and logic, struggled to define the way this person moved. Even in this scenario all Emery could think about, was how to get out of this

Then, in a flash of steel—

Zafira.

She intercepted, her twin blades clashing against the attacker's weapon with a force that sent shockwaves rippling through the ground and even pushed back Emery scrawny body.

For the first time in three years, Emery felt something similar from Zafira. The same anger when Layla's death was announced.

Rage.

His hands clenched into fists as he tried to push himself up, but his wounded leg screamed in protest. His vision swam, but all he could focus on was Zafira, battling against a force he could barely comprehend.

Her strikes were fast, precise—yet every movement of their opponent felt unnatural, as though they were predicting her moves before she made them.

Zafira's thoughts raced as she fought. Who the hell fights like this?

Her opponent's style wasn't just efficient—it was alien. Their dodges weren't reactionary, they were calculated, as if they knew the exact angles to evade. She had faced assassins, warriors, qi masters—but this was something else.

And for the first time in a long while—

She wondered if she could actually win.

Zafira gritted her teeth as she adjusted her stance. This wasn't working. Every exchange sent vibrations through her arms, the sheer impact numbing her fingers. Her opponent's blade was heavier than expected, and every parry rattled her bones. This isn't just strength—it's technique, something I don't understand.

She pivoted, shifting into a stance she had learned from a sword master in the Eastern Isles—a flowing, unpredictable form that mimicked the ebb and flow of water. With a sharp inhale, she moved, her blade tracing new patterns through the air.

But even as she weaved between attacks, she kept an eye on Emery. The fool was still breathing, but his face was twisted in pain. And then, because it was Emery—because it had to be—he spoke, through clenched teeth, in pure defiance of his own injuries.

"I wasn't about to waste the budget on a scam artist!"

Zafira let out a short, exasperated breath as she parries an attack "You angered a noble merchant for over pricing!?"

"He started it!"

A deep gash sliced across her cheek as she was forced to dodge at the last second. She growled, cursing as fresh blood dripped onto her collar. Her gaze snapped back to her opponent, irritation flaring. "You're going to be the death of me, Emery!"

Three minutes.

That was how long the battle lasted.

Zafira's blade found its mark, slicing clean through flesh and bone. A head fell to the ground, and with it, the eerie silence that followed.

She stumbled, her breathing ragged. She had won. But at what cost? Her pride to strength.

Zafira knew her body better than anyone. And right now, it was screaming in protest. Her arms felt like lead, her grip weak against the hilt of her sword. Every inch of her body ached, her muscles torn from strain, her bones trembling from the impact of every blocked strike. Her ribs throbbed with every inhale, the deep bruising beneath her armor making even standing a conscious effort.

Her left shoulder stung—a shallow but sharp cut from when her opponent's blade had nearly found its mark. Blood trickled down her arm, sticking to the fabric beneath her armor. Worse than the external wounds, though, was the raw, aching exhaustion deep in her core. She had pushed her body past its limit, and it was demanding repayment.

She clenched her jaw. 

Damn it. I had to rely on a damn technique. Again.

Zafira prided herself on her strength, on her ability to carve through enemies with sheer force when necessary. But against this opponent, she hadn't been able to overpower them. She had been forced to rely on adaptation, footwork, precision—all the techniques she had learned from sword masters across the continent. And while those skills had saved her life, the realization burned in her chest like a humiliation she couldn't shake.

She spat to the side, her expression hardening. 

"If I was stronger, I wouldn't have needed to dodge so damn much."

Her legs buckled beneath her, and before she could stop herself, she collapsed to one knee. A sharp, searing pain shot through her ribs, and she clenched her jaw, suppressing a groan. Damn it. She tried to move, but her arms felt heavy, her muscles screaming in protest.

Her fingers twitched against the hilt of her sword. 

I overcompensated. I relied too much on skill—again. I should've trained harder.

She had trained under warriors, assassins, swordmasters from distant lands. She had studied a hundred different techniques, perfected her footwork, refined her counters. But none of it changed the fact that, in the end, she had to outthink her opponent to survive. Strength had never been her path, and that bitter truth gnawed at her now more than ever.

Her vision blurred for a moment, her body swaying. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her like an unseen force, dragging her closer to the dirt. But she refused to collapse. Not yet. Not in front of him.

Her gaze flicked to Emery. He was still barely holding himself together, his breathing uneven, his blood staining the ground beneath him. Her frustration twisted into something else entirely. She falls down with blood starting to form a pool underneath her and all she thought of was

This idiot almost got himself killed over a budget dispute

Behind her, Emery forced himself to move. His vision swam as he tried to stand, his body fighting against every instinct to collapse. But he had never felt horror like this before.

His entire life had been dictated by logic. Calculations, probabilities, cold efficiency—everything had its answer. But now, as he looked at Zafira, battered, bleeding, barely holding herself together, his mind came up empty.

He had followed her for years, had seen her wield her blades like an artist with a brush. Even when he could explain how those techniques science wise, he always had watched her dance through battles with an ease that defied everybody. But he had never seen her like this. Struggling. Hurt. Pushed to the limit.

Something inside him cracked. Not science. Not logic. Something far more primal.

His fingers dug into the dirt as he pushed forward, dragging himself forward despite the fire burning in his leg. Each movement was agony, yet something deeper than pain pushed him on. His throat felt raw, his mind reeling between the sharp clarity of knowing what needed to be done and the overwhelming rage at seeing her like this.

For the first time, science took a backseat. Emotion ignited in its place.

"GET ME MEDICINE! NOW DAMMIT! WHAT YOU DOING THERE STANDING LIKE IDIOTS!?"

It wasn't a request. It wasn't a calculated order. It was a demand—a plea—a command torn from a place inside him he had never acknowledged before. Not for logic. Not for strategy. But for her.

For the first time, his mind and heart aligned in the same direction.

Logic told him to stop. That his injuries were severe. That he needed to think rationally.

But logic had no place here.

Not when she was barely standing.

Not when she had fought for him.

Not when he had never once been able to fight for her.

And so, Emery moved. Not with reason. Not with calculation. But with something far more dangerous.

Emotion.

The battlefield stood still, but the weight of what had transpired sank deep into every heart. The warriors of the Zafira's crew once emboldened by her now stood in silent horror. They had seen their commander fight like her life depended on it.

Now, they saw her crumpled on the ground, struggling to move, her body bloodied and broken.

"She... She's hurt..." one crew member stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Commander Ezra is... actually hurt."

"No—she's still alive! She—she'll get up, right? She always does!"

"Then why isn't she moving?!"

The crushing realization settled in—their unshakable commander was fallible. And if Zafira could fall, what did that mean for them?

Meanwhile, Emery's assistant, Callum, stood frozen. He had never seen Emery lose his composure—not once, not even when facing impossible calculations, dangerous experiments, or life-threatening risks. But this was different.

Emery wasn't analyzing. He wasn't calculating.

He was screaming.

"STOP TALKING YOU DUMB BITCH! GET ME THE MEDICINE NOW!"

For the first time, Callum felt something unexpected—fear. Not of the situation, but of what would happen if Zafira died.