Zane's perception had changed.
With the transformation, his awareness sharpened to an almost supernatural level. Every shift in Aidan's stance, every flicker of movement, registered instantly.
So the moment Aidan adjusted his footing—Zane thought he was ready. He anticipated a counter, predicted the angle.
But he was wrong.
Aidan feinted, twisting his body in a side step, and in the same motion, snapped his leg upward in a high kick aimed straight at Zane's head.
It was fast—deceptively fast.
But Zane moved just in time, raising his arm to block. His hand met Aidan's kick with a solid crack, the force rippling through his guard.
Zane's eyes narrowed, focused.
If not for his speed—and the power granted by his transformation—that kick would've been serious. Dangerous, even.
But now?
It didn't even hurt.
After exchanging a flurry of blows—strike for strike, dodge for dodge—the rhythm between them grew more brutal.
Aidan persisted.
Like a rat refusing to be crushed, he slipped through Zane's attacks again and again.
And when he couldn't dodge cleanly, he didn't panic—he rolled with the hit, absorbed what he could, minimized the damage, and kept moving.
Zane gritted his teeth. Frustration burned hotter with every dodge.
No matter how many times he attacked, Aidan refused to fall.
Slippery. Resilient. Relentless.
Zane took a step still as light as ever, while Aidan huffed, his breathing faster, sweat clear on his skin. Zane knew he could win easily by exhausting Aidan's stamina, but enough was enough. It was time to show him he wasn't holding back anymore.
For the first time, Zane channeled his aura into his body—not mana; it wasn't necessary.
The air shifted.
A heavy pressure crashed down over the training ground like a sudden storm. Even the spectators fell silent, their breaths caught in their throats.
Zane laughed—not mockingly, but with genuine thrill.
Then, with a casual swing of his stick, a razor-thin arc of wind tore through the air, slicing the ground in its path. Dirt exploded in its wake, a violent reminder of just how much power he wielded.
"I expected nothing less from you, Aidan," Zane said, eyes burning with battle-fueled excitement.
Zane slashed his stick, sending blades of wind howling toward Aidan.
Aidan braced and tried to parry the first. The impact rattled through his arms, nearly knocking him off balance. The sheer force behind the slash was unlike anything before.
He couldn't keep taking them head-on.
From then on, he shifted tactics—rolling, sidestepping, tilting his weapon to deflect just enough to redirect the attacks, letting them tear past instead of striking full force. He needed to step close to Zane, or there was no way he'd win.
Zane watched him, then sighed, clicking his tongue in irritation.
"You're not going down easy, are you?"
He bent low, plucking a few blades of grass from the ground.
With deliberate precision, he angled them in his hand, then flicked his fingers to launch them one by one, like arrows shot from a bow.
The grass shouldn't have been a threat. But now, laced with aura and mana, they whistled through the air like thrown arrows.
Aidan's instincts flared. But his body lagged.
He twisted—too late—his exhaustion pulling him down. The first shot past his ribs, tearing open a line of skin. The second clipped his arm. He flinched, nearly falling.
And then came the third.
Straight for his head.
Time slowed.
Aidan saw it coming.
He wanted to move. To throw himself aside, to block, to fight—
He wanted to touch Zane. Just once.
But his body—it didn't listen.
His legs refused to tense. His arms, slack with exhaustion, barely lifted his weapon.
His vision swam.
But there was nothing left.
No strength. No speed. No second wind.
Only the raw, choking truth:
He hadn't even laid a finger on Zane. Not once.
That was the truth—a cold, undeniable one.
Aidan didn't feel jealousy. Not envy. Not even anger.
And yet, something hollow tugged at his chest. Disappointment, maybe.
Not at Zane, but at himself.
Their starting lines had never been the same. Aidan was born into comfort, cradled by privilege, handed the finest weapons and the softest silks before he could walk.
Zane?
Zane had crawled out of the mud. A child of the slums, hardened by hunger and the kind of fear that teaches you how to fight before you know how to speak.
He joined the Wilson estate at eight—half-starved, eyes sharp, fists already scarred.
And he earned everything. Every inch of strength. Every word of respect.
Not because someone gave it to him.
Because he fought for it.
Aidan clenched his jaw.
Even with all the tools at his disposal, he couldn't deny it—Zane had built more from nothing than he had with everything.
He hadn't even touched Zane. Not once.
And yet, it wasn't bitterness that twisted inside him.
It was familiarity.
Because the reason Aidan liked Zane—respected him—was simple.
He saw himself in him.
That same fire. That same refusal to break.
Just like Aidan had been on Earth—brutal, relentless, climbing with bloodied hands and teeth clenched shut against the world.
But there was a difference.
Zane hadn't walked as far down the path of solitude and shattered hopes of life.
He hadn't been betrayed—again and again—until trust itself felt like a lie.
He hadn't drowned in silence long enough to make it his only friend.
If he had... maybe Zane would've ended up like Aidan.
But he hadn't.
And that difference—that gap between them—was as wide as the battlefield.
In that moment, Aidan accepted it.
Zane was ahead.
Without doubt. Without hesitation.
And strangely… that truth didn't burn.
It settled in him like a long exhale—heavy, but clear.
Aidan had always carried a longing deep in his soul.
To be extraordinary.
But somewhere along the way, he'd become lost in his own struggle, tangled in pain, strength, and isolation.
He had forgotten something simple yet vast—
He was still just a speck. A dust in this wide, infinite universe.
No matter how deeply he desired strength, no matter how hard he fought, no matter how extraordinary he wanted to be...
There would always be others—just like him, extraordinary—those who had more time, more chances, and more moments to grow ahead.
And maybe… that was the beauty of fate.
Everyone had their path. Their pace.
No matter how desperately he chased strength...
Maybe he'd forgotten who he was.
He'd broken his own hand once—just to grow stronger.
Not in battle. Not by force.
By choice.
And maybe…
That was the moment he started losing something.
A piece of himself.
Something human.
All for power.
And now, standing here—barely breathing, unable to touch Zane—
He finally wondered if it had been worth it.
The blade of grass closed in—like an arrow aimed straight for his skull.
It cut through the air with deadly precision, the final blow.
Aidan couldn't move.
But just before it reached him—a hand shot out.
Matthew stepped forward, catching the grass—effortlessly.
He looked at Aidan—his expression calm, steady.
And then, with a small smile Aidan had never seen before, he said softly,
"You did well, Aidan."