The woman grinned faintly as she landed gracefully on her feet, seamlessly repositioning her body to face Zac. Her polearm remained by her side, yet her stance exuded menace. Without hesitation, she darted toward him.
Zac adjusted his grip, bringing his sword closer to his body. Then, with explosive speed, he bolted forward, slashing toward her face.
She didn't retreat. Instead, she caught the blade with her hand, the sharp edge halted by her sheer precision. Her polearm flashed forward, its blackened tip aimed squarely at his head. Zac twisted away at the last second, his foot shooting out to kick her.
The impact sent her stumbling. Her footing faltered—an uncharacteristic slip. Zac's instincts screamed at him to press the advantage. But he knew her too well. This wasn't a mistake; it was bait.
Even so, he charged forward, lowering his body as if wielding a rapier, aiming for her chest. The moment he struck, she pivoted with an almost serpentine grace. Her polearm's tip veered toward his head, her movements calculated and deadly.
She kicked, sending the polearm flying like a missile toward Zac's skull. In his current position, there wasn't enough leverage to parry without injury or being pushed back. Yet Zac smiled.
He thrust forward, meeting her attack head-on. Their weapons clashed with a resounding force, sending the polearm off balance. Zac seized the moment, swinging his blade in a decisive arc.
But she met his strike with her fist. The punch collided with his blade, sending vibrations rippling through his arm.
The force hurled Zac backward, nearly sending him crashing into the polearm. In her hand, a crimson ribbon glinted ominously. As Zac collided with the polearm, she yanked the ribbon, pulling both him and the weapon toward her.
She prepared to strike. Zac braced himself for the impact, but instead, she swept his legs out from under him. In the same fluid motion, she reclaimed her black polearm and thrust it downward.
Zac, sprawled on the ground, felt his grip falter. The woman capitalized on his vulnerability, her weapon descending with lethal precision. At the last second, Zac tightened his hold and swung his blade upward, deflecting her strike.
Using the momentum of her attack, he redirected the force, a skill refined through years of fencing. It wasn't the time to attempt a disarm—it would be suicidal against her. Instead, he rolled away, springing to his feet and resuming his stance.
The woman picked up her polearm and Zac felt an unfamiliar sensation—a dreadful aura radiating from her. His hands trembled as he gripped his weapon tighter.
"This… is new," he muttered, his voice barely audible.
Before he could react, she vanished. His eyes darted upward, catching sight of the polearm descending toward him. But where was she?
He leaped, narrowly evading the strike. As he landed, she reappeared, reclaiming her weapon and slashing vertically. The polearm's length left Zac with no room to evade or parry in time.
He braced himself, expecting the familiar sting of dream-induced pain. But this time, a sharp, searing sensation tore through his arm. He glanced down to see a cut—a real cut. From the wound, a white, glittering substance flowed like liquid starlight.
The woman froze, her aggression dissolving into confusion. She discarded her weapon and stepped closer.
"You're… bleeding," she murmured, her voice tinged with disbelief. "That's…"
Her tone shifted, and her demeanor softened. Yet her features remained obscured, hidden behind the veil of her long, straight black hair.
Zac stared at his arm, equally bewildered. "What is this? Is my blood being censored?" he quipped, attempting to mask his unease.
"The pain is bearable," he continued, "but why am I bleeding?"
The woman lowered her head in thought. Zac took the opportunity to survey his surroundings. Dense fog enveloped the area, and in the distance, something burned—a flickering beacon in the oppressive haze.
Before he could ask her about the fire, the ground beneath them trembled. The fog thickened, trapping them in a surreal, shifting expanse.
Their eyes met, both reflecting confusion. Zac had fought in this space for years, yet this was unprecedented.
The fog churned violently, and the space around them began to crack. Zac felt an immense force pulling him toward one of the fractures.
The woman rushed to help, but she was too late. Zac was swallowed by the white void, her outstretched hand lingering in the empty air.
In the distance, a figure surrounded by seven flames of varying colors stepped through a spatial rift. The figure's presence was overwhelming, its movements deliberate.
"Let's continue where I left off, shall we?"
A gate of starlight materialized beside the woman. She hesitated only briefly before stepping through. As she vanished, the gate shattered into fragments.
Zac felt himself plummeting. The wind roared in his ears as he free-fell through an endless sky. Below, vast lands stretched out—mountains, kingdoms, and a towering spire that pierced the heavens, its peak aligned with the sun.
Suddenly, flames of different hues appeared in his vision, their presence chilling him to the core.
Zac's eyes snapped open. He wasn't falling. He was in a bedroom, its mundane furnishings starkly contrasted to the surreal battle.
"Where am I?" he muttered, scanning the room. A closet stood at the foot of the bed, with a desk and cabinet to one side. A lamp rested on a dresser nearby, lacking a switch or plug.
He inspected the lamp, attempting to turn it on, but gave up after a few moments.
"How did I get here?" he wondered aloud. "I was fighting her… but that was in my sleep, right?"
Deciding to test his theory, he crawled back into bed. Sleep came swiftly, but instead of returning to the battlefield, a flood of memories consumed him.
Vonnegut Foster. A boy of fifteen. His parents, retired climbers, had settled in a quiet town on the outskirts. His father, Quinn, served as a guard, while his mother, [[Maya]], worked at the herb market, her expertise in poisons unmatched.
Zac's eyes fluttered open again, the familiar ceiling greeting him. He groaned, rising from the bed. For a boy his age, he was unusually tall.
He approached the dresser, gazing into the mirror. The night was far from over, and yet, the unsettling events lingered in his mind.
Next chapter: Morning in a Different World