It wasn't a physical blow, not a sound that registered on his ears, not even a visible wave of shimmering energy distorting the air. It was pressure. Immense, suffocating, inescapable pressure, descending upon him like the weight of a collapsing mountain range. The very air in the room seemed to thicken, growing heavy and viscous, pushing down on his shoulders, constricting his chest, grinding against his bones with relentless force. It felt as though gravity itself had abruptly decided to quadruple its efforts, laser-focused solely on the patch of expensive carpet he occupied. Breathing became a conscious, laborious effort, each inhale shallow and unsatisfying, as if trying to draw air through dense water. The edges of his vision seemed to subtly darken, the sounds of the room – the faint ticking of an unseen clock, his own ragged breath – muffled as if heard from underwater.
Ah, his mind registered with a strange, almost clinical detachment, even as every nerve ending in his body screamed in protest. Spirit Pressure. Direct application of raw will and refined energy. Manifestation-level, definitely, but the sheer density of it… feels like she's touching the fringes of Ascension potential already. Three cores working in concert… significantly stronger than I remember her being at this stage in the first timeline. Or perhaps, he considered grimly, first-timeline Lloyd had simply folded so quickly he never experienced the full brunt of it.
His knees, already protesting the unnatural load, buckled involuntarily. A sharp grunt escaped his lips, forced out by the sudden intensification of the force driving him downwards. The casual lean against the bedpost transformed into a desperate, trembling attempt to remain upright, his hand gripping the polished wood until his knuckles turned bone white. But it wasn't enough. The pressure was relentless, a tangible, invisible force crushing his physical resistance like a nutshell.
With a final, protesting groan from abused muscles and joints, his left knee hit the plush, yielding carpet with a soft, sickening thud. He was forced into a kneeling position, his head bowed slightly under the crushing, invisible weight. Sweat, cold and clammy despite the pressure, beaded on his forehead and trickled down his temples. His breath came in ragged, painful gasps. This body, his nineteen-year-old body, lean but untested, was nowhere near physically strong enough to withstand this level of direct spiritual imposition from someone as talented as Rosa.
But even as his body yielded, his mind, the mind of the eighty-year-old soldier-scientist trapped within, did not. He fought tooth and nail against the overwhelming instinct to collapse completely, to curl into a protective ball on the floor and wait for the torment to stop. He actively battled the rising tide of panic that threatened to swamp his resolve. He forced his head up, inch by painstaking, agonizing inch, his neck muscles straining against the oppressive force as if lifting solid stone. Tendons stood out like cords, trembling violently. Through sheer, unadulterated willpower – fueled by eighty years of stubborn resilience, the ingrained discipline of a soldier who refused to break under simulated interrogation, and a newfound determination not to repeat the mistakes of his past life – he lifted his gaze from the intricate patterns of the carpet.
He met Rosa's eyes again. Across the expanse of the room, looking up at her from his kneeling position.
And he smiled.
It wasn't the easy, playful smile from before. This was something else entirely. Tighter, strained, a grimace of pain transformed into an expression of defiance by sheer mental effort. The corners of his mouth were pulled up, but his lips were pressed thin. Yet, it was undeniably a smile. His eyes, though clearly reflecting the immense physical strain he was under, the slight watering caused by the effort, held no fear, no pleading, no submission. Only unwavering, stubborn determination. A silent declaration: You can force me to my knees, but you cannot make me yield.
First timeline Lloyd would be a puddle on the floor right now, he thought, a spark of grim, dark amusement flickering through the pain and the roaring in his ears. Probably apologising profusely for existing, for breathing, for having the audacity to be born inadequate. The contrast was almost comical, if he weren't fighting just to remain conscious under the metaphysical tonnage.