The moment I hurled myself at Vincent, the world ruptured into motion—my body coiling low, boots cleaving through the air with predatory grace. Momentum didn't follow thought; it devoured it, poured itself into my limbs until every breath, every twist of muscle, was an act of violence made flesh. There was no time to think. I was fueled by instinct—raw, burning, and bladed at the edges.
Vincent didn't even flinch. His lips curled into that half-dead smile of his as he peeled back the ragged bandages from his crippled hand, unveiling the jagged gaps where fingers should have been—wet crimson pooling between the exposed sinew like broken promises. With a savage flick, he sent the blood from his wound spraying into my face, a scarlet mist that scalded my eyes.
It wasn't just blood. It was venom, a toxic blend of spite and power, and gods did it burn.
How clever.
I staggered back, momentarily blinded, a wash of molten fury tearing through my senses. My fingers clawed desperately at my face, smearing streaks of hot iron across my cheeks, blood weeping into my vision as Vincent's silhouette warped and shimmered like a nightmare dancing behind glass.
I didn't even have time to finish blinking before he was there—behind me, sudden and silent as a curse—driving a vicious kick into the base of my spine. Pain exploded through me as my body crashed against the unyielding stone, ribs colliding with the floor in a thunder-crack of flesh and bone. The breath tore from my lungs in a fractured, ragged grunt, and I rolled, palms scrambling across the floor in a frantic search for something—anything—that felt like control.
I came to a crouch, breath sharp, muscles braced—just in time to see him standing above me, arm raised, and in his hand… he was holding it.
The stopwatch.
He pressed it once—
And then the world fractured.
It didn't stop. No, rather it slipped sideways, like a painting tilting in slow motion, one half smearing off the canvas. I was still moving, still breathing, but my body, split by the effects of the attack, had become two layers out of sync with one another, my motions bleeding through the seams of time, repeating themselves a breath too soon or a heartbeat too late.
I drove forward anyway.
My fist lashed toward Vincent's jaw, but I watched it land before I'd even begun the strike. The shadow of myself struck air, and when I corrected, Vincent had already slipped beneath the phantom of my mistake. He pivoted past me with a whisper of breath, a blur of motion that mocked the idea of being caught.
I spun with him, low and fast, breath coiled tightly in my chest, but his foot swept behind my knee in a scything arc that cut through my balance like a wire through flesh. My breath hitched in my throat as I struggled to recover—but Vincent was already on me.
His hand seized my hair, yanking my head down as his knee came smashing into my face, what followed was an explosion of agony blooming behind my eyes like lightning cracking stone.
However, I twisted into the pain, let it fuel me, before driving my elbow back into his ribs with all the force my battered body could conjure. The attack sank with a dull, meaty crack—a sound too close to satisfaction. A sharp grunt tore from his throat as he stumbled back a step, allowing just enough time for air to begin flooding my lungs again. But then—click.
The stopwatch sang once more.
For a heartbeat, Vincent vanished—not in distance, but in tempo. Then he surged forward, a blur of impossible speed, his fist already rising as if time itself had fast-forwarded him through space. I ducked beneath the blow, feeling the air of his knuckles graze my scalp before bolting upward into his guard.
We collided.
Shoulder to chest.
I drove him back using nothing but sheer momentum, but as I struck I felt the resistance change. Another click. Another fracture. Vincent blurred, rewound a second's worth of space, and when he solidified behind me, he crouched low, snatching a jagged shard of stone from the floor before, in one seamless motion, swung it straight at my throat.
This time I was ready.
I dodged the attack, caught his wrist mid-swing, then drove my heel into his knee. He didn't collapse, but he rebounded, like a flame recoiling from breath, twisting free of my grip before hurling himself forward once again.
We were trading now, blow for blow, breath for breath, tangled in a loop of violence where neither of us could pull away. But every second, that damned stopwatch would click, and the tempo would fracture again.
One click, and his strike would arrive faster than it should.
Another, and I'd see the afterimage of a blow already thrown.
But I kept pushing through because I could feel it. A looseness in his strikes. A swagger. He was getting cocky. I could feel it in the way his steps began loosing their sharpness, how his movements lingered a fraction longer than necessary, as if he'd already decided I was finished and was just toying with the broken pieces of my soul.
Suddenly, using this to my advantage, I dropped, spun low, and swept my leg around in a wild, desperate arc, a last ditch attempt at landing something meaningful.
My boot crashed into his ankle with a satisfying crack, and Vincent's balance betrayed him. He stumbled, legs tangling, and then fell, his body slamming into the stone with a sharp cry that cut deep through the chaos.
That's when I caught sight of it, the stopwatch slipping from his grip, spinning wildly before skidding across the floor just a few feet away from him.
I refused to let the moment pass.
I dove for it, blood leaking at my side like spilled ink—but he was faster. He grabbed my ankle mid-crawl and yanked me backward so hard my chin cracked against the floor and my vision flared white. The taste of copper began flooding my mouth.
I tried to rise. Tried to get to my knees. But he was already a step ahead, spinning me on my back in one fluid motion.
Then came his fist, launching straight into my face.
My nose exploded beneath his blow, a white-hot detonation of pain that cracked through my skull and bloomed outward in a savage, screaming burst. Stars tore across my vision in jagged streaks as the floor lurched beneath me, breath choking on the blood that began to rise in my throat.
But Vincent wasn't finished.
Another strike followed, a hammering blow descending with the weight of finality, but instinct roared louder than the pain. My hand shot up, trembling, raw, and caught his wrist just as it came crashing down. The impact rattled through my bones, but I held on, knuckles white, muscles screaming.
I could feel it now—how sure he was. How certain.
His angles grew sharper, crueler, dripping with that smug, creeping arrogance that always surfaced when he thought victory was inevitable. Every strain was a gavel. Every breath he drew, a verdict. He thought I was done. He thought I was broken.
But then—I heard it.
The voice.
That same eerie whisper that came to me every time my pen gifted me new power, but now it seemed to be clearer, colder, sharper, slicing through the chaos of the fight like a blade cutting silk.
Second Stage Progression: Unlocked.
The words rolled through my mind, reverberating with a resonance that made my blood boil. The voice continued, clinical and precise.
Base Transformation has been upgraded.
Your base transformation skill no longer demands conquest to awaken. Victory is no longer the key. Now, with three deliberate marks of your pen, the transformation will ignite without fail. Completion is no longer the reward of triumph... it is the consequence of intent.
No way, this...this changes everything.
I froze, breath caught in my throat as the meaning sank deep into my bones. This wasn't just a power-up. This was a paradigm shift. The pen's magic, the tether that bound me to this fight, had evolved. It was no longer a mercy granted after victory—it was a weapon I could wield in the midst of battle, a force that could turn the tide before the final breath was even taken.
Vincent's eyes blew wide, flickering with a mix of shock and something darker—fear?
Recognition? Somehow, he could hear it too. The voice inside his head, the same divine whisper threading through our relics like a secret language only we understood.
I caught my breath, savoring the silence that stretched between us. Then I twisted my lips into a wild, feral smile.
Well then, let the real fight begin.
In a flash of motion so sharp it might've carved a scar in the air, I reached for my belt, fingers closing tight around the only thing that ever felt like mine.
The pen.
With a vicious cry that tore through my ribs and down the jagged lines of my spine, I drove it forward, jamming it into the side of Vincent's neck.
Not gracefully. Not with elegance. Not with anything resembling control. Just a raw, furious stab. The pen bit in deep, and Vincent's entire body seized. He reeled back instantly, staggering away from me like I'd just infected him with something contagious.
His hand clutched at the wound, not with theatrical horror, but with a quiet, intimate dread. He wasn't angry. He wasn't smug. He was simply stunned. Vincent's eyes widened, not just in pain, but in recognition.
Because we both felt it.
The transformation was already beginning.
Not entirely, not yet—but the mark twined into his skin like ink poured into water, curling and rooting in silence. And I watched, breathless, as the changes began to settle. His features softened—just a little, but enough. A taper to the jaw, a subtle reshaping of muscle that leaned toward litheness rather than bulk. A whisper of femininity, just enough to unsettle the foundations of his identity.
He met my gaze then, that horror still blooming quiet behind his eyes.
One mark down.
I moved to grab his stopwatch again.
But he was too fast.
In one furious kick, he lashed out—not at me, but at the relic. It spun, scraping across the stone floor like a coin tossed to fate. I snarled, shifting my momentum, swinging my leg up in a high arc that cut the air like a guillotine aimed straight for his temple.
He blocked it with his forearm in a show of brutal efficiency, but the impact made him stumble. I landed light, took two steps back, and let a grin stretch across my bloodstained teeth.
"What's wrong, Vincent?" I spat, rolling my shoulder. "Not used to bleeding on the job?"
He said nothing, only circled, the tremor in his hand barely masked now. I could feel him measuring me. The charm was gone. The arrogance had burned off like fog beneath the sun. This was the man beneath the mask. And that man was afraid.
I didn't give him time to breathe.
I leapt again—low, fast, and unpredictable, the pen flashing in my grip like a serpent's fang as I slashed upward, then twisted around his back, my boots skimming the stone as I pivoted hard, slicing down again. Once. Twice. I moved like water, like wrath given form, like I had something to prove.
He deflected each strike—barely, with one arm. Then he pressed forward and caught my shoulder. With a movement like lightning through silk, he heaved me over his hip and slammed me into the floor.
I felt the world crack beneath my spine.
My lungs forgot how to work for a moment as blood came shooting past my lips. My vision swam violently, but I wasn't done. No. Not yet.
I rolled, groaning, back onto my hands and knees—but he was already there. The stopwatch was back in his hand now, glinting in his grip like a promise.
"Shit—" I hissed.
He didn't press it. Not yet. He was watching. Waiting.
I snarled low before activating my skill, Devine Femmeform.
My body shimmered.
Flesh bent, twisted, shifted—not painfully, but unmistakably, like a page curling under flame, reshaping itself into something new, something inevitable. I rose into my new form, the familiar surge of silk-and-vengeance wrapping itself around me like armor made of shadow and light. My limbs lengthened, my stance narrowed, and I felt power crystallize behind my ribs like a second heartbeat.
Then I activated Velvet Aura. It's magic surged from my skin, a luminous veil of pressure that blanketed the space around me. The air thickened. Warped, its presence coiling in the air like perfume. Vincent's poise cracked ever so slightly.
Not by will. But by design.
Then, experimentally, I activated my skill Velvet Command.
"Remain still," I said in a hushed breath.
And he did. Just for a fraction of a second, his body seized, pausing mid-motion like an actor waiting for his cue. I launched forward.
But then suddenly, he broke free from the spell with a broken cry and pressed the stopwatch just before I struck.
A bubble of compressed time flared around me, catching me mid-sprint. I cursed, grinding my teeth as my body slowed, caught in the trap of his design. Vincent ducked beneath me, and when the bubble popped—
He sent an uppercut into my stomach with a snapping kick.
My body arced through the air, flipping wildly, blood and breath tumbling from my lips in equal measure. But I recovered—barely—landing with a series of rapid back handsprings before sliding to a halt.
I was gasping now, desperately holding on.
But I wasn't done, not by a long shot.
I launched forward again, reading the shimmer in the air a heartbeat before it solidified. Another time bubble—he was trying to trap me. But this time I vaulted.
My legs coiled beneath me as I sprang up, body twisting midair in a sharp, vertical arc that cleared the expanding pulse of compressed time by mere inches. Below me, the bubble shimmered before bursting harmlessly against the empty space where I'd been. Vincent's gaze snapped up, eyes widening as he realized his mistake.
And then, without a moment to spare—
I threw the pen straight at his chest. His eyes went wide as it struck dead center. A clean, solid puncture just beneath his ribs.
The second mark.
I saw it ignite the moment it sank into his skin—the glow flaring, bright and sharp, as the magic writhed, twisting around the core of his being.
I landed in a crouch, boots skidding across the stone, then spun around him in a blur, sweeping low past his side. My fingers found the pen's hilt protruding from his chest, and in one flawless motion, I wrenched it free—fluid, practiced, like a surgeon reclaiming a blade from flesh that never deserved it.
Vincent shrieked then, but not with pain. With recognition. He knew what was coming. And gods, I was laughing now.
Drunk on power. High on momentum. My own breath ragged with joy. "One more," I whispered. "Just one more…"
Then he spun with sudden desperation, a flicker of panic breaking through his polished mask, before lunging at me with the ferocity of a cornered beast. Our bodies collided with a thunderclap that shook the air around us, limbs intertwining in a brutal embrace of struggle and will.
We grappled, our movements a violent dance—twisting, shoving, snarling as we wrestled for dominance, muscle against muscle, breath against breath.
We crashed into the pillar beside us.
My pen hovered mere inches from his forehead, trembling like a live wire charged with latent power. Sweat traced rivers down my arms, mingling with the dark streaks of blood and ink that smeared my skin, each droplet a testament to the war waging inside me.
I gritted my teeth, the strain etched deep into every line of my face, my breath shallow and frayed as the tip of my pen pulsed with a searing magical heat—alive, hungry, desperate to mark him and shift the battle's tide.
"Just—just let me—just one more—" I hissed, teeth clenching so tight I thought they might crack.
Then suddenly, Vincent's voice broke through, hoarse and terrified before—
"I yield!"
It wasn't a command. It wasn't a bluff. It was a scream.
My hands froze mid-thrust, the pen hovering a breath away from his forehead, the tip glinting like a shard of godhood poised to rewrite the ending of this story in blood.
For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't even breathe.
Because that voice—that tone—wasn't the Vincent I knew. It wasn't the cocky bastard with velvet threats and silver smiles. It wasn't the weapon honed by politics and divine favor. It was something else entirely. Something broken. Something human.
His body collapsed against the pillar, slumping like a marionette whose strings had been cut, blood dripping from the edge of his lips. His chest heaved. The transformation was nearly complete—his face halfway between his old self and the person I was slowly sculpting him into.
I stepped back—panting, soaked in sweat, hands trembling from the adrenaline still screaming through my veins.
I turned away from him, toward the others. They were watching silently. Aria's hand was over his mouth. Miko's eyes were wide. Willow looked like she'd forgotten how to breathe. Even Leo seemed frozen.
But then—I heard it.
That same voice. That divine whisper.
But this time…it wasn't for me.
Skill Upgrade: Time Compression.
The voice continued.
This skill now allows the wielder to compress time into a singular moment, achieving a complete suspension of all motion within a localized radius. The effect lasts for three full minutes in real-time, during which the user may move freely. Skill is usable once per day.
The air stilled, thick with something unspoken.
I turned—slowly, warily. Vincent was still slumped against the pillar, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged breaths. But his eyes… they were open now. Wide. Glowing faintly—not with light, but with something heavier, Pressure, as if the very air around him was bending inward, drawn toward the weight gathering behind his gaze.