The forest tilted sideways.
That was my first thought when my knees gave out. My staff was long gone, my legs felt like they'd been filled with molten lead, and every breath burned like I'd inhaled fire. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew the fight was over, but my body clearly hadn't gotten the memo—it was just… shutting down.
My vision started to blur, stars popping in and out of the darkness. The last thing I saw before my eyelids dropped was a shadow leaping down from the branches above.
Then—something bitter was shoved into my mouth.
The taste hit me like a punch—sharp, metallic, and weirdly sweet at the same time. My instincts screamed to spit it out, but a firm hand tilted my chin up, forcing me to swallow.
"Not yet, boy," Monroe's voice cut through the fog, low and steady. "You can't fall unconscious yet."
I wanted to tell him that my body didn't care about his motivational speeches right now, but… my tongue felt like it weighed ten pounds. So I did the only thing I could—focused on breathing and not choking.
The world came back in fragments. First, the sound of leaves rustling overhead. Then, the cool night air seeping through my sweat-soaked shirt. Finally, the pounding of my own heartbeat slowing to something less like a war drum.
I sat up.
Wait—sat up?
I blinked at my own hands, flexing them. No pain. Not even soreness. My ribs didn't feel like they'd been smashed in. My forearms—just fine. My stomach—completely normal.
"What…?" I muttered. Had I just… dreamed all that? No, the broken trees and deep grooves in the dirt said otherwise. And there was the man in black, still slumped against that trunk, very much not a figment of my imagination.
I looked around for Monroe, but he wasn't in sight. Figures. The guy loved to pop in and out like some smug magic trick.
My brain, however, wasn't going to let me just move on. It was already replaying the fight like a reel I couldn't pause.
The last thing I remembered before the blackout was the man raising his dagger—aimed right at my chest. I'd been down, unarmed, out of options. And then…
The memories came like someone was shoving them into my head all at once. Not gentle, either—like a pile of puzzle pieces being dumped on the floor, clattering into place whether I wanted them to or not.
I saw myself standing again, my stance different. My eyes… no, I could feel that they were different. There was no emotion in my body, no hesitation, no thought—just movement. Cold, efficient movement.
And then there it was. The stance.
Right leg forward, right hand curled into a claw, left hand pulled back, palm open. The same exact posture the man had used—down to the angle of my shoulders and the bend in my knees.
I'd done Rending Claw.
Not some cheap knockoff either—the rhythm, the power, the timing… it had been perfect. His perfect.
"How…?" I muttered to nobody in particular.
I leaned back against the nearest tree, staring up at the canopy. I could remember executing the move, remember feeling the impact as my claw strike landed. But I couldn't remember deciding to do it. It was like my body had been on autopilot, operating on instincts I didn't know I had.
Which, okay, is terrifying.
Also, a little exciting.
I rubbed my forehead. "Great. Now I've got mysterious murder-eyes mode. That's not going to cause problems at all."
But the more I thought about it, the more it bothered me. That state—it hadn't felt like me. It was like I'd been watching from far away, sitting in the passenger seat while someone else drove my body. Someone who didn't care about anything except dismantling the guy in front of them.
And yet… the moment it ended, the memories of what I'd done started trickling back in. My blocks, my dodges, the way I'd adapted to his style mid-fight—it was all there, like I'd been studying it my whole life.
Even now, sitting here, I could almost feel the weight of that stance in my muscles. If I wanted to, I could probably get into position without even thinking about it.
I didn't try. Something told me it wouldn't be the same without whatever had triggered that state.
I pushed myself to my feet. My legs felt fine. My lungs felt fine. In fact, I felt better than I had before the fight even started.
Which was suspicious.
I glanced down at my clothes—torn, a little bloody in places, but my skin underneath was flawless. Not even a bruise. My fingers probed where the guy's dagger had nearly found a home in my ribs earlier—nothing. No tenderness, no ache.
That… wasn't normal.
"I heal fast now?" I muttered. "That's a thing? Since when?"
The forest didn't answer. Typical.
Somewhere behind me, a branch cracked. My head whipped around, staff instinctively raising—oh, right. No staff.
It was just a squirrel.
"Yeah, you better run," I told it. The squirrel ignored me completely.
With nothing else to do and too many questions bouncing around in my head, I started making my way out of the forest. My boots crunched over leaves and twigs, the moonlight occasionally breaking through gaps in the canopy to paint silver patches on the path ahead.
Every step felt… weird. Not bad, just like my body was lighter somehow. My balance felt sharper, my senses clearer. It was almost like I'd carried something heavy for so long I didn't notice it—until it was gone.
By the time I broke through the treeline, the building we were staying at came into view, its windows glowing faintly in the night. A faint breeze followed me out of the woods, tugging at my shirt and carrying the lingering scent of rain.
Somewhere in there, Monroe was probably pretending to read a book while actually just waiting to see if I made it back in one piece.
I'd have words for him.
Eventually.
For now, I just wanted a hot meal, a bath, and maybe a bed that didn't feel like it wanted to murder my spine.
Still… as I walked, I couldn't shake the thought. That stance, that precision—it hadn't been a fluke. I'd done it. Perfectly.
And if I could do it once…
I grinned to myself.
I could do it again.