WebNovels

Chapter 45 - Dominion

The Zenith's arena dimmed to a storm-gray hue. Gravity hummed steady, the floor alive with faint molten veins of light. The Ampers waited in a quiet semicircle—bodies bruised, minds sharpened—while Grant stood in the center like a shadow given command.

He called a name. "Astegger."

She stepped forward, blade already drawn. The air rippled faintly around its edge, her dimensional energy coiling like a restless serpent.

Grant's tone was even. "You've been treating your rifts as wounds."

Astegger's jaw flexed. "That's what they are."

"No," he said. "That's what you've settled for."

He lifted his hand; a faint red pulse shimmered between his fingers. "You've been slashing space like it's cloth. But what if you learned to weave it?"

Her brow furrowed. "Weave space?"

"To control, not to cut." He nodded toward the open floor. "Let's test that."

Then he moved.

A blur of crimson lightning ignited across the hall—Grant at Mach 3, his body a streak of kinetic flame. The air cracked, thunder chasing his wake. Mid-run, he twisted—snatching the lightning trailing from his own path and forming it into a spear of vibrating red energy.

He hurled it.

On instinct, Astegger slashed the air, expecting the usual tear—an opening and recoil, the spatial backlash she'd learned to brace for. But this time, something shifted.

The rift didn't collapse—it held.

The lightning froze mid-strike, trapped between dimensions—its light flickering inside a translucent ripple that pulsed like a heartbeat suspended in glass.

Brakkon's low voice broke the silence. "How the hell…"

Astegger didn't answer. Her breath came shallow, disbelieving, as she extended her hand toward the rift. The energy hummed.

She turned her wrist, slicing open another rift across the arena. The captured bolt vanished—then re-emerged from the second tear, shooting into the far wall and exploding in a burst of scarlet shards.

Grant's eyes glinted. "You didn't redirect it—you stored it." His voice softened, almost reverent. "Void anchoring."

Astegger stepped closer to the rift's fading outline, eyes half-closed. "It's calm," she murmured. "It's not chaos anymore. It's… a silence that listens back."

That last phrase drew a chill through the hall. The others exchanged glances.

Brakkon muttered, uneasy, "Feels wrong."

Astegger smiled faintly, the edge of her blade glowing with reflected starlight.

"Then maybe," she said, "it's finally paying attention."

Before the silence could settle, Xylo stepped forward. His boots scraped frost across the floor, and the temperature dropped just enough to draw everyone's breath in mist.

Grant turned toward him slowly. "You're quiet, Xylo. That's rare."

The frost around Xylo's hands thickened. "You think I'm quiet because I'm content?"

Grant tilted his head, eyes steady. "No. Because you're holding back."

That did it. Xylo's expression twisted—anger and humiliation fighting for space on his face. Ice began crawling up his suit, crystalizing along his shoulders until he looked more statue than man.

"Every time," Xylo said, voice low and trembling, "every single time you push someone—you pick the ones you think can evolve. But when it's me?" He slammed a hand to his chest, shards flaring outward. "You act like I'm a mascot. mascot. A distraction. The funny one who keeps the team from breaking."

Acuent took a step forward, her aura pulsing blue. "Xylo—stop. You're losing control."

He didn't even look at her. His eyes locked on Grant. "You want me to hold back? Fine. Watch what happens when I don't."

The air imploded. Frost expanded outward in a concussive bloom, a storm born from rage. The floor cracked. The ceiling dimmed. Within seconds, the entire hall was a glacier.

Grant didn't move—until the ice sealed him completely, a crimson statue beneath a prison of blue.

The Ampers froze in disbelief.

Xylo stood panting in the center of it all, steam rising from his breath. For a heartbeat, he almost smiled. "Guess even gods freeze."

Then—

A fracture—a hairline shimmer of red.

The ice began to glow from within.

Crimson light pulsed outward, bleeding through the frozen layers like a heartbeat returning to life. The sound—soft, steady cracking—became thunder. The ice exploded into mist, leaving Grant standing in the center, unscathed. His coat was torn, his eyes burning.

Xylo's smirk vanished.

Grant's voice came calm, almost pitying. "You're angry because you think power earns you respect."

"Don't—" Xylo took a step forward, teeth bared. "Don't patronize me. I'm done being your side note. I'm done being the weak one."

He spread his arms, frost spiraling outward, the air screaming from the drop in pressure. "I'm tired of waiting for someone to tell me I'm enough!"

Grant's expression didn't change. If anything, it softened.

Then he vanished.

The air snapped where he'd been, a sonic echo rippling across the room. Xylo spun, searching wildly. The temperature continued to plummet, and yet sweat trickled down his temple.

Somewhere in the cold haze, Grant's voice emerged—distant and close all at once.

"You'll never be enough if you're still fighting me instead of yourself."

The frost around Xylo's arms flickered, unstable. He gritted his teeth. "Then show me how to stop!"

Xylo's chest heaved as mist coiled around him like smoke. The temperature had dropped so low that every breath scraped his throat raw.

"Grant?" His voice cracked, swallowed by the cold. "Where the hell are you?"

Silence. Then movement—too fast, too soft. A whisper of displaced air behind him.

Panic bloomed. He spun and unleashed a volley of ice shards, each one sharp enough to cleave stone. They scattered through the fog, ricocheting off invisible barriers and vanishing into the haze.

A streak of violet flickered near the ceiling—Anna, floating higher to stay clear. But one wild blast curved too wide, arcing straight toward her.

Before it could hit, a blur of red tore through the storm. The beam exploded midair, scattering into harmless snow. The echo of Grant's voice followed, disembodied and calm.

"Lower your temperature."

Xylo froze mid-step, chest rising and falling.

"Stop looking for me," the voice continued, drifting through the fog. "Feel for what I am."

Xylo swallowed, closing his eyes. The rage in his veins still burned cold, but he forced it down—slowly. His breath steadied. The frost stopped growing across his armor.

Colors bled away, replaced by a spectrum of heat. The arena came alive in gradients of red and blue—every pulse of blood, every trace of warmth, a living map.

And there—just behind him—a flare of crimson, faint but unmistakable.

Xylo turned sharply and thrust a spear of ice backward.

Grant was already there, catching the strike with one hand. His other hand rested lightly on Xylo's shoulder—not forceful, just grounding.

"Good," Grant said softly. "You're learning to see without eyes."

Xylo's arm trembled from the contact. The ice between them hissed, melting where Grant's touch met his.

"But remember," Grant added, his voice lowering, "rage doesn't make you stronger. Control does."

The frost faded from Xylo's body, the shards dissolving into harmless vapor. His breathing slowed, eyes returning to their normal shade of ice-blue. For a moment, all that remained between them was steam and silence.

Xylo looked away first. "Don't think this makes us even," he muttered, voice thin but steady.

The others watched from the sidelines—silent, uncertain—but something in the air had changed. The tension that once divided them now hummed with shared rhythm, like the prelude to a storm.

Grant stood alone at the center, his reflection fracturing faintly across the mirrored floor. The others had already gone—Nullis laughing softly with Xylo, Brakkon limping despite pretending not to, Anna hovering a few inches above the ground.

He exhaled. The air shimmered.

For a moment, the light around him bent—subtle, wrong. Then the distortion deepened, folding inward like a collapsing mirage.

Then someone stepped out—himself.

The second figure was identical—same stance, same ring pulsing red—but its outline vibrated, flickering in and out of sync, like a reflection caught between two seconds of time.

It spoke first, its voice slightly delayed, echoing through layers of static.

"You outran yourself again."

Grant's jaw tightened. "Didn't mean to."

"You never do," the echo replied. "You just move faster than the world can hold."

The real Grant stepped closer, studying the faint distortion bleeding from his double. The air between them buzzed with tension, microcurrents of time warping around their overlap.

"Last time this happened," the echo said, "you split the Sanctum in half."

Grant's tone stayed even. "Last time, I wasn't ready."

They circled each other—two halves of one frequency trying to find sync. Every step they took rippled light across the floor, reality bending to accommodate the impossible: one man existing twice in the same moment.

"So," the echo murmured, "which of us stays?"

Grant met his own eyes. "Neither."

He raised his hand. The other mirrored him perfectly. Energy surged—red lightning crossing in mirrored arcs, merging in midair. The sound was not thunder but resonance, a deep harmonic pulse that seemed to vibrate through the bones of the entire Palace.

Jazmine burst in as the light peaked. Two Grants—dissolving into one—flickered before her eyes.

When the light faded, only one figure remained—Grant, breathing hard, his aura steadier than before. The lingering tremor of red lightning shimmered across the walls, every crystal in the hall glowing faintly in response to his pulse.

Jazmine stepped forward, awe in her voice.

ou ever stop and think how impossible you are?"

Grant gave a faint smile. "Not if I can help it."

But her expression darkened. The humor was a thin veil over what she really wanted to ask.

"Why would a being like Gravax ally himself with Veynar?" she said finally. "Power like his doesn't share."

Grant's answer came slow, thoughtful.

"It shouldn't. Unless… something stronger made it necessary."

The idea lingered between them—unspoken dread taking shape.

Jazmine folded her arms. "If we bring this to the table, the Ampers will demand to come. They'll follow us into something they don't understand."

Grant's gaze hardened. "Then we won't bring it to the table."

Her head tilted slightly. "You mean—"

"We do this alone," she finished for him.

The decision hung heavy but inevitable.

Jazmine raised her hand, and light pooled into existence—liquid gold twisting upward, forming a staff of celestial alloy. The metal was etched with the sigils of the Watch's walls, shifting like living script. At its peak shimmered a crystalline core, alive with the spectrum of dawn.

Grant stepped closer, studying it in quiet awe.

"Beautiful," he murmured. "And purposeful."

Jazmine's eyes met his. "Forged for both."

The floor beneath them rippled, time itself folding inward—patterns of red and rose interlacing into a circular distortion gate. The sound that followed wasn't mechanical, but organic—a heartbeat echoing through the Watch's living walls.

Light engulfed them, rising to the ceiling in a bloom of color.

When it faded, the hall was empty.

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