Rain continued to fall when Samye’s eyes opened.

  He was still lying in the street.

  Above him stood Kayal’s son, shaking him gently.

  “Uncle Samye… wake up…”

  Samye blinked, confused for a second — then snapped upright.

  “Why are you here?!” he shouted. “It’s dangerous! You could’ve been killed instantly!”

  The boy flinched, tears forming.

  “I came to help the person who saved my father…”

  Samye froze.

  The anger drained from his face.

  Silence filled the space between them.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “…Thank you,” Samye said quietly. “But this isn’t your fight.”

  The boy sniffed.

  “Come home,” he said softly.

  Samye looked toward the burning horizon.

  “I want to,” he replied. “But I’m needed.”

  He placed a hand gently on the child’s shoulder.

  “You still have your home. Your family. Go back. Stay with them. Don’t waste that time.”

  The boy nodded reluctantly.

  “You’re a good kid,” Samye added. “Remember that.”

  The child ran back toward safety.

  Samye stood.

  And turned toward the eastern side of the village.

  Where the explosions were coming from.

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  The closer he got, the heavier the air became.

  Magnetic distortions bent metal debris in strange arcs. Broken weapons floated mid-air.

  Then he saw him.

  One of the Seven Generals.

  The battlefield around him was filled with fallen soldiers — both friend and foe.

  He was the only one left standing.

  His power bent iron and steel toward him, forming a rotating shield of blades and shattered armor fragments.

  Magnetism.

  And across from him—

  The enemy.

  Tall. Calm. Uninjured.

  Watching.

  Samye stayed hidden, observing.

  The General roared and launched a storm of metal toward the enemy. Blades screamed through the rain like bullets.

  The enemy flicked his fingers—

  And everything stopped mid-air.

  Then reversed direction.

  Telekinesis.

  Samye narrowed his eyes.

  So that’s it…

  The fight continued.

  Fifteen minutes passed.

  The General’s breathing grew heavier. Sweat mixed with rain. His movements slowed slightly.

  The enemy?

  Untouched.

  Untired.

  Almost bored.

  The General gathered every last piece of metal within range.

  “Maximum Carnage!”

  The sky darkened as a massive vortex of blades and debris crashed toward the enemy.

  For the first time—

  The enemy coughed blood.

  He staggered.

  The General smiled weakly.

  Then the enemy straightened.

  “…Negative Six.”

  Suddenly—

  The General’s right arm twisted unnaturally.

  Bone cracked.

  He screamed — a scream so loud it echoed through the burning village.

  Samye’s blood ran cold.

  Negative?

  The enemy spoke again calmly.

  “…Negative Five.”

  The General’s other arm collapsed inward, crushed by invisible force.

  He fell to his knees.

  The enemy raised his hand to finish him.

  And Samye moved.

  “Secret Arts — Second Form: Enhancement.”

  His body surged again.

  Pain ignited through every nerve as he slammed into the enemy’s descending strike, diverting it at the last second.

  The General collapsed behind him.

  Samye’s mind calculated instantly.

  Three and a half minutes left.

  “If I don’t finish him before that…” he muttered.

  The enemy smiled faintly.

  “Ah. The anomaly.”

  They clashed.

  Brute force met invisible pressure.

  Samye struck with spear and fists, each blow enhanced beyond normal limits.

  But the enemy absorbed it.

  Redirected it.

  Telekinetic pulses smashed into Samye’s ribs, reopened wounds, and hurled him across broken stone.

  He forced himself back up.

  Again.

  Again.

  Every second burned.

  The enemy remained steady.

  “Negative Four,” he said calmly.

  The air compressed around Samye’s legs, nearly forcing him to the ground.

  Samye roared and pushed forward through it, stabbing toward the enemy’s chest.

  Blocked.

  Telekinetic shield.

  The enemy’s eyes narrowed.

  “You are running out of time.”

  Samye’s vision blurred.

  His enhancement window was closing.

  If I fall here… the village falls with me.

  He lunged again, desperation replacing calculation.

  But he was slower now.

  Weaker.

  And the enemy was still smiling.

  Three minutes.

  Two minutes.

  Samye was bleeding heavily.

  His body trembled violently.

  Still he fought.

  Still he refused to fall.

  But deep inside—

  He knew.

  At this pace—

  He would not win.

  And the enemy, untouched by fatigue, raised his hand once more.

  “…Negative Three.”