Orion found himself in a foreign environment. The sky was cracked, filled with swirling colors that blended together like spilled ink. It looked like the world itself had been torn apart, leaving behind glowing rifts that flickered with strange lights.
The battlefield stretched on forever. Orion stood at the edge of it, surrounded by huge stone towers, broken but still standing, rising like the ribs of some giant beast. Strange symbols covered their surfaces.
The air was heavy and hard to breathe—not just because of the smell of blood and decay, but because of something older, something ancient.
Orion heard it—a deep, slow breath, steady and powerful. Whatever was breathing wasn't human.
Each inhalation was slow and measured, as if that creature that had no need for urgency. The space around him felt heavier, as though unseen hands were pressing down on Orion's shoulders, rooting him in place. A primal instinct screamed in the back of his skull.
It wasn't just big.
It was colossal.
The creature walked on two legs, its frame humanoid. Thick, powerful muscles shifted beneath its dark, scaly skin as it moved, each heavy step making the ground shake. Its arms were unnaturally long, its clawed hands flexing lazily, absurdly dexterous despite their size. A tail dragged behind it, the spines along its length clicking together as it moved.
And then there were its eyes.
Twin golden slits, burning against the ruinous backdrop.
A predator's gaze.
Orion's breath hitched.
His muscles locked.
The fear of prey before a predator.
His legs wouldn't move. His fingers trembled at his sides. His heart thundered in his chest, hammering against his ribs.
_MOVE!_
_RUN!_
His body refused.
The giant lizard took another step, the impact sending cracks through the ground. It wasn't in a hurry. It had no reason to be.
A shudder ran through him, a chill seeping into his bones. He wasn't thinking—his mind was spiraling, consumed by the inevitability of it. The sheer hopelessness of facing something that shouldn't be beatable.
His fingers curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms, drawing blood.
Something in him snapped.
A flood of raw, reckless desperation crashed over him. He clenched his teeth, his breath rasping out in ragged bursts.
Then—
He roared.
A defiant roar that burned through his fear, stripping it down to something else—fury, survival, instinct.
He moved.
The paralysis shattered, and he launched forward.
In his hands, he wielded a double-headed spear—on the right side of one tip was curved like a khopesh blade, honed to a deadly edge, the other tip extending into a retractable chain. The weapon moved like an extension of his body, its shifting forms allowing him to strike, bind, and tear with seamless transitions.
And it didn't matter.
The lizard didn't flinch.
Orion's first strike—the extendable chain from his Wraith spear—snapped forward, wrapping around the beast's throat. The weapon's second tip, a dagger-like extension, gleamed as he yanked it back, aiming to tear into the scaled flesh.
No reaction.
He transitioned—slashing with the khopesh side blade of his spear, aiming for the creature's throat, then twisting into a sweeping arc to carve through the tendons in its leg.
Nothing.
The giant absorbed it all, standing firm like an immovable mountain.
And then—
It countered.
Orion barely saw the attack before it came.
A blur of motion.
Then—
Impact.
A clawed hand slammed into his side with monstrous force.
He wasn't standing anymore.
He was airborne.
For a brief, agonizing second, time stretched—his body weightless, untethered. The air rushed past his ears, his mind struggling to process what had happened.
Then—
Agony.
The ground welcomed him like a hammer to glass.
His back slammed into the ruined battlefield, the impact driving the breath from his lungs in a choking gasp. Pain exploded through his ribs.
Orion's vision blurred, black spots dancing in the periphery. He tasted iron—his own blood.
He forced himself to move. He had to get up.
But—
A massive shadow loomed over him, stretching across the cracked ground like an omen of doom. The air grew colder, heavier, as if the weight of the creature's presence alone could crush him.
The monster started to move slowly from its spot.
Like nothing had happened.
Like Orion was nothing.
A wheezing breath escaped his lips. He rolled onto his side, forcing himself to his knees, his limbs trembling.
The lizard-thing took another step forward, its tail flicking lazily behind it. Then, it spoke. A guttural, otherworldly sound filled the air—a language Orion couldn't even begin to understand. The words slithered through his ears, thick with meaning yet utterly foreign. It wasn't just noise; it was speech. The realization sent a chill down his spine.
And then, something else hit him. He wasn't alone.
Ingrid was there—her breath ragged, her stance tense. But beside her stood two unfamiliar faces.
One was a slightly chubby boy with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, his expression a mix of awe and terror.
The other was a petite girl with pink hair and dark eyes, her gaze sharp, calculating. Orion's mind reeled. Who were they? How had he not noticed them before?
The golden slits remained locked onto him, unblinking. The monster had been watching him—but why was it focusing only on him?
Orion exhaled shakily. His body hurt, every muscle screaming. His mind was fraying, breaking apart at the sheer absurdity of it.
This wasn't a fight.
It was toying with him.
His fingers dug into the dirt. His breath ragged, uneven.
No.
The weight of defeat pressed down on him, but he fought against it. Pushed back.
This wasn't over.
He wasn't finished.
The monster may have been stronger, but Orion still had his will.
His rage.
He steadied his breath, ignoring the pain lancing through his ribs. He adjusted his stance.
And he lunged again.
Orion surged forward again.
He moved with flawless precision, his body flowing as though guided by something deeper than instinct, deeper than thought. The Wraith Style was his own—not a borrowed technique, not an imitation of Varun's movements, but something uniquely his.
Every shift of his weight, every twitch of his fingers on the spear's grip, felt perfect. Seamless.
He twisted into a feint, his spear a blur in his hands. A pivot. A sudden change in trajectory. His body responded flawlessly, almost too flawlessly. His stance adjusted mid-motion, his balance shifting.
The spear's edge sang as it sliced through the air, carving toward the creature's flank with terrifying speed. His footwork was so precise, so devastatingly efficient that for a fraction of a second, he felt like he was watching someone else move.
The momentum was perfect. The angle, the execution—flawless.
The creature's claw twitched.
Orion never even saw the counter.
One moment he was moving.
The next—
Impact.
The world blurred. A single, effortless swipe of the creature's claw sent him hurtling through the air, pain erupting in his left arm.
He was airborne again.
Before he could think, he was on his feet.
Gasping. Bleeding. But standing.
Orion's fingers trembled around his spear. He exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself, but his chest ached. His ribs screamed in protest, his lungs struggling to pull in breath.
His fingers clenched around his spear, and for the first time, he felt it.
His body was somehow different.
He could see it in the way his hands gripped the weapon—how effortlessly it rested in his palms. His stance felt stronger, his muscles taut with power that hadn't been there before. And his reach—his range—
He was taller.
Not by much—maybe four inches, maybe more. But he could feel it. His frame was broader, more defined, his muscles sculpted into something more refined than he had ever known.
His footwork had been inhumanly efficient.
His spear had moved with more than just his skill.
Somewhere, somehow, something had changed.
Orion swallowed, his grip tightening on the weapon as his heartbeat pounded in his ears. He didn't have time to question it.
The monster took another step.