Conqueror of the Lost World

I am no longer accepting the things I cannot change. I am changing the things I cannot accept.

Angela Davis:

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The boy reacted, thrusting his hands downward to block the scorching beam. As the attack collided with his palms, the searing heat and immense force drove him to his limits.

"Arragh!" he groaned, his voice strained under the pressure. The weight of the beam bore down on him, its blistering heat radiating outward. Globs of molten lava fall from the sky and splattered onto the ground, hissing and steaming violently as they cooled.

Though the intensity was almost unbearable, the boy refused to yield. His hands absorbed the brunt of the attack while his feet anchored themselves in the air, finding some invisible footing. He braced himself, determined not to falter.

Then, something extraordinary occurred. The fiery beam began to lose its heat. A silvery frost crept along its blazing length, spreading like an unstoppable tide. The icy force consumed the attack, dulling its fiery rage.

The woman's eyes widened in shock as the frost raced toward her. Before she could react, her hands were encased in shimmering, crystalline ice.

She stared at her hands, now encased in ice—a phenomenon she hadn't believed possible. Her flames were powerful enough to slice through dozen of mountains with ease, yet here they were, halted and frozen by a mere boy.

This wasn't something that happened by chance. It defied reason, and the absurdity of it made her grin. Now things are getting interesting, she thought, swinging her arms with a sharp motion. The ice shattered into glittering shards, which evaporated into steam as they met the sweltering air around her.

The boy stood still, his cold, unyielding eyes locked on her fiery gaze. For a moment, an unspoken understanding passed between them, as if they acknowledged each other's strength. But as she prepared herself for his next move, he remained unmoving, rooted in place.

Then—Whoosh. A gust of air swept past her. She whirled around, startled, and there he was, already behind her, standing calmly as if he had been there all along.

Reacting without hesitation, she conjured small orbs of fire that floated ominously around her, crackling with dangerous energy. Instead of launching a direct attack with her balls, she funneled her power into the ground beneath him. The earth erupted violently, flames roaring upward in a fiery explosion that consumed the spot where he stood.

But he was gone.

She scanned the skies, expecting to find him in the same place as before—but there was nothing, just empty air and silence.

"Do you think I'll just dodge forever?" his voice rang out from behind her, mocking and sharp. "Are you stupid?"

Her eyes widened. She felt it—a strike aimed at her solar plexus. Instinctively, she unleashed the tendrils, letting them spring to life in an effort to intercept the blow.

But this time, it was different.

His fist phased through her defenses as though they were nothing but smoke, bypassing her tendrils entirely. The strike landed cleanly, hitting its mark.

A strike to the solar plexus is one of the most jarring and incapacitating experiences a person can endure. Here's what typically unfolds:

A punch to the solar plexus is a visceral, debilitating experience that momentarily robs a person of their very essence of control.

The strike lands with a brutal precision just below the sternum, a blunt force that seems to reverberate through the core of the body. For an instant, time fractures. The air in the lungs is expelled in a harsh, involuntary gasp, as though the breath itself has been sucker-punched out of existence. A crushing pressure grips the diaphragm, making inhaling feel like a distant, impossible dream.

Pain radiates outward in sharp, stabbing tendrils that coil through the chest and abdomen, an internal shockwave that seems to scramble every nerve in its path. The knees buckle as if gravity has suddenly doubled, and a helpless sag overtakes the body—a grim bow to the force of the blow.

There's a moment of dizzying vulnerability, where the world narrows to the pounding of blood in the ears and the desperate, primal urge to breathe. It's not just the physical impact; it's the terror of being so wholly disarmed, your body turned against you by a single, well-placed strike.

And then, slowly, painfully, the first ragged gasp of air comes. Relief is sharp but fleeting, as the ache lingers, a cruel reminder that strength can be stolen in a heartbeat.

What she felt was only a fraction of what one might expect from such a devastating strike—or so she believed. The initial impact had barely made her stagger, a testament to her sheer resilience. If it had been an ordinary punch, she would have dismissed it as little more than an irritation.

But this was no ordinary punch.

The boy's fist had been wreathed in roaring blue flames, their icy essence far more sinister than any conventional attack. When the strike landed squarely on her solar plexus, the frigid flames detonated, spreading their merciless chill through her body. The cold was so intense that her skin began to crack and split, the unbearable pressure forcing her body into rebellion against the unnatural, freezing agony.

The pain was beyond anything she had ever endured, so consuming it shattered her ability to think. Rational thought dissolved into chaos, and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, she teetered on the edge of unconsciousness. The darkness loomed before her eyes, inviting her to surrender, to let go of the agony and drift into oblivion.

But she refused.

No. Not like this.

Her defiance roared to life, hotter than any fire she had ever summoned. Even as the relentless cold gnawed at her, she summoned every ounce of will to fight back. The orbs of flame she had conjured earlier, which had hovered harmlessly until now, suddenly surged forward with unbridled ferocity, honing in on the boy like predators scenting blood.

And then, from deep within her, a new power stirred. It wasn't just a reaction to the boy's attack; it was something raw and primal, emanating from her very soul.

Then reality fractured, shattering like fragile glass, and she emerged anew….

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