Yellow Jacket

Warren stepped away from the center of the circle, casual, unhurried, like none of this mattered. He walked like someone crossing a room at a dinner party, not a killing field. He passed the staring champions, the stunned onlookers, the sharpened silence. He crossed the dust and shadows until he reached Grix, who looked half-drunk and twice as dangerous, crouched on a half-shattered bench like she might bite someone just to stay entertained.

He held out the truncheon.

"Hold this for me."

Grix blinked. "What?"

"I need my umbrella," Warren said, deadpan. Flat. Like asking for tea.

Grix stared for a beat too long, and then burst out laughing. Not polite laughter, real, cackling, stomach-cramping laughter. "You're serious?"

He didn't answer. Just offered her the truncheon again, politely.

She took it with both hands like it might catch fire. "Gods. You bastard. You're going to make it a show then?"

Warren gave the faintest shrug. "It's a celebration, isn't it? Might as well have some fun."

Grix grinned, sharp and wild. "Those bastards are going to love seeing this. I can feel the spitter making wagers behind my nose, it kinda tickles."

Across the circle, the chieftains bristled. Blades were drawn. Faces darkened. Every muscle from wrist to jaw to spine tightened like a bowstring. Some of the champions shifted their stances, expecting mockery, getting it.

Muk-Tah's arms were folded. His voice, flat but edged, carried low: "This may be too far."

"I'm not trying to kill them," Warren said simply. "Just break them."

He smiled. Calm. Certain. Not cruel, something worse. Joyful.

It spread like venom through the crowd. The disrespect. The calm. The umbrella. No signal was given, no invocation spoken, and already he moved like tradition meant nothing.

At the edge of the gathering, Styll was crouched in the grass, arranging a precise semicircle of cats in front of her like a royal court. Each feline bore a scrap of cloth tied around a paw or tail, makeshift banners, lovingly stolen and gifted. She leaned in close, whispering to them.

"That's Warn," she explained solemnly. "He da bestest. No bites 'less they cheats. Gots it?"

One of the cats mewed in reply. She nodded. "Perfect. We're his line now."

Wren glanced over, watching Styll's handiwork, and couldn't help but smile, soft, proud, and already dreading what came next.

From the front rows, an elder bared his teeth. "This is a rite, not a circus!"

"He's mocking our blood!"

"You think you know pain, boy? Just wait, soon you'll be eating shit like the worm you are."

They hurled their words like stones.

Warren stood amid it, motionless.

Isol leaned in closer to Wren, voice cracked with worry. "He isn't just fighting twenty people. He's... he's handicapping himself. What is he thinking?"

Wren didn't blink. "He's about to fly."

The crowd was not so generous.

The booing came next, louder, angrier, visceral.

"Arrogant bastard!"

"He mocks the rite!"

"What? After all that come-at-me talk, now he's using a toy? Does he think we'll go easy if he isn't holding real steel?"

"Fight like a warrior, not a clown!"

A chief spat in the dust. One champion actually turned in place, glancing at the elders for permission to end it before it began.

Warren just smiled.

This wasn't a fight to kill a mountain.

This was a show.

And they hated him for it.

They had come for trial. For violence. For spectacle, yes, but not this kind. Not staged defiance in the shape of a boy with an umbrella and a grin that refused to break. He moved like the dust beneath his feet should thank him for the privilege.

"Who does he think he is?" a woman hissed.

"I don't care if he beat a brood mother. This? This is sacrilege."

"He spits on the old laws."

"He spits on us."

Jurpat, drunk and blinking, was already looking at Calra. "Why's everyone losing their shit? What's happening?"

Calra's eyes lit up like starfire. "I didn't get to see it fully last time. I only heard the stories. But this? This is going to be spectacular."

"You call this a fight?" barked someone nearby. "It's mockery!"

Cassian was already taking bets behind them, shouting over the noise. "Seven-to-one odds! I'll wager the coat off my back! You want my boots, too? They're barely even bloodstained!"

"Seven-to-one? You lunatic! He'll be carried out on a stretcher!"

Someone tried to grab Cassian's arm. He ducked them, laughing. "You'll see!"

"You want in if you're so sure he's going to lose?" Cassian barked. "Ante up!"

The man did. So did others. Coins, favors, weapons, wagers piled like wildfire. They were betting on Warren failing. On tradition breaking him in half.

Cassian, grinning like he'd swallowed lightning, kept calling them in. "Come on, come on! You think he's an idiot? Prove it! I'm giving you the best odds of your lives!"

People shoved forward. They shouted over each other. One woman tried to bet her boots and a half-full flask. Another offered her belt dagger. The air turned feral.

And through it all, Cassian's eyes sparkled, not with fear, not even hope. With hunger. He could already see the riches glowing. Because deep down, some part of him knew: Warren wasn't just about to win.

He was about to ruin them for betting against him.

Deana stood near Nanuk. Neither said much, but both looked like they were watching judgment descend, not from above, but from within.

Ernala crossed her arms, skeptical, but remembering. She had watched this boy bring down the brood mother. She had seen the way he moved through fire like it welcomed him.

He wasn't just another warrior. He was the Tidelord.

And he was rising.

Anza leaned over to Batu and Yeri, whispering, "Is Warren really going to be okay?"

Batu grunted. "That fool boy's already beyond what I can adequately judge. But… I think so. From what I've heard, he does dumb things like this all the time. And somehow, they keep working."

Yeri nodded slowly. "That boy's a true fucking savant of violence. Just watch."

"He is a grinning fool," an elder muttered. "Let's see if he still smiles when his bones snap."

Warren stood now alone again, umbrella in hand. He twirled it once. Clicked it open with a flourish.

The fabric snapped wide. The wind caught it just right. It didn't look like a shield. It didn't look like a weapon. It looked like the start of a storm.

More shouts.

"Use a real weapon, coward!"

"This isn't a playhouse, boy!"

"If he dies, it's his own doing."

A stone was thrown. It missed. Another followed. Someone caught the thrower and dragged them back into the crowd, but the air was poisoned now. The tension howled across the air.

Warren didn't flinch.

He wasn't here to fight tradition. He was here to make it kneel.

And the first to move toward him would learn: he didn't need a weapon to destroy someone.

He just needed the right moment to begin.

This was not war.

This was performance.

And Warren? Warren was there to lead.

There was no bell. No signal to start. It just did. They moved as one.

Fifteen champions surged forward. The ground shook beneath their charge. Not wild. They came for blood, not glory. The circle had no borders now, only prey and predators.

They didn't shout. Didn't glow. Didn't posture. Skills ignited on instinct: kinetic bursts from gauntlets, whipcrack pulses that turned dust to mist, grapnels launched fast and wide. Others hit harder, legs and arms swelling with pulse-mass. It wasn't elegant. It was overwhelming.

Warren stepped once to the side, then vanished.

From the crowd came the first wave of noise, jeers sharp enough to pierce through steel. "Coward!" someone screamed.

The champions shouted too. One of the spear-bearers snarled, "I'll drive that toy through your gut!" Another grunted as he charged, "You think you're untouchable? We'll drag your corpse through the dust!"

The first man never saw the umbrella coming.

It broke his wrist on the draw. Spun him. Cracked his jaw mid-turn. His body folded before it hit the ground. The second came low with a hooked blade, only to find Warren's coat whipping into his face, blinding him as the umbrella came up under his chin. Teeth scattered like gravel.

A third champion launched a grapnel, Warren caught it mid-air, reversed the tension, and used it to pull the man directly into a boot to the throat. He collapsed gasping, and didn't rise again.

The chiefs did not wait.

Kor-Ven entered the fray like a hammer thrown downhill, a double-axe cleaving through the dust. His strikes came heavy and fast, each one building pressure. His timing was brutal. Direct.

Warren ducked under the first swing and didn't bother countering. Not yet.

Two more champions flanked him, one with a static-laced warpick, the other with a fang-spear. Their approach was trained. Predictable.

He disarmed the first with a twist of the umbrella and shattered the second's kneecap in the same motion. Then he used the spear's shaft to launch upward, straight into Kor-Ven's space.

Axe met umbrella. A clang of resistance Kor-Ven was not expecting.

"Still standing? I'll fix that," spat a brawler as Warren rose again.

Then Ha-Lek entered. His fists wrapped in ironcord, his weight locked low. A human wall. Every step was a threat. His strikes bruised even when blocked.

Warren let him come.

Two more champions tried to dogpile him. One caught Warren's elbow. The other took a spike through the eye.

Blood hit the dirt.

No cheers. Just rage and unraveling.
A woman near the back screamed for blood, no one knew her name, but her voice cracked like she'd been waiting years to shout it.
One elder clutched the edge of his seat, white-knuckled, his face straining to stay composed.
A young boy dropped the chit he meant to bet.
And still Warren moved.

"Break his legs!" someone screamed.
"Stop playing!" another begged.
Wagers flipped like knives, hurled too fast to count. The noise was feral, not festive.

Still others shouted with fevered joy.

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"No, look! He's doing it! Gods, he's actually doing it!"

Children pointed from shoulders. Elders leaned forward, disbelief thick in their eyes.

Cassian cackled as a pile of loot landed at his feet. "Warren, you mad bastard, you are going to make me rich!"

A chant started, messy, off-beat.

"Break him, break him, BREAK HIM!"

Only to stutter when another champion went down.

The crowd surged, voices raised in fury and awe alike.

"What in the hells is he?"

"He's not moving like a man, he's a really is a ghost!"

"He's laughing! Why the fuck is he laughing?!"

Each blow Warren landed sent a ripple through the crowd. Rage. Wonder. Chaos.

No one watching stood still.

Seyral slipped in next, silent, fast, dual blades flashing. She moved like wind over water, always in motion. She traced Warren's breath, not his center. Her cuts were light but deepening. The kind that built toward something final. Her champions mirrored her: fast, quiet, methodical.

Warren bled. A cut along his side. Another across his shoulder.

"Show us your blood, coat-boy!" someone heckled from the edge.

He smiled anyway.

Del-Noh came laughing. Wild. "Come on then, ghost! Let's see if that coat stops death!" he barked. One of his champions shouted, "You think you're better than us?" His flail twisted off-tempo like a broken clock, gaining speed with each swing. He didn't aim. He struck to overwhelm. The ground kicked up in waves around him. His champions came in burned and brutal, wielding their best weapons, battle-worn axes, chain-pikes crackling with charge, and spears sharpened to surgical points. No showpieces. All of them tools meant to kill.

Warren let them come.

He stopped dodging. He just started breaking them.

Spines. Elbows. Noses. Knees. The umbrella didn't sing. It snapped. Smashed. Humiliated.

Seyral drew blood again. Kor-Ven landed a glancing blow. Ha-Lek hit hard enough to stagger.

And still Warren did not fall.

He rolled forward between swings, kicked the knee of one champion sideways, and jabbed upward with the umbrella's tip into another's throat. He ducked behind Del-Noh and smashed him across the skull with the hook of the handle. The man went down in a heap, twitching.

Another tried to gut him from the side. Warren caught the blade with the curve of his umbrella frame, twisted the attacker's wrist, and used the man as a shield against the next spear-thrust.

Blows came in waves. So did jeers.

"You'll bleed out like the rest!"

"Drown in your own pride, Boy!"

He swept a leg. Another went down. A footstep behind him was enough. He turned, slipped the strike, and jabbed low, shin shattered, the man screaming.

"He can't be human!" someone cried.

Warren parried with his shoulder. Used his back as a pivot. Tripped one, kicked another into the dirt.

Three champions circled him, baiting, timing. He threw the umbrella into the air.

They lunged.

He caught it on the drop, spun, whipped it across all three in a single blurred arc.

The crowd gasped. Then screamed.

Kor-Ven charged again, a roar of fury. Warren ducked beneath the first swing, stepped in, and rapped his ribs three times with mechanical precision, one, two, three.

"What in the world is he made of?" gasped a younger fighter, voice cracking.

"He's not even fighting, he's making us look like fools!" Ursan growled, fury trembling in his jaw.

He moved through them like fire through dry brush. Each breath harder. Each strike more exact. The kind of precision born of instinct honed into art.

The Yellow Jacket. The Ghost in the Mist.

They tried to kill him with tradition. They came with names, with bloodlines, with blades.

And they were still losing.

One by one.

Because Warren was not fighting them. He was playing them.

They circled him now, slower, more cautious, bloodied and rattled, but not broken. Not yet. Of the original twenty, six lay crumpled in the dirt, unmoving. Not dead, but humiliated. Disarmed. Some moaned. Some groaned. None would stand again.

The remaining fourteen spread out: five chiefs, nine champions. No one moved all at once anymore. This wasn't sport now, it was survival. And something else. Something older. Reverence, maybe.

The crowd jeered. They called for blood and steel. But Warren carried no blade. Just the reinforced umbrella: dripping, stained, twirling lazily in one hand, a symbol of everything he was, and everything they should fear.

And then something strange began to happen.

One of the younger champions broke the silence. "Warpspike," he said, voice too loud, like he wanted the name to carry. It didn't sound like a necessity. It sounded like a dare. Maybe a trend. Maybe they thought calling their Skills would give them edge, or fear. Maybe they wanted the crowd to remember what name beat this pretender.

His arms contorted, twisted at unnatural angles, and then spines erupted, launched like clustered shrapnel from beneath his flesh.

Warren vanished.

Flicker.

He reappeared behind the boy and tapped him once on the back of the knee with the handle of the umbrella. Then he brought it down on his face, shattering teeth. Bone fractured. Blood spilled across the ground in a fast, wet arc. The champion crumpled without ceremony.

The next fighter muttered, quieter: "Quake Trail."

Each step she took sent tremors out in a growing radius, a shifting field of unsteady ground meant to throw him off balance.

Warren shifted, letting the tremors roll underfoot, and then rode them like a wave, slipping closer as her momentum carried her just one step too far. One slip. One twist of the umbrella under her heel. She collapsed in a grunt and dust. He didn't let her breathe. One jab. A splint of ribs. A cut along her thigh from the sharpened tip of the umbrella. Not deep, but humbling.

Another stepped up. He hesitated, then lifted his chin and declared, "Ghost Mirror."

He split into two forms, identical, moving in flawless harmony. A perfect illusion, meant to confuse, delay, and overwhelm.

Warren walked straight into them. Didn't strike. Just passed between.

One form shimmered. Blinked. Collapsed, false.

The real one swung. Warren ducked. Spun. Slammed the handle into the man's chin. He folded. Warren jabbed again, this time into the man's shoulder, dislocating it with a sharp twist.

The crowd began to lean forward now, watching with a mix of disbelief and discomfort. This was not what they had come to see. This was not a ritual beating.

Del-Noh growled it like a threat: "Twister Chain!"

The links blurred, orbiting wildly around him, a cyclone of steel whirling through the air.

Warren danced in. Let the chain whip forward. Caught it with the umbrella shaft. Yanked. Del-Noh stumbled. One pivot. One shoulder slam. He dropped. Warren stepped on the man's hand, then drove the umbrella's tip through a joint in the shoulder. A howl answered.

The crowd erupted, shocked into noise. His entire side of the circle, those who had bet against him, those who shouted for steel and blood, fell into uneasy silence.

And on the far edge, Cassian roared with laughter, cackling like a man possessed. "THAT'S TEN! PAY ME, YOU FOOLS!"

Somewhere in the crowd, Grix whistled low, eyes gleaming as she looked at Cassian while speaking to Calra. "That side of him? Hot. Not gonna lie."

Wren and Styll were already shouting, high-pitched and fierce, cheering Warren's every strike like children watching their favorite play out in real time. Even the cats had gathered at their feet, mewling, pacing, swatting the air in excitement as though they, too, understood the stakes. Deana whooped without reservation, her voice cutting through the noise, enjoying the spectacle with unburdened joy.

Calra stood with Grix and Jurpat, eyes narrowed, arms crossed, her usual stoicism giving way to something more primal. Jurpat leaned in and muttered, "This doesn't feel like a fight anymore."

Isol said nothing. He stood wide-eyed, breath short, watching a man he had once faced in the rain become something even more surreal. This was him flying. This was Warren unleashed, and it was absurd.

Ursan growled low. "Stoneplate," he muttered, like someone coughing up a confession.

His flesh rippled, thickening, turning near-metal. He charged.

Warren let him come.

Then vanished.

He reappeared on Ursan's back. Slammed the umbrella down behind his neck. Ursan roared. Another strike to the base of the skull. A bone broke audibly. Then he jabbed upward into the ear canal with the spearpoint. Ursan dropped.

The crowd didn't gasp.
They stopped breathing.
One man covered his mouth and whispered a prayer to gods he hadn't spoken to in years.
A girl who had mocked Warren earlier now reached for her father's arm and didn't let go.
Even the fiercest bettors, those still standing, began to edge back, as if the name Tidelord might strike them next.

And that, that was when the real weapons came out.

Ha-Lek activated next. He squared his shoulders. Didn't shout. Just nodded and spoke clearly: "Titan's Stance."

His muscles locked into place, skin vibrating with power. A living fortress, immobile and indomitable.

Warren didn't contest him. Not yet. He moved around, flickering at the edges of vision, striking others first. Weaker ones. One more champion tried to grapple, Warren swept his legs. Another threw a knife, Warren snatched it mid-air and threw it back, shaft-first, knocking the fighter unconscious. Then he stepped in, hooked a leg and jabbed under the rib cage with his spearpoint. Blood welled instantly.

Only seven stood.

The crowd was quieting.

Seyral licked her lips, eyes gleaming. She tucked away her dual blades without ceremony, then pulled out a small file and began sharpening her nails with slow, deliberate strokes, as if this too was preparation. Her fingers flexed in rhythm. Still she waited. Still she smiled.

Kor-Ven looked at Seyral and grinned viciously, feeling the heft of his axe. He began swinging it through the air in slow, heavy arcs, practice swings, deliberate and menacing, like a warrior warming his blood before the final plunge. The air shimmered slightly behind each swing. The weight of the axe, combined with Kor-Ven's force, left visible after-images in its wake, ghosted trails of violence not yet delivered, but promised.

He still hadn't spoken.

Warren nodded slightly. Inviting him.

Kor-Ven didn't move.

Because now Seyral was walking.

Her posture was fluid, graceful, tight with purpose, like a predator testing the edge of a kill-zone. Her eyes locked on Warren's, not with allure, but with calculation.

"Viper's Touch," she said, low and controlled, but clearly. She didn't shout it to the crowd. She spoke it to him. A promise, not a performance.

Venom slicked her nails. Dripping rhythmically. Her stance lowered.

Warren tilted his head.

She struck.

Fast. So fast.

He matched her. Not faster. Just better timed.

Handle met wrist. Parried her next strike. He ducked a third. Let her graze his coat.

She grinned. "Don't bleed easy, huh?"

He grinned back. "Don't have time."

They clashed again. And again. Her strikes came with rhythm now, poisoned percussion.

He absorbed them. Redirected. His flicker let him slip just out of time, just out of frame.

One elbow. One upward hook. Her jaw snapped sideways. But she rolled. Recovered.

Seyral was laughing. "You're the real thing."

"Still warming up."

Behind her, Kor-Ven's axe carved glowing lines through the air.

"Echoing Strike," he rumbled. Proud. Possessive.

The ground rang.

His swings now doubled. One real. One phantom echo trailing the first like delayed thunder.

He charged like a storm. Seyral stepped aside.

Warren met him.

The umbrella blocked one axe.

The echo hit nothing.

Warren slid inside. Slammed the shaft across Kor-Ven's nose. Blood sprayed. The chief didn't stop.

Another axe. Warren ducked. Umbrella hooked a knee. Pulled. Kor-Ven fell.

Warren didn't finish him. Just stood.

Kor-Ven roared laughter.

"Glorious," he spat.

Warren nodded once.

Five still stood. Seyral. Kor-Ven. Ha-Lek, barely. Two champions trembling.

But Warren didn't tremble.

He stood in their circle, blood-flecked, coat torn, smile intact.

The umbrella clicked open.

The air went still.

All around him, the blood shimmered.

He said nothing.

He simply opened the umbrella wider, slow and deliberate, and the blood around him began to stir.

Warren laughed.

A full, open laugh that rang across the battlefield like the crack of a war drum flipped upside down, hollow and brazen. Blood dripped from his coat. He hadn't needed to give much of himself.

He raised the umbrella like a banner, let it rest on his shoulder with practiced ease, and said only two words:

"Let's dance."

The blood obeyed.

A ripple passed across the ground. Not from a stomp. Not from any quake or tremor. The rivers of red began to move against gravity, crawling inward, coiling around his boots, tracing spider-vein channels toward the handle of his umbrella. It wasn't just a weapon now. It was his instrument.

Rain Dancer had awakened.

The battlefield changed.

The five who remained, Seyral, Kor-Ven, Ha-Lek, and the two trembling champions, froze mid-breath. The crowd did not gasp. They inhaled and never let it go, silence stretched taut by awe and disbelief.

Rain didn't fall from the sky. It lifted from the ground. Blood became mist. Mist became storm. Warren moved, and the blood moved with him, not in chaos, but with purpose, channeled along the exact lines his umbrella traced in the air.

Each swing, each jab, each pivot brought a slashing current or a lashing tendril of crimson, fluid like water, sharp as razors. His motion was not just battle, it was direction. The tide listened. It curved to his will. It struck when he struck.

One step forward, and the mist followed. It clung to his back like wings not yet unfurled. He swept the umbrella low, and a scythe of red carved outward, tripping the closest champion.

Warren didn't let him hit the ground. A spin, a flick, and the handle caught the man's throat. He crumpled. Silent. Broken.

Ha-Lek surged forward, unwilling to let fear settle. Titan's Stance held, his skin still vibrating, but the tide moved beneath him.

Warren didn't dodge. He let the tide part around Ha-Lek's stance like he was a rock in a stream.

Then Warren stabbed upward. The spearpoint kissed flesh under the chin. Not deep. Just enough. Blood joined the tide.

Ha-Lek's eyes widened. He dropped.

Four left.

The mist thickened. The blood began to lift.
Some in the crowd screamed, not out of fear, out of confusion. The rules were gone.
An old scavenger dropped his pouch of chits and didn't bother picking it up.
A child started laughing like it was a game. His mother pulled him close, eyes locked on Warren like she was seeing a ghost crawl out of legend.
One man tried to flee, clutching his winnings.
Zal-Raan stopped him. "You're no coward, are you?"

The man froze. Swallowed. Nodded.

Cassian, meanwhile, stood gleaming with glee, arms spread, calling for payouts. "Seven-to-one, and still light odds!" he howled. "You think I'm generous? I undersold it, you blind cretins!"

Muk-Tah burst into laughter.

Then Ra-Sa.

Then No-Rel and Ernala, their stern facades cracking as they watched the blood tide curve with Warren's step.

"That is no mere man," Muk-Tah said, almost reverently. "That is the Tidelord."

Back near the cheering ring, Wren and Styll danced, literally. Wren's hands clapped to a rhythm that had no drums, just blood movement. Styll hopped, paws in the air, mimicking her. Even the cats joined, mewling in patterns, tails high.

Deana let out a cheer that was almost a song. Joy, awe, not reverence. A celebration of raw spectacle.

Grix grabbed Cassian by the collar and dragged him into a kiss, fierce and unapologetic.

Jurpat stood beside Calra, gesturing madly. "Do you see this?! I got beat by that! This is so much cooler from the other side!"

Calra smirked. "It's so epic seeing it like this."

"I know!"

Anza was crying.

Not from fear. Not even from grief. But for the first time since Holt died, she felt hope rise in her chest. Real hope.

Yeri and Batu flanked her, hands on her shoulders. Batu looked ready to charge the ring himself, not to fight, but to celebrate.

In the center of it all, Warren advanced on the last four.

The two champions moved as one, desperate, shoulder to shoulder. One called something out, maybe a Skill, maybe a prayer, but it was lost in the roar.

They charged.

Warren flickered.

Blood swept sideways, hard enough to lift one off their feet. He hit the other with the shaft, spinning low, then jabbing upward into the knee. Bones snapped. Screams echoed.

He kicked the fallen fighter away like an afterthought.

Now only two.

Seyral and Kor-Ven.

They had waited.

They had hoped he would burn out.

But now they saw it.

He was not burning.

He was rising.

Seyral stepped forward, poison still slicking her fingers.

"Together?" she said to Kor–Ven.

The brute nodded. "One last dance."

They came.

She was speed. He was force.

Warren flicked the umbrella, and the blood rose to meet them.

Seyral struck first, claws lashing through the red mist, carving arcs meant to blind, to flay, to cripple.

Warren turned sideways, bent backward, let one claw glide across the coat's edge, then slammed the handle upward into her gut. She folded. He caught her wrist. Snapped it.

She hissed. Retaliated. Bit his arm.

He let her. Then cracked her across the temple with the shaft.

She dropped.

Kor–Ven bellowed.

He came with twin axes, Echo Strikes layering phantom swings behind the real ones.

Warren didn't flicker. He stood his ground.

One block.

Two.

Then he stepped into the phantom.

It passed through him.

He spun behind Kor–Ven and kicked out the brute's knee.

The chief dropped, but not without a roar of approval. "GLORIOUS!"

Warren lowered the umbrella's point to Kor–Ven's neck.

The mist froze.

The tide halted.

The blood circled, high above, suspended.

Warren looked to the chiefs who had watched.

He said nothing.

They stood.

They bowed.

The crowd, finally, went silent.

Then they erupted.

One word. Chanted. Over and over.

"Tidelord."

"Tidelord."

"TIDELORD."

Warren didn't smile.

He closed the umbrella.

The storm ended.

Children would whisper of the day blood danced.

Warriors would remember the boy who walked without a blade.

He was the blade.

No one gave him the title.

They just watched it happen.

You have reached Level 12

Warren Smith — Level 12

(Second threshold requirements not met)

Class: Drift Walker

Alignment: Aberrant

Unallocated Stat Points: 4

Attributes:

Strength: 13

Perception: 16

Intelligence: 26

Dexterity: 20

Endurance: 13

Resolve: 23

Skills at Level 12:

Soft Flicker (Active)

Echo Vision (Passive)

Examine (Active)

Quick Reflexes (Passive)

Crafting (Active)

Warren's Skill – Rain Dancer

Stage One

Core Effect – Phase Slip

Passive – Micro-Evasion Boost

Attack Sync Effect – Kinetic Surge