Chapter 71: The Come Back Kid
The Xenorian soldiers felt it before they saw it.
A shift in the battlefield.
A suffocating, electric charge in the air—as if the very atmosphere had thickened.
And then—
A body fell from the sky.
No, not a body.
A meteor.
A figure wreathed in Ki and crackling with raw Mana plummeted from the heavens, fists glowing with volatile fire mana.
Marcus Elder.
Then—A deafening boom!
The impact was catastrophic. The battlefield erupted in a shockwave of Ki-infused force, sending soldiers flying like leaves caught in a storm. The very ground fractured beneath him, jagged fissures racing outward, flames devouring the Xenorian front lines in pure destruction.
The last Siege Titan, towering above the carnage, began to turn—
Too late.
Marcus was already there.
He surged forward, his form a blur, moving faster than the eye could track. He leapt, his fists glowing with spiraling currents of Void Mana and Ki, twisting together in a violent storm of energy.
One punch.
That’s all it took.
His fist tore through the Titan’s core, energy erupting from the impact like a miniature sun going supernova. The behemoth collapsed in a molten heap, its once-indestructible form now nothing but glowing slag.
Silence.
The Xenorian forces froze.
The Orc warriors roared.
A single figure stood atop the wreckage of the fallen Titan, fists clenched, eyes burning with focused fury.
The Spell Fist had returned.
Marcus launched himself from the wreckage, a blur of motion.
The Xenorian soldiers barely had time to react.
He slid through their ranks like a phantom, his Spacial Footwork making him untouchable.
A sword aimed for his spine—he ducked, twisted—and caved in the attacker’s ribs with a brutal body shot.
Another soldier lunged—Marcus slipped inside his guard, grabbed his wrist, and shattered his arm with a flick of his own.
A battle mage unleashed a barrage of fire—Marcus weaved through the spell’s trajectory, appearing before the caster before they even realized their mistake.
A single uppercut sent the mage flying skyward, their body limp before they even hit the ground.
More came.
A wall of shields.
A tight formation of armored warriors, trying to box him in.
Marcus exhaled sharply.
And then—he moved.
His fists became blurs, each strike a shockwave of raw power, shattering steel, breaking bones, folding armor inward like crumpled parchment.
In mere seconds—
The formation collapsed.
The Xenorian front lines shattered beneath the weight of Marcus Elder.
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While Marcus tore through the battlefield, a new force entered the fray.
Boruk, Ragn, and Vira.
Vealeth, Arixa, and Thalron were battered, barely holding on as Vulgaris advanced. But before he could deal the final blow—
Boruk’s axe crashed into Dresk’s blade, stopping the commander’s strike inches from Arixa’s throat.
"Not today," Boruk growled, his sheer strength forcing Dresk backward.
Ragn appeared behind him, twin blades flashing in the dim light as he struck. Dresk twisted, barely avoiding a fatal blow, but Ragn’s speed was suffocating, pressing him back.
"You're not getting past us," Ragn sneered.
Meanwhile, Vira rushed forward, her grimoire already open.
"Hold still," she commanded, her fingers weaving complex Mana-infused sigils.
A wave of healing light washed over Vealeth, Arixa, and Thalron.
Arixa inhaled sharply, her Ki surging back into her battered body. "Took you long enough," she muttered, rolling her shoulders.
Vealeth wiped the blood from his lips, exhaling slowly. "Back in control," he murmured, his Psycha sharpening once more.
Thalron flexed his fingers, his mana stabilized. "Alright," he said, twirling his rapier’s broken remains. "Let's even this out."
With their strength restored—
They turned back to the battlefield.
And then—
Marcus faced the Thane.
The battlefield stilled as the two warriors stood opposite each other. The crackling fires, the distant clashes of swords, the howls of injured men and beasts—all of it faded into the background.
Marcus rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as he fixed his gaze on Thane Vulgaris. The man before him wasn’t just powerful—he was a force of nature. His Psycha presence was oppressive, heavy like an iron cage around Marcus’ senses, suffocating and unavoidable.
Vulgaris tilted his head, studying him with an almost lazy curiosity. The black greatsword rested easily against his shoulder, its runes pulsing dimly with latent energy.
"So," Vulgaris finally said, voice deep and unhurried. "What do you think you can do against me, boy? You will not stop the destruction of this stronghold."
Marcus didn’t respond.
Instead—he moved.
A straight punch—his fastest, aimed directly for the Thane’s sternum. Mana crackled, Ki flared—
Blocked.
Vulgaris caught his fist with his bare hand.
The force of the blow should have torn through a mountain, but Vulgaris didn’t so much as flinch. The ground beneath them shattered, fractures splitting outward in all directions, but the Thane’s stance remained unchanged.
Marcus’ eyes widened—just before Vulgaris countered.
A palm strike to the chest—fast, precise, unavoidable.
Marcus barely had time to brace before his ribs compressed, the shockwave launching him through the battlefield like a cannonball.
BOOM.
He crashed through a ruined wall, his body skidding across the ground, breaking through debris before finally coming to a halt. Dust and rubble settled around him as his vision flickered, his lungs struggling for air.
But Vulgaris was already there.
A shadow loomed over him.
The greatsword came down.
Marcus rolled—just in time.
The black steel cleaved through the earth, carving a trench deep enough to bury a man alive.
Marcus pushed off the ground, propelling himself upward just as Vulgaris swung horizontally. The greatsword howled through the air, narrowly missing him by inches. Even the wind pressure burned his skin.
He countered—his fist shot forward, Ki-enhanced, aimed for Vulgaris' chin.
Vulgaris shifted, parried with the back of his hand—Marcus’ punch connected, but it felt like striking a fortress wall.
The Thane barely budged.
Marcus stepped backward, creating distance, but Vulgaris did not allow it.
The air exploded as the Thane vanished—no wasted movement, no dramatic build-up—he simply moved, covering the space between them in an instant.
Marcus’ eyes snapped wide—
No time to dodge.
A shoulder check—
Marcus felt his ribs compress again, his vision momentarily blacking out as he was sent airborne.
He barely registered the sky above before he hit the ground—HARD.
His entire body bounced, rolled—before finally skidding to a stop, coughing blood into the dirt.
He tried to move—his body didn’t respond.
Vulgaris exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. "You stupid boy, you thought you could stand against kings?"
Marcus tried to push himself up—his arms trembled.
The Thane approached. The battlefield watched in silence.
And then—
For a moment—
Marcus wasn’t on the battlefield.
He was back in the ring.
His old world. The musty scent of sweat, blood, and chalk filled the air. The roar of the crowd, the blinding spotlights—all of it was familiar.
And the pain.
God, the pain.
He hit the mat for the third time.
His chest heaved, every breath a struggle. His arms felt like lead, his legs like concrete pillars that refused to lift. His ribs burned with every inhale.
Across from him, his opponent loomed. A fighter that was just too good, too fast, too strong.
"Stay down, kid," someone in the corner muttered. "You can’t win this."
The referee’s voice sounded distant. The count had begun.
ONE…
His fingers twitched.
TWO…
Marcus squeezed his eyes shut.
He could quit.
THREE…
No one would blame him.
FOUR…
But then—
A flicker of something inside him.
A memory even older than the fight.
"Fighters don’t quit."
His coaches voice. A man whose fists had seen more battles than most could dream of.
"Doesn’t matter how strong the other guy is."
Marcus gritted his teeth.
"Doesn’t matter how much it hurts."
FIVE…
"Doesn’t matter how many times you fall."
Marcus’ fingers curled into fists.
"Because if you rise one more time—"
SIX…
"You’re still in the fight."
The haze lifted. His body screamed, but his mind was clear.
And as the referee counted SEVEN—
Marcus stood.
And something changed.
The exhaustion—the pain—
It vanished.
His body moved before he could think. His senses sharpened. His reaction time wasn’t just fast—it was perfect.
It was as if he had become fighting itself.
No doubt. No hesitation. No fear.
Only instinct.
The battlefield rushed back into focus.
Marcus opened his eyes.
He was still alive.
Vulgaris stood over him, still advancing.
Marcus exhaled.
He rolled his shoulders.
Cracked his knuckles.
And then—he dropped into a stance.
Not rigid. Not forced.
Loose. Relaxed. At ease.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Marcus felt weightless.
A system notification appeared.
[NEW ABILITY ACQUIRED: FLOW STATE] When instincts take over, hesitation disappears. Speed, reaction time, and combat awareness increase drastically for a short period.
Marcus smirked.
He settled his feet. Bounced slightly on his toes.
And then—
He moved.
A blur—a shadow—an unstoppable force.
The fight wasn’t over.
It had only just begun.
