Afrobeats pulsed in the background of the well-lit cave. Kaelo was sweating vigorously, his chest heaving as he stared at Kano, who had also finally broken into a sweat.

  "Is that enough for you yet?" Kaelo panted.

  "No," Kano replied, lunging forward and burying a punch into Kaelo's abdomen.

  Christian watched from the sidelines, silently rooting for the young lad even though he knew Kaelo was technically outmatched. As the fight reset, Kaelo didn't just stand his ground—he began to glow. Blue currents surged through him, from the tips of his hair to the edge of his sword. A loud, shrilling sound filled the cavern, sounding like a thousand screaming bats.

  His energy control has improved tremendously, Christian thought, impressed. He’s building a massive charge without leaking a drop.

  "You aim to overwhelm me by taking advantage of the fact that I won't use Nature Energy," Kano noted. It was a wise tactic, but Kaelo felt a flicker of guilt. To him, it felt like a move that lacked honor, but he was past the point of playing fair.

  The gap between them was twenty-three meters. In a quarter of a second, it vanished.

  Kaelo didn't use the sword this time; he channeled everything into a single point. He called it the 'Max Reinforcement Punch.' It was twenty times stronger than an average strike, requiring a seven-second "reload" time and draining his efficiency, but it was a calculated gamble. He wanted to end the session with one hit.

  The hit connected perfectly. Kano, restricted by his own rules, couldn't react in time. Kaelo felt his knuckles meet Kano's chest, followed by a sickening jolt of raw power. Horrified by the sensation, Kaelo immediately cut his energy output, but the momentum was already unleashed.

  Kano was hurled across the cave, his body slamming into the wall with enough force to shatter the stone—right in the exact spot Kaelo had cracked months ago.

  "Kano!" Kaelo and Christian both bolted toward the wreckage.

  Before they could reach him, a bruised arm lifted from the dust, giving a shaky thumbs-up. They pulled him from the debris and propped him against the wall.

  "You had to subconsciously use Reinforcement at the last second," Kaelo said, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry. I used too much power."

  "So, you're telling me you held back out of pity?" Kano snapped, though his breath was shallow. "You forget I am your master! It is demeaning to hold back against an opponent."

  Christian couldn't help it; a loud laugh escaped him. His master lay there, bleeding with likely broken ribs and damaged organs, and his only concern was that the kid hadn't hit him harder.

  "If you didn't have the ability to heal yourself, you might not have survived that," Christian lectured. "The kid is smart enough to exercise restraint. Weren't you the one who told me that, for the strong, restraint is the most powerful tool?"

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  "Yes, and I meant for the strong," Kano grumbled. "He is clearly not you."

  "Yet I was never able to put you in this position," Christian whispered to himself, glancing at Kaelo.

  Kaelo was still raw, but the potential was undeniable. He might never possess Christian's sheer, effortless genius, but he was becoming something else: a specialist in the "lethal moment."

  Two minutes later, Kano’s regenerative abilities had finished their work. He stood up, dusted off his clothes, and didn't look back.

  "We continue later," he said, walking away into the shadows of the rock.

  Fejiro sat in his hideout, a shadow of the man who had once worn a detective’s badge. He had resigned months ago, convinced that the only way to dismantle a nationwide conspiracy was to step off the grid.

  He remembered the look on his wife’s face when he tried to explain. She didn't understand. Why not just be quiet? Why risk their lives against a scheme that spanned the entire country? She wanted safety; he wanted justice. That fundamental rift had led to their separation. On nights like this, huddled in the damp basement of an abandoned rice mill, the loneliness felt heavier than the threat of the Republic.

  He stared at his laptop. A message flickered on the screen: "UY SCUTI." It pulsed seven times before a set of coordinates burned into the display. He jotted them down quickly, and as the last digit was inked, the screen wiped itself clean. His laptop returned to its decoy state—just an old machine in a graveyard of iron.

  Fejiro caught his reflection in a cracked mirror. His hair was unkempt, thinning at the edges. He ran a hand over his scalp and let out a dry, hollow laugh. He was starting to look like his late father—a man who had ended up bald and bitter. His father had been a relic of a violent, misogynistic era of Nigeria that people reminisced about but never actually missed. Fejiro spent his life trying to outrun that bloodline, only to find it waiting for him in the mirror.

  He was about to turn away when a faint red glow caught the corner of his eye.

  It was a remote scanner—the standard-issue tool the Republic Police used to "see" through walls. If that light touched him, his thermal signature would be logged in seconds.

  He moved swiftly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He made for the basement steps, but in the dark, his foot caught his limited-edition pocket game. It clattered to the floor, and the loud, chirping 8-bit theme music blared out, sounding like a siren in the silence.

  CRASH.

  The front doors of the mill were kicked in. These weren't regular police officers; they were Republic Enforcers. He ran for the upper floors, his mind racing. Standard procedure meant the building was already surrounded. If he played the part of a homeless squatter and showed his fake ID, he might—might—get out.

  But these men weren't following a script.

  He scrambled over a table, but his boot hit a puddle of stagnant water. He went down hard, the ruckus echoing through the empty mill. The heavy boots of the Enforcers were closing in. Fejiro scrambled into a dark room and pulled his service pistol. He knew his chances were essentially zero, but he refused to die quietly.

  He waited, holding his breath. The footsteps stopped right outside his door. Then, the lights began to flicker.

  Suddenly, the screaming started. It was followed by the deafening roar of high-caliber rifles. The Enforcers were firing wildly, the muzzle flashes strobing through the gaps in the door. Fejiro prepared to rush out, but a heavy thud hit the door, followed by a wet, gurgling yell.

  Then came a new sound: the sharp, high-frequency crackle of electricity and the cold, rhythmic ching of metal clashing.

  The entire event lasted exactly four minutes and eleven seconds. Then, total silence.

  Fejiro pushed the door open. A corpse slumped against the wood fell inward; the man’s arm had been severed cleanly, and his skin was blackened by high-voltage discharge. Fejiro walked down the hallway into the main room of the basement.

  It was a massacre. He counted twenty-one bodies. No bullet holes. Just scorched flesh and precision blade work.

  As a detective, Fejiro had always trusted the first words that flashed in his mind when he entered a crime scene. Looking at the carnage, two words burned in his mind—words he would never forget.

  "UY SCUTI."