Akari sprang forward, starting the fight with a sweeping blow.

  “Always make the first move,” Kalden had said in her very first combat lesson. “Unless you’re confident your opponent will mess up. Then you might as well let him.”

  Confidence was a distant dream in this battle. Zakiel was an Artisan—twice her size, with several years more experience. Still, she had to fight. She’d asked for this chance before she’d advanced. She told herself she’d rather die with her friends than spend her life alone.

  That sentiment had come far easier upstairs. Still . . . she’d never forgive herself if she ran.

  Zakiel parried and struck in two quick motions, knocking her blade aside. Akari twisted backward, blasting pure mana into the ground to quicken her movement. She landed several paces away, cycling mana into her weapon and testing its strength. The clash hadn’t drained the reserves too much, but it felt weaker than before.

  As if she needed another reason to end this fight quickly.

  She’d already seen what happened to Kalden, and he’d been a better duelist than her. Then again, Kalden had always relied on his aspect. Akari had been making do with less her whole life, even before Arkala.

  Zakiel followed his strike with a blast of fire mana. Akari dodged left, shooting her own mana to knock the technique off course. That single Missile held more mana than her entire soul at Silver. Even now, it only turned his attack by a few degrees, and she felt the heat on her cheeks as it flew past her.

  Akari threw more mana as they fought, propelling her body around the battlefield. She leapt over the rubble and the craters, dodging fallen pipes and chunks of wood and concrete. One second, she was pushing herself against a pillar to flank her opponent. The next, she was upside down, slashing at his head.

  Zakiel parried her strikes with ease, as if he were swatting aside an insect. At the same time, he took no unnecessary risks. She’d expected him to throw his strength around like a brute, but he fought with careful precision, leaving no room for error. It was the exact opposite of the Grevandi she’d faced upstairs.

  The mana flew faster between them, and her vision was a blur of bright colors against the darkness. Her opponent dodged her next swing, then threw a punch at her left arm. The attack came faster than she could blink, flattening her tricep and cracking the bone like a tree branch.

  The impact reverberated through her frame, from her tailbone to her teeth. Tears clouded her eyes, and she thought she might pass out from the pain

  No.

  Akari cycled her mana harder, just like Relia had shown her.

  Zakiel wasted no time, and his red blade came down in a vertical strike. Akari kicked off from the ground and rolled backward. The blade sliced through a chunk of concrete instead of her face.

  Akari adjusted her grip and slashed with her good arm. The dance continued, but she was living on hopes and wishes now. Her injury was more than just pain; she couldn’t do any mana arts without dropping her sword.

  Her opponent overextended his next swing, leaving a perfect angle for her next attack.

  Finally.

  Akari threw herself into the opening, betting it all on this single blow. She could practically taste her victory and relief as her blade angled for the kill.

  A smile flashed in Zakiel’s reptilian eyes. A feint. But she'd already committed.

  Her opponent’s plasma sword vanished from the air. He thrust his other hand toward her stomach, and the weapon sprang to life once again.

  A line of sharp pain ripped through her when she landed on his blade. Her mouth opened in a silent scream, and she dropped to her knees.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Something hot flowed down her legs. Her head rocked forward like a piece of shifting rubble, and she saw the blood gushing from her open stomach. It reminded her of the broken pipes all around them, blasting their contents toward the floor below.

  The sight made her dizzy and nauseous all at once. Akari tried to cough and she tasted copper in the back of her throat. She thought she understood pain after those years in the school dueling ring, but simulated pain didn’t compare. Nothing could match this sense of dread, knowing she might never walk again.

  Zakiel loomed above her, still holding the plasma blade in his outstretched hand. The blood stopped flowing, but the blade itself grew hotter—probably sealing the wounds inside her stomach.

  She screamed when he twisted the blade, opening and sealing the wounds all over again. Her opponent smiled wide, showing his fangs as he savored his victory.

  "This is for Enzo,” he said in a dark whisper.

  Akari coughed. “Who the hell’s Enzo?”

  “He was my Fang,” Zakiel snapped. “The one you stabbed in the back.”

  Akari gave a humorless laugh, even as the blade twisted through her guts. She’d stabbed a lot of people in the back, but most of that backstabbing was metaphorical.

  Still . . . she knew who he meant.

  Zakiel said something else, but Akari didn’t hear him. Sweat covered her body like a broken fever, and tears flowed from her eyes. Everything sounded far away, as if she were drowning.

  She caught a few more of Zakiel’s words—some nonsense about how she wasn’t a real mana artist. It was the same story she’d listened to for the last three years.

  Apparently, real mana artists stabbed people in the stomach rather than the spine.

  Think, Akari told herself. Zakiel could have killed her by now, but he wanted to make her suffer. That gave her a few more seconds.

  Relia and Kalden were long gone, and they’d both been injured and drained when she last saw them.

  Besides, Akari had the only Artisan-level blade . . .

  The blade.

  She squeezed the fingers on her right hand, feeling the weapon’s leather hilt.

  Talek. It’s still there?

  She tried to move her arm, but the pain was too much. The weapon felt suddenly heavy, and her fingers threatened to lose their grip.

  The dragon smiled again, seeming to take pleasure in her struggles.

  Akari gritted her teeth, pushing past the pain with all her might. But it was no use. At this rate, she would pass out before she lifted the arm a single inch.

  What else? She'd learned to shoot Missiles from her chest, which was a skill most mana artists lacked. But one burst of pure mana wouldn't hurt an Artisan. It might not even distract him.

  Akari directed her focus inward, feeling the mana in her soul.

  Yes, there was something there. Her pure mana was drained, but the potion from Kalden’s pack had given her something else—a separate mana reserve. Akari poked and prodded at it with her mental senses. The sensation was like discovering her own mana for the first time. But this wasn’t pure.

  Aspected mana? Useless. You could drink aspected mana from a bottle, but you couldn’t use the techniques. Not unless you already knew them.

  And yet . . . this felt familiar. Akari began cycling it through her channels, and it brought her back to her most recent dream. The mana flowed lightly through her body—almost incorporeal.

  This was the space mana Kalden had found in the hotel. She’d dismissed it at the time, claiming she didn’t know how to use it.

  But that was before. Before her latest dream. Before she’d merged with her past self.

  Akari suppressed a grin as she began her technique. The first space Missile flowed out from her right hand, wrapping itself around her weapon. The second Missile shot out from her chest, up at her opponent.

  His reptilian eyes widened in alarm, but Akari didn’t hesitate. Her past self’s memories flowed through her body and mind, using instincts that felt foreign and familiar all at once. Akari tried not to dwell on the strangeness or impossibility of the task.

  Thinking was a distraction. She needed action.

  She pulled both space Missiles into Constructs, letting a portal form between them. It was the same technique she’d used against Kalden in the dream.

  The first portal swallowed her weapon up to the hilt. The blade emerged from the other end, opening the Artisan’s throat. His body stiffened, and a shower of blood covered her face. His plasma techniques faded to red mist, and he fell back like a tree.

  Akari’s own technique broke in the same moment, and she uncurled her fingers from the weapon, letting it clatter to the floor. Her body softened with relief, but the pain returned in sudden waves from head to heel.

  Finally, she collapsed on her fallen opponent, letting the darkness take her.