Saving the school would have been easier as a cafeteria worker

Chapter 106

"Can we talk about—" Cal's whisper was cut short as he took a half step back, angling away from the broadsword descending on him. The man drew closer, twisting his wrist and performing an upswing with the blade. Cal didn't bother contesting it, stepping past the man so that their backs faced each other. "I'm not—"

His head dipped forward, avoiding decapitation as the man whirled around. A spear flashed at the edge of his vision, and his hand snapped out, gripping its shaft. His eyes met those of his latest attacker, another gold mask, and found only fury. Cal pulled on the weapon before snaking around its owner. His palm met their back, and a cushion of burst air had them crashing into the broadsword user.

Out of the fifty new arrivals, only a tenth of them wore golden masks. Two of those were trying to kill him. As for the rest? They, along with their silver-masked partners, were showing remarkable levels of equality as they tried to murder everyone in attendance.

Metal clashed, manifestations launched, and startled cries rang out as those in the stands were cut down.

"Cleo," Dusk growled. Shadowy limbs stretched from him, intercepting elemental manifestations and striking out at a trio of silver masks that tried to approach him.

A gold mask took advantage of the distraction, severing a number of Dusk's tendrils with their halberd and dashing through the opening. They held the polearm out, its gleaming blade skimming across the ground as the warrior attempted to close in on the man rocking on his mat.

Their target, Omen, had returned to muttering gibberish, wholly indifferent to the sounds of battle emerging around him. His lack of attention appeared to hold merit, and Dusk waved a hand, causing the attacker to suddenly stumble, knees buckling.

Before they could fall completely, they jabbed their halberd into the ground, vaulting away from a cadre of shadow spikes racing to impale them. They landed near their starting point, legs evidently functioning again.

"What?" a soft voice asked, almost drowned away by the chaos.

Even as two warriors bore down on him, Cal took the time to stare at the speaker. Cleo's head poked out of the ground next to Omen, resembling a mole. She shook herself off from the neck up, dislodging the dirt clinging to the cloth wrappings around her face.

How… what? She'd been at the edge of the arena when this all started, and now she'd traveled to the center of it in a blink?

It wasn't the travel time itself that bothered him. Cal and many others here could do the same—provided they weren't interrupted. However, none of them had tried, and failed, to scale a wall.

Seven times.

Cal fundamentally did not understand. Was that a ploy? An elaborate mind game to throw people off?

It must have worked, because his shell flared to life, blunting the crushing power of a broadsword against his shoulder. He shrugged it off, slipping past the man's guard.

"Evacuate Omen at once," Dusk ordered, sending a wave of darkness against the silver masks. They evaded it cleanly, two jumping to the side and the third vaulting over. "To all others," he continued with a snarl. A shadow leapt from the floor, coiling itself around the airborne warrior's leg. "Withdraw… and reap!"

The ensnared warrior, sword in hand, tried to free themselves with a downward slash. Strength left them, the weapon wavering. As their exposed skin grew noticeably paler, an arc of light cleaved through the shadow—their liberator, the halberdier, switching targets to Dusk.

Cal's attention was drawn back to the broadsword user, now face-to-mask with them. He turned on his heel, elbowing the man in his nose. His second attacker, who'd been trying to be sneaky and come at him from behind, aborted their jab. The weapon flipped, its armored butt attempting to bash him across the head.

"But the coins…" the woman murmured, pouting as her eyes tracked the new arrivals.

In what Cal could only presume was a feat of monumental compromise, the woman sighed, arms rising smoothly out of the ground.

Cal weaved under the spear butt, side-stepping to put space between himself and the two gold masks.

"Collect them for me," she said definitively, leaning over to hug the raving man. As her hands locked around him, something changed, and the man sank into the earth as if it were quicksand.

She hastened his descent, pulling them both under and disappearing from sight. Cal tracked the woman, following her signature as it moved through the earth. He did his best to keep a bead on them, but that proved difficult when people were trying to actively hack him apart.

He pulled on his connection to the void, manifesting gusts of wind from his palms to slow their approach and buy himself time to think.

The way he saw it, there were two broad courses of action.

Option one: turn on his colleagues.

Option two: help them escape and solidify his cover.

The first was tempting, but there was a hard-to-overlook flaw embedded within it. These people knew about the operation in the Waste, and had agents on campus. Killing them would eliminate the known threat, but that did not guarantee the unknown one would fade away. And while keeping them alive might be possible, he'd then have to force them to talk.

Framing it like that, the choice was clear. After all, if the threat to the Academy had been known, he would have punched its face in during his first week.

The decision did leave him in an uncomfortable position.

"Blasphemous cur!" the spearwoman exclaimed, her spear buried deep into the ground to keep herself from being blown away. "Deliver yourself to my blade, that you might yet find redemption in death!"

Yes, he supposed dying was a third option.

Cal still didn't understand how the entire group had snuck up on him. Illusion manifestations were the obvious choice, and several did sport light magic, but he should have been able to sense them.

Had he been too distracted?

"Blasphemy?" Female‑him questioned, hurling herself at a silver mask. Her knuckleduster slammed into their breastplate, throwing the warrior backward. She didn't pursue, ducking under the axe of a flanking attacker and driving a haymaker into their hip. They held up better than her last opponent, and she dropped lower, performing a spin and sweeping their legs. As they fell down, she head-butted them, sending them flying away. Before she could rise from her crouch, two more charged her, and both her hands extended, her left deflecting a mace and her right catching a dagger. "How's this for blasphemy?"

Magic coated her, and she twisted in place again, forming a localized whirlwind that knocked the two nearby into the air.

A crack echoed above the sounds of violence, and one of the airborne warriors was sent careering away, their armor shattered.

"Mind your own business!" she yelled, rushing toward her initial attacker. "These are mine!"

The second airborne warrior was hit next, suffering a similar fate to the previous one. Cal traced the attack's path, seeing Mr. Gun-Runner's smoking shotgun.

"Then stop playing," the man gruffed, bringing his revolver up. A bayonet snapped out, intercepting a swinging saber. Blades locked, the smuggler twisted his wrist, angling the gun's muzzle before rapidly pulling the trigger and peppering the silver mask. All it accomplished was a flinch, but that was long enough for the side of their head to be clubbed by the shotgun.

Mr. Gun-Runner reached for his back as three more silver masks encircled him. They darted in as one, but before they could reach the man, a thick cloud of smog enveloped the entire group.

Cal could tell it wasn't benign smoke, but further investigations were put on hold as the broadsword man, who'd been pushed to the wall by his gusts of wind, ran along it horizontally, launching himself toward the Federation agent.

A whistle manifestation hit him out of spite, and while the man successfully deflected it, the force knocked him off his previous collision course. He landed nearby, saying nothing before lunging toward his thoroughly annoyed opponent.

In general, the Federation classified the Blessed Order as a peg below the Empire's Fingers. That wasn't to imply they were weak. Lily, Alice, Benny, and Rolland would all be hard-pressed to defeat any one of these gold masks.

But Cal's augmentation was simply… better. His reactions were quicker, his movements more efficient, and his strength superior. Sure, his martial skill might still be lacking compared to their decades of training, but that wasn't proving to be much of a factor in their 'fight.'

Cal could only thank his nonexistent Ancestors that none of the other—

"Bad man die!" Forma, moving faster than Cal could have predicted, scooped up an attacking silver mask by a leg, gripping them with his lower left hand. The upper secured a flailing limb, and there was a wet snap as the warrior was pulled in two. A gold mask sprang forward, war hammer heaved high. He didn't make it to the four-armed man, intercepted by a pair of legs flung at high velocity. "Pabo, do we fight or go?"

Welp.

That was not Cal's fault. If the corpse worshipers wanted to attack a gathering of allegedly notorious criminals, then they should have done so with overwhelming force. Hells, why were they even here before the Right?

Cal didn't know how long she'd take to cross the horizon, but considering life and death could be decided in a blink, it was too long.

Rays of light, lances of lightning, and arcs of wind streaked toward the four-armed man from the stands, who stood there dumbly. The one known as Pabo raised a hand, and an opaque barrier formed around Forma. It rippled as the manifestations met it, but survived the initial onslaught intact.

"Retreat," Pabo said as the barrier faded. The fingers of his raised palm splayed, and superheated beams were emitted from them. Their targets in the stands hastily maneuvered away. One was slower than the rest, and she screamed as her gauntlet melted around her hand. "Evacuation protocol beta."

Forma blurred next to Pabo, cradling the man in his arms. He leaped into the stands, crashing into startled silver masks. They were brushed aside like an afterthought; a second jump had the pair crest the colosseum's side, disappearing into the night.

That had been fast. Cal was quicker, but he still wouldn't have been able to contest their retreat.

Why?

Because these stupid gold masks wouldn't leave him alone.

Cal hopped back lightly, avoiding a thrust of the broadsword while raising his arm to block the spear point angling for his neck.

Alright, one death wasn't ideal, but the one responsible had already escaped, so with any luck the rest—

He felt a signature blink out of existence and turned to see a headless, silver-masked warrior kneeling next to Deck. The corpse fell to the ground, a crumbling card floating away from the remains.

Alright, two deaths weren't ideal—

Another signature fade, and one of Dusk's tendrils tossed a greying corpse away like trash.

A battle cry met his ears, and with the lowest expectations possible, his eyes flicked to Miss Plusier. There was a gold mask swinging at her with a pair of daggers. The warrior fought on, even as needles jutted out from every nook and cranny of their armor.

"I find your uniforms dull and inspired," she said, evading the increasingly erratic onslaught. "Here, have a free adjustment."

Her arm swept forward, and her aggressor was yanked away, dragged by the needles threaded through their clothes. The dagger wielder strained against the magnetic pulse, armor splitting at the seams. They tore free at the cost of their modesty, hitting the ground bare and furious.

"A marked improvement, if I do say so myself," Miss Plusier said glibly, winking before fleeing toward a tunnel. Silver masks from the stands dropped into her path, but she merely giggled as she sliced her way through the pack. "Have fun, dearies!"

The man she'd forced naked charged after her, unwilling to be defeated.

Cal mouthed a 'thank you' in her direction, grateful for the restraint and the stream of combatants leaving to chase her.

Like he was saying. Three deaths weren't the end of the—

He decided to stop tempting whatever god was watching as Ear‑bleed Guy did his thing and liquefied a silver mask's brain. The body fell in a heap, and the rest of those foolish enough to step into the obviously glowing field stumbled about.

Ear‑bleed Guy banged his brass bracers together, drawing out a crisp, bell‑like toll. It caused those caught in his manifestation to buckle, but they were rescued by a barrage of elements raining down on their attacker.

Clearly, Infinita Nox was not taking the Blessed Order's intrusion lying down. Aside from Combustion Man, who—

Cal was blown off his feet by an explosion that rocked the entire arena. Dirt and stone showered him, and after peering through the cloud of debris, he almost fell on his face.

Combustion Man was STILL lying on the ground. Or what was left of it. A narrow strip of stone remained beneath him—everything around it vaporized. He'd hollowed out a sixth of the arena with that stunt and managed to take out two more Blessed Order warriors. Their charred corpses slammed against the stands, breaking apart on contact.

Again, not Cal's fault. He didn't tell these idiots to walk in here and decimate themselves. Worse than decimated, if he decided to be pedantic.

That fact notwithstanding, he could be doing more. Just because he needed some of Infinita Nox alive didn't mean he needed them all alive.

His pair of dedicated attackers recovered in good order, renewing their assault. He didn't wait for them this time, appearing before the broadsword wielder. His fist buried itself in the man's gut, feeling the resistance of a shell. He rolled his shoulder into it, sending the human missile at Ear-bleed Guy.

They hit each other hard, rolling in a ball of tangled limbs. Critically, the force was enough to knock them out of the glowing field.

Cal targeted the spearwoman next, sending a series of whistles her way. She weaved out of their path, likely not noticing how they hit the tunnel behind her, collapsing it.

Acid Chick's steps faltered, her chosen path of escape sealed. Her hair whipped out, and the knife tied to its end clashed with a shield as the silver masks chasing her caught up.

Whoops?

Didn't you know dealing with these zealots was hard work? He couldn't be expected to watch all of his attacks for friendly fire.

That would be ridiculous.

Oh, no… Ear-bleed Guy got slashed by a broadsword. What an unavoidable tragedy.

Cal slunk under the spearpoint, punching its owner harshly in the nose. It was his way of being considerate. Otherwise, her mask would differ too greatly from her partner's.

The broadsword user didn't immediately rejoin their fight, pressing Ear-bleed Guy. In a reversal, the criminal stumbled back, blocking what he could with his bracers. Each successful point of contact elicited the bell from before, but its effects seemed greatly diminished, and his shell flashed in desperate defense.

Cal's senses tingled, noticing a bird of flames the size of a bus take form above the stands. It flapped its wings, soaring towards him. His leg rose, and a frontal kick had the spearwoman skidding back. He swung his arm out, attempting to part the bird with wind. His attack didn't have the desired effect, and the manifestation flared with power, energized by the blast.

No matter.

He let it engulf him, bathing in the flames as he seized the magic and ripped its structure apart.

Having only encountered basic manifestations from the group, Cal assumed it was a one-off. That, apparently, was wrong, as multiple spikes of magic were registered above and around him.

The stands had finally been pacified, the remaining Infinita Nox up there either dead or dying. Cal couldn't tell if any had slipped away in the confusion, but with no threat pressing them, the silver masks freely prepared larger manifestations.

Huh.

This might complicate things.

Lightning in the form of four massive lances fell on him. They penned him in, crackling bars of electricity barring his path. That state of affairs lasted less than a second before Cal tore the cage apart. Then came the twister, the sheet of hail, the wall of light, and what he was pretty sure were platforms from the stands, firing at him like bullets from a machine gun.

As the torrent of magic was unleashed against him, Cal wondered if this place had insurance.

The world devolved into a spectacle of colors, noises, and motion. His senses were stretched to their limits, accounting for every new manifestation leveled against him. He abandoned the luxury of conscious thought and acted on pure instinct, his body navigating the rapidly shifting landscape.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

How long that lasted, he couldn't say, but the end of it was announced by a series of explosions.

His eyes traveled to Combustion Man, seeing the man on a knee. He held a short scepter in his hands—carved black wood capped with a scarlet gem. The man waved it, and flames that were little more than sparks appeared in the air. They didn't stay idle, zipping away in erratic flight patterns and landing amongst those in the stands. More detonations rocked the arena, but they were not as fierce as the man's opening attack, and casualties were low.

None of them were dead, so he'd count that as a win—

Six shots rang out, and four silver masks jerked back. Two of their signatures winked away.

If this kept up, he might have to start taking personal responsibility.

Their attacker was in mid-air, having thrown himself toward a tunnel. The smoke Mr. Gun-Runner had hidden himself in had been blown away, and Cal could see discarded bodies in his wake, albeit breathing ones.

Silver masks pursued him, attempting to avenge their comrades. The man's back hit the stone floor, and as he skidded across it, his shotgun roared, propelling him down the dark corridor. One of his pursuers was hit in the shin, falling. The rest made it into the tunnel, and Cal witnessed smog burst from the entrance, clouding his senses.

Thus far, that was eight dead. Likely double that injured.

How badly did he need to admit his participation in whatever tonight would be labeled?

Cal formed a new plan. It was called 'protect the zealots from the consequences of their own actions.'

Who did he actually need to not die on Infinita Nox's side?

He came up with a list of three names: Acid Chick, Deck, and Combustion Man. The former two held pertinent knowledge, while the latter was simply more forthcoming with what they knew.

Dusk, Female-him, and Ear-bleed Guy were better off dead. It might have sounded counterintuitive to eliminate their leader, but the man had deferred to Deck and Acid Chick for details, indicating they were as abreast of the situation as he was. His experience also made him the hardest one to hunt down after this was all over. Cal had memorized everyone's signatures, but his time and ability were limited.

The Federation agent's head quirked to the side, eyes focusing on the gold-masked broadsword wielder. Ear-bleed Guy was held aloft by the sword, impaled through his gut. His hands gripped at the blade in vain, and his mouth parted—his last words turned into a weapon.

A wave of sound hit the gold mask, hammering him into the arena's wall.

Finally, they put a real point on the board. He didn't count the couple of dozen corpses in dark robes littering the stands.

Cal evaluated the threats to his incompetent allies.

Dusk currently had two gold masks on him, one of which was the war hammer user who attacked Forma. Female-him was attacking anything that moved, but her damage potential was stymied by the increasing numbers against her. It was a similar case with Acid Chick. She danced around her assailants, slashing at them with stiletto knives and spraying them with bubbling acid, ultimately accomplishing little. Combustion Man was lobbing bombs at random, but without someone to follow up, he was simply serving as a distraction. Deck was—

One of Cal's whistle manifestations hit a silver mask, impacting their shoulder and sending them barreling away. Their flight was strange, limbs locked and unmoving. They hit the ground hard, bones snapping. Which was much better than getting their head sliced off by metal-tipped cards.

The Federation agent sprinted forward, spearwoman on his heels. She swept at him, and he rolled in evasion, springing to his feet and spotting his target. It was another silver mask, a glowing card prominently placed on the warrior's chest. They flailed around like a blind pugilist, and while Cal didn't know what was done to them, he sincerely felt punching them in the breastplate was helping.

His knuckles scraped the card off, even as the warrior was sent hurtling back.

Cal had been observing the battlefield to the best of his abilities and now had a solid baseline for what his allies could endure. Hospitalizing them was preferable to whatever the criminal had in store.

"What are you," Deck pivoted quickly, flicking cards toward the advancing spearwoman, "doing?"

She deflected each one and stabbed at Cal, who was sort of done with running.

His right palm met the spearpoint, closing around it as his shell shimmered. She was prepared for his pull this time, releasing the weapon. Sadly for her, he was reasonably confident in his homework, and a manifestation formed in his left hand.

Cal drew from the void, feeding the manifestation up until the point his fist met her midsection. She vanished from sight, reappearing in the stands with a raucous crash. He froze in the split second after, but relaxed after she sputtered a cough.

"Can you fly?" he asked Deck, who'd nearly lost his balance from proximity to the manifestation.

A silver mask approached the duo, hacking at them with an axe. Cal acted before his partner could, punching them with the magic still lingering in his fist. They sailed away, expression hidden behind the mask.

"Excuse me?" Deck returned, refilling his hand with cards from his sleeve.

That wasn't a no.

"Tuck and roll," Cal advised, invading the man's space quicker than he could process. He put one hand on his collar and the other on his waist.

Deck might have had something to say about it, but his words were lost to the wind as Cal sent him rocketing into the night.

"You dare defile her in my presence!?" The broadsword man added in a sane manner, prying himself from the wall and charging. "Mother, grant me strength!"

Were he and the spearwoman a couple? Fine, but Cal had punched her above the belt. He failed to see how that counted as defiling.

Cal was prepared to send him to his lover when the man's magical signature exploded. The Federation agent crossed his arms in front of him, barely raising them in time to block the greatsword. His shell shimmered, holding against what felt like a mountain bearing down on him.

Funny story. He'd broken a few mountains.

He clicked his tongue, amplifying the sound enough to force the man off him. It knocked the mask free, displaying a face with pulsing veins and bloodshot eyes.

That, in Cal's professional opinion, was not healthy.

"Momma's boy," he candidly replied, blurring forward.

In hindsight, that probably wasn't the best choice of words.

The man met him halfway, his blade moving with speed and grace. Cal's shell lit up again and again, trading blows in an annoyingly even affair. He whistled in the man's face, only to have a bloated shell absorb the impact.

Had he been sandbagging that whole time?

No, his movements were smooth, but Cal could see the bulging muscles and reddening of his skin. This moron was going to kill himself.

Something had to give, and Cal made a tactical decision. The blade passed his defenses, sinking into his collarbone. He could see the joy in the man's face—the vindication of victory.

Naturally, Cal's fist rearranged the man's face, sending him back to the crater he'd crawled out from.

Cal tried to roll his shoulder, wincing at the pain as he let his magic repair the damage. His right arm was toast for now, but the pieces were still there, so it wouldn't be too bad a wait.

Incorrectly assessing their odds of success, silver masks unloaded more manifestations at him.

He'd never asked if the Holy Enclave had free healthcare, but it seemed like a relevant question all of a sudden.

Cal bounced back, legs working just fine. His lips pursed, retaliating with a rapid barrage of whistles. Some hit, some didn't, but he was only half focused on the task, distracted by a deluge of magic hitting the air.

"The hour is nigh," Dusk declared, stamping a foot and stretching both hands out. "Consign thee!"

The man brought his arms in, tucking them by his side. Cal felt a pull as the air was vacuumed away. Crushed stone, bodies, and anything not nailed down were dragged toward the man. Those closest suffered most, with even the gold masks' efforts for naught as they and their weapons were ripped from the ground.

The noise of battle itself was sucked in, and silence reigned for a moment before the man threw his arms out. Everything was ejected at once, accompanied by a tide of darkness that washed over its victims. Lifeless husks rained across the arena.

… Cal wasn't counting those.

There was a lull in the aftermath, the remnants of the Blessed Order and Infinita Nox alike taking pause.

But time eventually marched on.

"Stop complaining," Female-him chided, holding Acid Chick in an eerily familiar manner. They were surrounded by a puddle of melted armor. "You're always bragging about how guys fall for you. Now you can do the falling."

Acid Chick thrashed in the woman's grasp, her ponytail weakly striking out.

"I said I had a fall guy," she stressed, as if that were an important detail. "I'm no harlot!"

In a heave reminiscent of Cal's, the woman was thrown out of the arena, a wind manifestation aiding in her impromptu departure.

"Damnit, Raya," Combustion Man said, rising to his feet. "Her endurance has always been poor. She might splatter."

The woman eyed the surviving Blessed Order members. There were a little over ten in fighting condition, and none of them wore gold masks.

"Then you catch her," she said, chest rising with large breaths.

Combustion Man grimaced, but Cal could feel magic build at his feet. He determined the man would detonate the strip of ground beneath him in an unconventional method of flight.

He didn't get a chance, disappearing in a puff of sand.

Cal didn't blink as the northern side of the colosseum collapsed under its own weight, what remained of it scattering to the winds. He watched it drift away, appearing like flurries of dirty snow.

"What a waste," a woman mused, gazing at the missing half of the colosseum.

Her back was to Cal, and she stood at the edge of the crater Combustion Man had made. The backdrop of sand made her flowing, light brown hair only more vibrant.

Cal didn't blink. He felt the need to repeat that in his head when the woman shifted positions, deciding she was no longer standing at the pit but in front of Female-him.

A stubby hammer was in her right hand—blunt on one side, sharp on the other. There was an amber gem embedded in its head, and she flipped the tool once before swinging it.

Raya's eyes were dilating as the hammer made contact with her chin, forcing it and her up. There was remarkably little force used, and her body rose a mere meter before falling with a thud.

She lay there, limbs sprawled and missing her face. It, like the colosseum, was gone, reduced to fine grains of sand.

Shit.

Cal was a monster.

He'd fought monsters.

So he felt it coming, shifting his stance and bringing his arms up in resistance. His left listened, and while his right tried, the tendons were only partially healed.

"Wai—"

That was all he could muster as her other hand rose against him. The slender, flat blade it held dug into his disguise, depressing the flesh underneath until meeting the bone of his cheek.

Cal's shell flared, battling the avalanche of magic pouring through the blade. He could feel his left fist make contact with her, but by the time it did, his defense had faltered. Metal parted his skin and then bone. It traveled up, taking his right eye with it as it withdrew from his fractured skull.

There were many details that raced through his still-functioning mind then. Amongst all of them, one stood out, and it was that the eye he lost was red, while the one regrown would be grey.

Magic erupted from him. He didn't pull it, he didn't call it, and yet it arrived all the same. It coursed through his body, down his arm, and then into his foe.

There was no shape to it, no structure. It was primal in form and nature.

He'd normally describe it as inefficient and worthless. Now? He called it necessary.

Cal's vision was spotty, disturbed by the trauma to his brain. As it cleared, the woman came into focus. She was further now, a few paces away from where she'd started.

Wide hazel eyes rested above a slightly crooked nose. Fine lines were drawn over her face, increasing its intensity, and her mouth was set in a firm, unyielding line. Sand cascaded off her body, spilling continuously to the floor and serving as her armor.

He saw her move this time, and as both her weapons descended on him, he answered.

Cal's left fist met the blunt end of the hammer, but his right lacked the same speed. As the chisel grew ever closer, a branch sprang to life in its way—delaying, not stopping the blade.

Something hit his chest. It might have been a foot, or she might have abandoned her weapon and punched him. He wasn't sure which, but his shell held.

His position did not, and he careened through the air.

Cal cobbled together a wind manifestation, forcing his own landing. His legs bent, compensating for the rough return to earth.

This wasn't a fight he was meant to be having.

She hadn't followed him, tracking him with her eyes just as he now tracked her. A lock of stark white hair blew into her face, and she brushed it back into her brown mane. The woman frowned, the lines across her face growing deeper.

If ever he had a concept of mortal danger, this moment redefined it.

He needed out. And he needed out now.

His vision blurred, and for the faintest moment, he believed himself returned to the void.

Then the sight of his bedroom settled into view. His bedroom. The one in the dorm, attached to the living space he shared with Alice.

What?

He took uneven steps backward, falling on his bed. His heartbeat seemed to shake the entire mattress, and his hand shot to his face, feeling the flesh knit together.

No.

Cal bolted up, stumbling toward the bathroom while reining in his magic. He clumsily felt for the light switch, flipping it on while planning his next move.

His facial structure would be odd now, a mixture of old and new. He'd have to gouge his regrowing eye and then burn the right side of his face. His regeneration would want to fix it, but he'd force it not to.

Yes, this was the only way.

The alternative was unacceptable.

He ripped the remains of the shroud off him, leaning closer to the mirror and watching the pupil take shape through the gaps in his fingers. His nails scraped against the socket, preparing to dig.

And then a red eye blinked at him.

Cal froze, believing it to be a trick of the light. Slowly, almost unwillingly, he moved the hand away.

Red stared at red.

His regeneration didn't care for alterations made to his body. It returned him to his true state every time.

He tore the broken radio unit from his mouth, expecting to see the signs of Callum, the Federation agent.

His breath fogged the glass, his forehead nearly resting on it.

Was this a trick?

He couldn't fathom how it could be.

Testing every angle, the only face that appeared in the mirror was Callum Ardere's.

An impossibility.

Cal jumped, startled by his pocket twitching. He reached for it, nearly ripping the fabric as he rummaged for its contents. The seed was warm to the touch, but something cut his finger, and with confusion, he retrieved the culprit.

The relic sat in his palm, illuminated by the artificial light of the bathroom. Under his watchful gaze, its spinning arrow slowed to a stop beneath cracked glass.

He dropped it on the counter, watching it clatter down the sink basin.

Cal closed his eyes, counting down from ten before reopening them.

Nothing changed in the reflection, the lie staring back at him with a lost expression. His eyes drooped lower, confirming the broken relic.

There was a lot he could do now, and there was a lot he should do. The day's events hit him all at once, draining him of adrenaline and spirit. He shambled to his bed, collapsing on it face-first.

All of that sounded like a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, he'd sleep as Callum Ardere.

He let that thought settle, his consciousness swiftly drifting away. The rest of the night passed peacefully, and he failed to notice when the day officially ended and the new one began.