Ranna reached him before thought could catch up.
No words.
No warning.
The first punch was a hammer made of silence—fast, clean, and so heavy the air snapped as it passed.
Leo dodged, barely.
The second came before his heel hit the ground—his body shifted, reflexes crackling, and again he slipped past the strike by inches. A third, a fourth, then a rainstorm of fists, each one faster, denser, more precise than the last.
His breath shortened. Not because he was afraid—but because he could feel them.
Each missed punch pressed the space around him like a tidal force held in check. His clothing clapped wildly with each dodge. The pressure bruised without landing.
He ducked low, spun out wide, heart thudding in sync with the rhythm of her onslaught.
This isn't just speed, he thought. This is suppression.
He gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing.
Why is she punching?
Ranna wasn't a brawler.
She was a swordswoman.
A duelist. A tactician.
So why was she bearing down on him like a brawler from the Undercities?
One punch came so close it cut the air across his cheek like a whipcrack. Heat bloomed on his skin.
He glanced at her eyes.
She was smiling.
Not cruelly.
Not kindly.
Just… watching. Like a teacher watching a student start to ask the right question.
Another punch sailed past his ribs.
Leo twisted sideways, breath sharp in his throat—
And then the world shifted.
No sound.
No flash.
Just presence.
His body screamed instinct before his mind caught up. He turned.
Too late.
Slash!
A searing line of white-hot pressure zipped across his side—just mist, but it bit deep. The force bent his posture mid-dodge, spun him slightly.
Amanda stood behind him now, swords humming with kinetic tension. No apology in her eyes.
Only focus.
Pure fire.
"You thought this was one-on-one?" Ranna's voice cut across the distance—light, teasing, edged like a blade held gently to the throat.
Leo's breath hitched.
And then—
Boom.
The battlefield erupted.
Slashes. Punches. Tornado-lances.
Each strike came from a different angle, a different rhythm, a different philosophy of violence. He dodged some. He blocked one. Most landed.
There was no time for thought—just instinct, bloodheat, and reaction.
His shoulder snapped back from Amanda's blade. His side folded under Ranna's boot. A spinning lance of air singed the edges of his aura and slammed into his leg, throwing him off-balance.
It was a massacre.
A one-sided symphony of strength.
And through the blur of movement, the hiss of torn mist and the roar of clashing power—
Amanda saw him.
She froze for a heartbeat. Blades still mid-swing.
Because Leo was smiling.
Not forced.
Not pained.
But real.
It wasn't joy, exactly.
It was understanding.
He exhaled, stumbling back as another lance exploded near his feet. Wind shrieked. His limbs ached. His aura flickered.
And still, he smiled.
If it weren't for Paradise, he thought, wiping bloodless sweat from his brow, I'd be broken right now.
Ribs shattered. Tendons snapped. Neck bent the wrong way.
But none of that stuck.
Nothing compared to that,
He looked at Amanda, then Ranna, then even Cris—who stood in the distance, summoning another spell with wild, grinning precision.
So this…
This is what it means to be an adventurer.
To fight like it matters.
To test truths with blood.
And then—suddenly—
Everything paused.
No signal.
No warning.
Just a feeling in the bones. A shift in the breath of the world.
The mist—ever-present, ever-drifting—stopped.
Then—
Began to move.
Not away.
Toward him.
Every strand. Every ribbon. Every tendril of memory-born fog swirled inward, drawn to Leo like gravity had reversed itself.
The ground beneath their feet—or whatever passed for ground in the Paradise—trembled.
A sound like something ancient clearing its throat rumbled through the space.
The golden glyph-timer above—once steady, pulsing like a heartbeat—glitched.
00:43:11
00:43:1—
00:—:—
The air pulsed.
"...What the hell is that?" Cris muttered, shield half-raised, voice suddenly lacking its usual snark.
Amanda didn't speak.
Ranna took one slow step back.
Leo stood in the center, eyes closed, arms slightly raised—not in power, not in command.
But in acceptance.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
To all of them.
His voice was steady now, no longer ragged from dodging or strained from thinking.
It echoed—not through space, but through presence.
"I think… it's finally time," he said, "to show you what I really am."
No dramatic flourish.
No scream.
Just the truth.
Amanda's eyes widened.
Cris' hands dropped slightly, focus fractured.
Even Ranna—sharp, calculating Ranna—went still.
Inside Leo, something broke open.
Or maybe it had always been open.
The mist wrapped tighter— converging. Woven with memory. With power.
Light didn't glow. It bent. Wavered.
The very concept of space shook, vibrating like a chord struck at the center of the Paradise.
Leo didn't move.
And all around him, everything began to remember.