Chapter Twenty-Two

  Ambrose was a fighter. Never in his life had he willingly given up, even when the last bell seemed to ring in his defeat. It wasn't in his nature.

  Perhaps it was his father's influence. Raylen Severen, a man as unrelenting as the steel he worked with, had drilled the concept of persistence into Ambrose since childhood. Now, as the spiritual weight of Adolin's skill bore down on him, memories wrapped around his mind like a cocoon, thrusting him into the annals of his past.

  ---

  "Your punch was weak. Do you know why?"

  A ten-year-old Ambrose wiped sweat from his brow and shook his head at his father, who loomed over him like a mountain.

  Raylen Severen lifted his fists, delivering a powerful right hook to the punching bag. The strike sent the chain rattling, the bag swinging, and a thin cloud of dust falling from the ceiling. The impact echoed through their makeshift gym, a converted tool shed behind their modest home. The smell of leather, sweat, and motor oil filled the space, a scent that would forever remind Ambrose of these lessons.

  "What did I do there?"

  "Punched the bag," Ambrose replied, his lips tugging into a frown.

  Raylen pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled sharply. "Yes, obviously. How did I punch it?"

  "You just... did."

  "You're smarter than this, boy. Think. How did I use my body? What did it look like? Get those wheels spinning."

  Ambrose hesitated, then gestured vaguely at his father and the bag. "You turned your hips?"

  Raylen nodded, a rare smile cracking his stern face. The expression transformed him, softening the hard lines etched by years of struggle and sacrifice. "Yes. Power doesn't come from just one place, Ambrose. It's a chain, every link working together. You always need to think about where the source of power is coming from—both in how to use it and how to stop it."

  ---

  The memory washed away, snapping him back to the present. The source of power. That was the key.

  I think I can. I think I can. His thoughts chugged forward like a locomotive. He didn't need to defeat Adolin himself; the spiritual skill couldn't be stopped directly. But Adolin's focus? That, he could break.

  The pressure chained him to the floor, forcing his knees to scrape against the ground. The weight was immense, like being crushed beneath an ocean of invisible concrete. Each breath became a struggle, his lungs fighting against the compression. Lifting Akaroth was pointless in this position. Willpower alone wouldn't suffice; reality couldn't be gainsaid. But Ambrose still had his word of power.

  If he tried to use it recklessl, to target Adolin himself, it would drain him unnecessarily at a critical moment. But what if he didn't need to go after the man? What if he targeted something smaller, simpler?

  Adolin maintained his stance at the end of the hall, staff extended, the sapphire flames intensifying as he poured more power into his spiritual skill. His concentration was absolute, eyes narrowed to slits, jaw clenched with determination. The runes on his staff pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat, channeling his will into the crushing force.

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  Sharpening his intent, Ambrose growled out the word, his voice low and deliberate: "Break."

  The air seemed to quiver as the word took hold. A barely perceptible ripple passed through the hallway, like heat waves over hot asphalt. Adolin's focus shattered, his spiritual skill collapsing in an instant. The oppressive chains of pressure vanished. The sorcerer blinked in confusion, his concentration disrupted by the focused application of Ambrose's word.

  Ambrose surged forward, Akaroth sweeping upward in an arching slash that tore a palm-sized chunk of flesh from Adolin's throat. The blade sliced through skin, muscle, and cartilage with minimal resistance, the edge so sharp it seemed to part matter rather than cut it.

  The sorcerer stumbled back, his staff clattering to the ground as blood fountained from the gaping wound. His eyes widened in shock, hands reflexively reaching for his ruined throat. No sound emerged except the wet gurgle of air passing through severed tissue. Ambrose stood over him, the pool of crimson forming a halo around Adolin's head as life drained from his eyes.

  "Good fight," Ambrose muttered, nodding to the corpse before stepping over it. Despite the man's honorable stand, Ambrose felt no regret. In a world governed by the System, power was the ultimate arbiter, and Adolin had chosen his path.

  He didn't have time to dwell. The building was swarming with more officers, and every second wasted was another step closer to reinforcements arriving. He rounded a corner and came face-to-face with the two detectives from the traffic stop.

  "VPD! On the ground now!" Fielding's voice boomed in the narrow corridor, his tactical stance perfect, weapon trained on Ambrose's center mass.

  Fielding didn't hesitate, firing his weapon. Unlike the standard issue firearms used by other officers, this one packed a punch. Ambrose felt the impact resonate through his body, even as his cloak devoured the energy. The force was impressive, suggesting enchantments beyond those of the standard police weaponry.

  "Corey, we need backup!" Detective Smith's voice was steady as she aimed at Ambrose's head, her eyes scanning for weaknesses. She kept her distance, positioning herself at an angle that made it difficult for Ambrose to target both detectives simultaneously.

  Fielding activated something on his wrist, and the runes on his tactical vest flared to life. His next shot carried even more force, forcing Ambrose to sidestep. The bolt of energy struck the wall behind him, leaving a smoldering crater in the plaster.

  "He killed SpecOps, Chelsea. There is no backup," Fielding growled, moving to flank Ambrose's left. His face showed no fear, only grim determination.

  The two detectives worked as a team, their movements precise and coordinated. Chelsea's weapon unleashed a spread pattern, forcing Ambrose to maneuver, while Fielding's concentrated shots kept him pinned. They had clearly worked together for years, their tactics reflecting an intimate knowledge of each other's strengths.

  "Last chance to walk away," Ambrose warned. He activated [Retribution's Gaze], focusing first on Chelsea.

  The skill revealed flashes of her past—years of refusing bribes, reporting corrupt officers even at personal risk, working tirelessly to build cases against Red Hand members despite institutional interference. Unlike the others, Chelsea Smith was clean, a lone beacon of integrity in a department drowning in corruption. Her determination to uphold justice, even when surrounded by those who had abandoned it, was evident in every memory.

  He shifted his gaze to Fielding, the skill piercing through the man's defenses. Different scenes played out, Fielding providing protection for Red Hand shipments, executing witnesses who threatened to expose police involvement, skimming profits from drug busts before evidence was processed. The contrast between the two partners was stark, a curious pairing of integrity and corruption.

  "Not happening," Fielding barked, signaling to his partner. "Pattern three!"

  They shifted, firing in unison from different angles. Their tactics were impressive, designed to counter stronger opponents. In a pre-System world, they might have been elite. But this wasn't that world anymore.

  Ambrose pushed mana into his legs, his body blurring as he closed the distance to Fielding. The detective didn't retreat; instead, he dropped his gun and drew a short blade, the edge glowing faintly with runes.

  "Come on, then!" Fielding roared, slashing at Ambrose with unexpected speed.

  The blade scored a thin line across Ambrose's armor before Akaroth came up to parry. Sparks of blue-gray lightning crackled between them as they exchanged blows. Fielding was fast, his movements enhanced by the runes in his gear. The detective fought with the desperation of a man who knew death was coming but refused to yield to it.

  "You could have walked away," Ambrose muttered.

  "What's that?" Fielding snarled, pressing the attack. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breathing becoming labored as he pushed his enhanced body to its limits.

  "You're not enough."

  With a final feint, Ambrose baited Fielding into overextending. Akaroth flashed once, the blade slicing cleanly through the detective's neck. For a heartbeat, time seemed to freeze, the man's head still attached to his body. Then it toppled, blood spraying in a crimson arc. The head hit the floor with a wet thud, rolling until it came to rest against the wall, eyes staring blankly upward.

  Chelsea's weapon lowered as she stared, her expression blank. No personal grief, just shock. The realization of what had happened reflected in her widened eyes.

  "He wasn't going to stop," Ambrose said, unsure why he felt the need to explain.

  She didn't respond. Her face was pale, her eyes distant. Another officer who thought they understood the limits of violence, only to discover there were no limits anymore. Her weapon remained steady in her hands, but she made no move to fire.

  Ambrose hesitated, Akaroth poised for another strike. [Retribution's Gaze] had shown him her truth—unlike Fielding, unlike most of the department, Chelsea Smith had remained uncorrupted. In a city where integrity was as rare as diamonds, she had somehow maintained hers.

  "Go," he said finally, lowering his weapon slightly. "Your partner was corrupt to the core. You're not. I don't kill without cause."

  The sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the hall. Ambrose turned and continued toward the exit, Akaroth still dripping with Fielding's blood. He needed to leave this building, to get away from whatever was blocking his skills.

  Behind him, chaos erupted as more officers discovered the scene. He didn't look back. The path forward was clear now, find Vorshawn Red, dismantle the Red Hand, and finish what he had started. These corrupt officers had merely been obstacles in his way, their deaths necessary steps on his journey.

  All except for Chelsea Smith, whose life he had spared, not out of mercy, but out of respect for the rare uncorrupted soul in this cesspool of a city.