Virk turned on him immediately. “Commander Jouk, protocol does not permit open discourse during an

  active proceeding.”

  “Protocol also allows discretion in disciplinary arbitration,” Jouk replied, calm but firm. “And I’m

  exercising it.”

  The entire arena went still. The two commanders stared at each other across the polished floor like

  opposing poles of a magnetic field. The tension wasn’t just authority, it was rivalry.

  Bash stood between them, the hum of the coordination chamber vibrating under his bare feet through

  the ring’s energy plates. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him, the Novarchs above, the Reincarnates

  opposite, both waiting to see if the strange dark-green newcomer would be bold enough to keep talking.

  “I just want to save everyone some time,” he said finally. “We all know how this ends. Nobody here

  honestly believes Rixor’s walking away from a match with Murdok. So why not skip ahead to the final

  round and settle this properly?”

  The words echoed through the amphitheater.

  A ripple of whispering spread through the spectators, carried on nervous laughter and sharp intakes of

  breath. Rixor stiffened beside him, pale grey skin darkening in alarm.

  Virk’s golden eyes narrowed. “You presume to dictate combat sequence, Novarch?”

  Bash didn’t blink. “No, Commander. I’m just suggesting efficiency. You like order, right? This saves

  you a step.”

  For a long moment, the only sound was the hum of the containment field.

  Then Jouk chuckled softly. “He has a point. Fewer injuries. Less cleanup.”

  Virk’s glare could’ve cut through steel. “Discipline within my division is not your concern,

  Commander Jouk.”

  “It becomes my concern when your disciplinary theatrics involve my Novarchs,” he replied evenly.

  “You don’t get to punish my recruits to prove a point.”

  The Reincarnates began whispering again, mocking, skeptical. The Novarchs were quieter, most staring

  at Bash as though he’d just volunteered for execution.

  Finally, Virk raised a hand, silencing the room. “Fine. The final round will proceed now. If this

  Novarch believes he can expedite matters, let him prove it.”

  Rixor caught his wrist as he started past. “You’re serious?”

  Bash paused, meeting his eyes. “Not the first bad idea I’ve had..”

  Rixor hesitated, then let go. As Bash stepped by, Rixor’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Thank you.”

  Bash gave a faint nod. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  He stepped into the ring. The plates beneath his feet came alive, bright hexagons forming a circular

  boundary. Across the arena, Murdok was already stepping forward, broad-shouldered, nearly a head

  taller than Bash, every line of muscle under his armor flexing with purpose.

  “So the dark freak thinks he’s a hero,” Murdok jeered, voice carrying easily. “Should’ve stayed in the

  cradle. You’re not walking out of here alive.”

  Bash didn’t respond. He simply adjusted his stance, weight balanced on the balls of his feet.

  Virk exhaled slowly through her nose. “If you’re going to talk, Reincarnate,” she said coldly, “make

  sure you can back it up.”

  That earned a quiet chuckle from Jouk, who didn’t bother to hide his interest.

  “The match begins on my mark,” Virk announced. Her voice filled the room, sharp as a blade. “No

  killing blows. Combat ends at forty percent resonance depletion. Begin.”

  The hum of the field deepened until it rattled through Bash’s chest. When the containment shimmer

  finally steadied, Murdok was already in motion, a green blur wrapped in aggression. The Reincarnate

  moved faster than Bash expected, his massive frame cutting through the air like a charging bull.

  The first punch came wide and heavy, a right hook that could have cracked alloy. Bash caught the

  motion out of instinct, pivoted with a shoulder roll, and let the momentum slide past him. The impact

  still buzzed through his arm like a shockwave, leaving the muscles trembling but intact.

  He’s stronger than you, S-C said coolly inside his mind. Recalibrating threat response.

  “Not now,” Bash muttered.

  Murdok’s grin spread, sharp and mocking. “Talking to ghosts already? Guess the stress finally broke

  you.”

  He pressed forward again, shorter, tighter strikes this time. Bash ducked under one, blocked another,

  then drove his knee up into Murdok’s ribs. The hit landed solid, producing a muffled thud and a burst

  of resonance that rippled green light across the Reincarnate’s armor. Bash followed with an elbow to

  the chest, but Murdok’s guard came up just in time, deflecting the worst of it.

  They circled. Bash’s lungs burned, each breath measured. He could feel the crowd’s silence above

  them, hundreds of eyes, weighing, judging. He adjusted his footing slightly, forcing Murdok to move.

  Every step, every twitch, every shift of the Reincarnate’s center of gravity became a pattern.

  Information.

  Muscle memory guided him, human muscle memory. This wasn’t training from the Nexus. It was cadet

  drills, survival courses, and his father’s voice yelling to keep his stance tight.

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Up on the balcony, Jouk leaned forward, his expression unreadable. Virk’s arms were folded, lips tight,

  eyes tracking every motion.

  Murdok snarled and charged again. The hits came faster, one, two, three in succession. Bash blocked

  the first, absorbed the second with his shoulder, and slipped past the third. His counter came

  instinctively: a sweep to the knee followed by a sharp palm strike to the chest. Murdok staggered back,

  resonance flaring around his armor in fractured flashes of green and gold.

  The crowd gasped, the sound sharp and collective.

  S-C’s voice was calm. You are drawing attention, Bash. You’re exceeding expected performance by

  sixty-three percent.

  “I’m not trying to die, S-C.”

  He stepped back, rolling his shoulder, testing how much it hurt. More than he liked. Murdok recovered,

  teeth bared in a grin that was all violence. “Enough games!” he barked.

  Then he was on Bash again. His fists became a blur, raw strength, less technique, more fury. One

  caught Bash in the ribs, another grazed his jaw, sending a flare of light across his vision. Bash’s

  instincts took over; he shifted his weight, caught Murdok’s wrist, and used the larger Spartor’s

  momentum against him.

  A pivot. A twist.

  The world snapped into motion as Murdok’s feet left the floor. The throw was clean, precise, one

  motion born from years of human training. Murdok hit the ground with a thunderous impact that made

  the arena floor hum.

  He tried to roll, but Bash was already there, pressing the advantage. He slammed a forearm down to pin

  Murdok’s shoulder, followed with a hammer strike that cracked against the Reincarnate’s headplate.

  Resonance sparked like lightning.

  Another strike. Then another.

  The sound wasn’t just impact, it was rhythm. Thud, crack, flare. Each one feeding something primal in

  Bash’s chest.

  Up above, Jouk’s calm finally broke. His eyes sharpened, leaning toward fascination. Virk’s expression,

  by contrast, shifted from irritation to something colder, concern laced with disbelief.

  Disengage, S-C urged. You are beginning to over-adapt. Predictive modeling suggests...

  He didn’t hear her.

  The hum of the field faded behind another sound, the distant roar of collapsing walls. Smoke. Screams.

  His father’s shout-“Bash, get down!”-the blinding flash of green light cutting through the home that no

  longer existed.

  The arena vanished. In its place, Earth burned.

  Murdok’s armored hand clawed at his leg, and the illusion became real again. Bash reacted before

  thought could catch up, driving his knee into Murdok’s chest, the impact reverberating like a drumbeat.

  He followed through, shifting his weight, and suddenly he was on top, every motion brutally efficient.

  One fist crashed down. Then another. Then another.

  Resonance flared and splintered, each strike sending ripples of light and force through the arena floor.

  Murdok tried to shield himself, but Bash broke through, pinning his wrists, raining blows until the

  green light of Murdok’s aura flickered to a faint glow.

  S-C’s voice wasn’t calm anymore. “Bash! He’s below forty percent. Stop!”

  He didn’t stop. His breath came ragged, the edges of his vision darkening. Murdok’s voice was gone

  now, replaced by his father’s scream, by his mother’s cry, by the echo of everything he lost.

  “Stop!” she repeated, almost shouting now in his head.

  The spectators had fallen silent. Even the hum of the energy field seemed to fade beneath the brutal

  rhythm of Bash’s fists.

  “HALT!” Virk’s voice tore through the chamber like a thunderclap.

  Bash froze mid-swing, fist hovering inches from Murdok’s cracked armor. The Reincarnate’s resonance

  was flickering at barely twenty percent.

  For a long, silent second, Bash didn’t move. His body trembled with adrenaline. Slowly, mechanically,

  he lowered his hand.

  He became aware of his breathing first, too fast, too shallow. Then of his hands, shaking, slick with

  sweat and luminescent residue. And finally, of the silence.

  “Step back,” Virk ordered.

  He obeyed. Murdok didn’t rise. Attendants rushed in, scanners flickering over the downed

  Reincarnate’s body.

  The murmurs started, low, uneasy, spreading through the tiers.

  Virk descended from the platform, her boots clicking sharply on the alloy floor. She stopped a few feet

  from Bash, golden eyes burning.

  “No Novarch should have that level of coordination after one day,” she said coldly. “No one.”

  Jouk said nothing, his expression unreadable.

  Virk turned toward the guards. “Transfer him to the Nexus. Immediate evaluation.”

  Gasps rippled through the spectators, some thrilled, others fearful.

  Inside Bash’s mind, S-C’s voice went tight, almost human. This isn’t good. They’ll perform a deep

  neural scan. I can’t divert a full-spectrum probe without exposing your origin.

  “What happens if they find out?” he whispered.

  You’ll be disassembled for study. I’ll be deleted for deviation.