Marin ignored the warning Orion had given him moments ago. His chest rose and fell in short, sharp breaths, but his eyes burned with stubborn fire. He wasn't ready to accept Orien's so-called logic.
No.
He wasn't going to back down.
Marin clenched his fists, summoning his plot armor. He could feel it wrapping around him like a second skin, crackling through his veins, flooding every muscle.
Without another word, he launched himself forward.
Orien stood there, calm as a mountain, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. He waited until the last second—then tilted his head just enough for Marin's fist to slice through empty air.
Marin's foot slammed into the ground where Orien had been, spraying up dirt. Before he could even blink, Orien had sidestepped with inhuman smoothness, turning his body so effortlessly it looked like a dance.
Marin tried to kick this time, swinging his leg with all his weight. For a moment, he thought he had him—until Orien moved again, his body slipping just outside the strike's path like water flowing around a stone.
Everything slowed.
Marin saw Orien's stance shift. He saw the way his shoulder twisted, the subtle tightening of his knuckles. His brain screamed at him to move, but his body lagged behind.
Orien's fist sank deep into Marin's gut.
The blow didn't just hurt—it stole the air from his lungs, sent fire tearing through his ribs. The world spun. His feet left the ground, and then—
CRACK!
His back slammed against a tree trunk. Bark splintered. He doubled over and vomited before he could stop himself.
Orien's voice was calm, almost bored. "Kid, stand down. Your orientation's tomorrow. You really want to show up with a swollen face?"
Marin wiped his mouth, glaring through the blur in his eyes. "I'm not done."
"Of course you're not," Orien sighed.
Marin charged again. The earth trembled under his steps. Orien stepped aside with casual ease, his eyes flicking to Marin's shoulders, reading the attack before it even began.
But this time, Marin grinned.
As Orien moved to counter, Marin twisted his body mid-air and lashed out with a kick. It caught Orien square in the face.
The sound was solid—flesh meeting bone.
Orien staggered back, more surprised than hurt. His hand touched the side of his jaw, then wiped at his mouth. When he pulled it back, there was a smear of blood on his knuckles.
"Oh," Orien said quietly. "Now you've done it."
Before Marin's feet even fully touched the ground, Orien was gone from sight.
And then—
BAM!
A hand clamped around Marin's collar, yanking him upward with terrifying speed. Orien hurled him into the air like he weighed nothing. Marin's stomach lurched as he rose higher and higher, the garden shrinking beneath him.
Orien followed, a blur of motion, his boots hardly making a sound against the air.
The kick came from above.
It hit like a hammer from the heavens, driving Marin straight down. He crashed into the earth hard enough to make the ground shudder. Soil split and sank, leaving a crater where he landed. Dust billowed, swallowing him in a choking cloud.
Before he could roll away, Orien was there again, his shadow falling over him.
A hand gripped Marin by the throat and lifted him as easily as one might pick up a stick. Orien's eyes were cold now—no smirk, no hint of playfulness.
"This is me holding back," Orien said.
The punch to the face was the last thing Marin saw before blackness swallowed him whole.
When Marin came to, the first thing he noticed was the smell—clean linen, faint antiseptic. His body ached in too many places to count.
He was in a bed. Not his bed.
A voice cut through the haze. "Ah, you're awake."
Marin turned his head, wincing. The Author sat in a chair nearby, scribbling something in a notebook. His tone was casual, but his eyes flicked over Marin, checking for damage.
"You know," the Author continued, "the doctor here wanted to open up your brain and see how it works. Took me a solid five minutes to convince him not to. You're welcome."
Marin didn't respond. His jaw was tight.
The Author shut his notebook with a soft thump. "What were you thinking, challenging Orien when you're not even at ten percent of his level? Do you have a death wish?"
Marin's voice broke as he snapped back, "So what? Was I supposed to let him run free? Deliver his own twisted justice? He broke that girl's arm because she stole bread! And you—" His finger pointed accusingly. "You let him join the Enforcers. You gave him the power to run wild. Why do you even allow such people to even exist in the world?"
The Author leaned back, crossing his arms. "Yeah. My fault. I should've just mind-controlled everyone in the world. No crime. No punishment. No police. Just… a perfect, quiet little world where no one thinks for themselves."
The words hit Marin harder than Orien's punch. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"Thought so," the Author said, standing. "I've healed you. For now. But if you want to go after Orien again, you'd better prepare—and train—first."
He turned to leave, then stopped at the door. "Oh, right. Your orientation's tomorrow. All the Enforcers will be watching. So will the gods. Get your act together."
He left without waiting for a reply.
Marin lay there for a long while, staring at the ceiling. His mind was… empty. No anger, no excitement. Just a heavy stillness.
Eventually, he swung his legs over the bed and left the medical ward. The hallways of the academy were quiet.
At his dorm room, he found a neatly folded uniform outside his door. A note pinned to it read: Wear this tomorrow.
He set it aside and sat on the bed, his thoughts turning back to the fight.
Was Orien's justice truly wrong? Or had Marin reacted without thinking, driven by nothing more than raw emotion?
No answers came. Only silence.
Night fell.
The next morning, the sunlight crept across Marin's room, but it didn't bring warmth. He dressed in silence, his face a blank mask.
The Orientation day had arrived.
And Marin wasn't sure if he was ready for what came next.