It had been five days since they reached blade island and Vorden was nowhere to be found, Quin was alone all this time, and he had to daily spar with Vicky.
Once again, they faced each other in the sparring hall.
His fighting skills had improved—there was no denying that—but any flicker of hope that he might catch up to her skill was crushed again and again. Every time he got faster, her kicks became faster still. Every time he grew stronger, she became stronger still.
This isn't helping, he thought bitterly. How can I improve if she never stops pressing me? I can't even think.
That thought barely formed before a brutal kick smashed into his nasal bone. Pain exploded through his face, warm blood rushing down his lip.
"I don't understand," Vicky said sharply. "Why are you still like this? Come on, put up a fight. You're boring me."
Quin stood, his vision swimming, forcing himself upright through sheer stubbornness. Over the past few days, she had tossed him around like a ragdoll. Every loss chipped away at his pride, eating at his sense of worth.
Yes, he'd learned much from their sessions—but her power was overwhelming, her skill a mountain he could never seem to climb.
His teeth ground together, anger building in his chest. The frustration of being powerless was unbearable.
With a raw battle cry, he charged, faster than he'd ever moved before. A kick came for his side—he twisted awkwardly, just barely dodging it. That alone was an achievement, but compared to her, it was nothing.
Another kick came; this one aimed straight for his head. Instead of dodging, he bent low, catching her leg mid-strike. Using every drop of adrenaline and momentum, he spun, trying to hurl her off balance.
For a heartbeat, he thought he'd done it—
—but Vicky turned the motion against him. She spun midair, using his own throw to add force to her other leg, which slammed into the side of his head.
Darkness swallowed him instantly.
When he woke, he was in bed, fully healed. Someone had used their ability on him again.
But the victory was hollow—no, it wasn't even a victory. The past five days had shattered something inside him. His emotions were scattered, raw and ugly.
Night had fallen. The moon hid behind thick clouds, the air heavy with static. Thunder cracked in the distance, and rain began to lash against the windows.
Quin sat there, staring at nothing.
"Ah… crap. I hate myself for being this weak," he muttered. "I want to improve, but why can't I?"
The ability books on the table sat untouched. He didn't even have the energy to open them after the spar. A cold loneliness pressed on his chest, creeping into his thoughts, whispering that he didn't matter to anyone in this world.
"I'm nothing," he murmured. "I don't even matter…"
One thought grew louder than all the others: I want to get out of here.
His eyes drifted to the storm outside. The wind howled, the rain beat down, and for a moment, he imagined the universe itself mourning with him.
Slowly, he walked to the window. His mind was quiet now—dangerously quiet. He stepped up, the storm's breath on his face.
And then… he let go.