Marrionette watched with a tight expression as Elder Grigs stepped closer to her side.
The old man's brows were drawn together, his gaze fixed on the arena where two boys continued to clash with a ferocity that no longer resembled training.
"This has gone far enough," Grigs said, his voice low but heavy. "They are thirteen. Children. This is no longer a lesson."
Marrionette did not respond immediately.
Her eyes were locked on Zareck.
Even from this distance she could see it clearly. His right hand was swollen beyond what should have been possible. The skin had split in several places, blood darkening his fingers and dripping to the stone below. The left hand hung uselessly at his side, fingers curled in an unnatural way.
Without her Healing Qi, his hands would already be ruined.
Grigs continued, his tone sharpening. "You know as well as I do that if this goes on any longer, he will be crippled. Permanently. And Malichi is not without risk either."
Marrionette frowned.
"I am aware," she said quietly.
Grigs exhaled sharply. "Then end it. You are the combat orientator after all. This is your responsibility."
She did not answer him. Not yet.
Instead, she watched the boys.
Malichi's movements were still clean, but his breathing had grown heavier. His strikes carried more weight now, more intent. He was no longer holding back.
And Zareck.
Zareck fought like a man who had already accepted ruin.
Each movement was reckless. Each attack was pushed past reason. He was no longer conserving anything, not strength, not his body, not even his future.
Marrionette felt a strange tightness in her chest.
She could see their eyes.
That was what stopped her.
Not skill. Not talent. Not lineage.
Their eyes burned with something raw and undeniable. Determination, yes, but also need. As if this moment mattered more to them than anything that came after.
"This means everything to them," Marrionette said softly.
Grigs stiffened. "Meaning does not excuse death."
She finally turned to look at him. "I will deal with the consequences."
Grigs stared at her in disbelief.
"You are letting emotion cloud your judgment," he snapped.
Marrionette turned back to the arena. "Perhaps."
Then the world narrowed.
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Zareck could no longer feel his left hand.
It might as well not have existed.
For the past minute, he had fought using only his right, forcing Tiger Claw Fingers to remain active far longer than it was ever meant to. Every strike sent pain screaming up his arm and into his shoulder. His fingers felt brittle, like they might snap apart with the next impact.
Malichi was pressing him hard.
Zareck stumbled back, barely deflecting a strike aimed at his chest. His foot slipped and he almost fell. He caught himself at the last second, breath ragged.
His thoughts were scattered.
Plans rose and died before they could fully form. Every option ended the same way.
Loss.
Slowly, painfully, he came to terms with it.
Malichi was better.
Not forever. Not in the grand scheme of cultivation. But right now, at this moment, Malichi stood above him.
Zareck felt something twist in his chest.
Acceptance came easier than he expected.
And then, in that fragile space between surrender and defeat, an idea surfaced.
It was insane.
Utterly, completely insane.
His breathing hitched.
No.
The consequences were unthinkable.
Crippling. Death, even.
But his heart began to race.
His mind drifted back.
Back to those three nights.
The Darkness. The anguished screams of hurt. Pain so overwhelming it stripped him of thought. Bones twisting beneath his skin. Muscles tearing, reforming, tearing again. His body breaking itself apart again and again in pursuit of something greater.
He remembered crying then.
Crying and screaming into nothingness.
And through it all, the whispers.
Soft. Constant.
Promises.
The Image of Zenith looming above him in his mind, vast and unreachable, yet somehow close enough to touch.
Keep going.
Climb.
Endure.
Take your place at the peak.
Zareck's breathing steadied.
His gaze sharpened.
He began to pull spiritual energy.
Not cautiously.
Not in measured cycles.
He dragged it into himself with brute force.
The air around him seemed to tremble.
Malichi felt it instantly.
His next strike faltered, eyes widening as he stared at Zareck in disbelief.
"What are you doing," he started.
Understanding dawned halfway through the sentence.
His expression shifted to horror.
"Zareck! What are you trying to do!"
Zareck did not answer.
He lunged.
He attacked with everything he had left, forcing Malichi to defend, forcing him to stay engaged. Each movement tore at his body from the inside. His bones screamed as fractures spread. Muscles strained beyond their limits, threatening to snap entirely.
Blood filled his mouth.
He spat it out and kept going.
Elders appeared at the edge of his vision.
Marrionette. Grigs. Others.
Their voices reached him, distant and muffled.
He ignored them all.
The pressure inside his body intensified.
His skeleton felt wrong, warped, bending under forces it was never meant to endure. His vision blurred with tears. Pain overwhelmed him so completely it became difficult to breathe.
And yet.
He pressed on.
Malichi understood now.
He could see it in the way Malichi's strikes hesitated, in the conflict written across his face. He did not want to do this. He did not want to be part of it.
But Zareck would not let him stop.
He attacked again and again, reckless, desperate, forcing Malichi to respond.
Slowly, Malichi's hesitation hardened.
If this was Zareck's choice, then he would honour it.
He gave everything.
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Marrionette's breath caught.
In all her years, she had never seen anything like this.
Zareck's body was breaking apart in real time. His bones bent at impossible angles. Blood soaked his clothes. Tears streamed down his face as he screamed in agony.
And still he fought.
Grigs stared in horror.
"This is madness," he whispered.
Then he turned on her.
"End this now," he roared. "End it, or I will."
Marrionette bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.
She could still see it.
That will.
That terrifying, unyielding refusal to yield.
Zareck looked larger than life in that moment. Not physically, but spiritually, as if his presence dwarfed everyone watching. A child, broken and bleeding, standing like a god of battle defying the heavens themselves.
Grigs' anger exploded.
"You will have a child dead on your conscience," he shouted. "The Hans clan will be mocked by every city state. These children will be scarred for life!"
The arena shook with the violence of the battle below.
Zareck screamed again, raw and animal, yet continued forward.
Marrionette's hands trembled.
She knew she should stop it.
She knew it.
And yet.
"Damn the consequences," she said hoarsely. "Let them finish."
Grigs' face darkened.
A crushing pressure descended upon her.
The weight of a Core realm cultivator.
Her knees almost buckled as she was reminded, brutally, of the gulf between them. Talent meant nothing before true power.
The other elders shifted uneasily, uncertain, divided.
Then they all froze.
An aura surged.
Not chaotic.
Not broken.
Whole.
Complete.
They turned in unison.
Zareck stood hunched over, blood dripping from his chin, his body barely holding itself together.
And yet.
His aura no longer belonged to the second level.
It burned with the unmistakable presence of the third.
Silence fell over the arena.
A thirteen year old boy, covered in blood and grime, eyes blazing with life and madness, had broken through in the midst of battle.
The elders could only stare.
And one thought echoed in every mind present.
What kind of cultivation manual could create something like this.
Because no ordinary Hans technique could ever have allowed such insanity.
Not ever.