Fifteen Years Ago…

Punch. Punch. Punch.

Such was the tempo of Ash del Duran’s life.

He punched bags that hung from the wall, he punched peers that came to spar with him, he punched enemies that came to kill him. The first he battered, the second he bruised, and the third he punched right through. He had long ago become used to the feeling of blood on his hands.

Once, they had said those punches would reach the realm of the Supreme. Once, those punches had been accompanied by flashes of red, but Ash knew better now. He knew better than to waste his pool of precious years on the nameless.

For a thug, a fist is a weapon to inflict violence, Steigh had said. For a warrior, a fist is a stamp to leave their mark on the world.

The Supremacy was the land of legendary warriors. Azez the Absolute, Boris the Berserk, Ragnar the Redeemer, Gael the Golden… Ash wanted to leave a mark like theirs. He wanted his name to linger in the minds of those like himself.

All Ash did now… was to gild his gravestone.

“You know,” Steigh had said once, interrupting their meditation in his dojo. “There are other ways to make your mark on the world. The fist is not the only stamp.”

Steigh Kindred was a man built for fighting, with muscles like iron cables and an agile build -- it was something he maintained well as he got older. He'd shaved his head to create the image of discipline, but the persistent stubble of a burgeoning beard somehow betrayed it. One of the foremost masters of the Killing Arts in the Supremacy… and Ash's teacher.

Ash had opened his eyes, looking at him in bemusement. Barely out of his teens, and he already looked like a man long-since grown. Anyone would have thought the two were peers of the same generation, not master and pupil.

“I'm surprised to hear you say that, Master,” Ash replied. “I always thought we were of a piece.”

“Same deck, different cards,” Steigh said. “True, we're both accursed with inconvenient Aether tics, but… my pain is just that -- pain. Your accelerated aging is a death sentence.”

“There's nothing to be done about it,” Ash said. “Why quibble?”

“As I say… have you not considered another path through life? Reduced as they are, you have years remaining to you -- decades, even. Why not claim them while you can?”

Ash looked down at his hand, at the firm calluses that had formed on his knuckles.

Punch. Punch. Punch.

The tempo of a life indeed.

“My soul was built for fighting,” he murmured. “For me to take another path would be its own kind of death.”

Steigh sighed. “It's a sad thing…” he said. “...to be born with a body unworthy of your will.”

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Present Day…

Ash del Duran moved through the filth.

It hadn't taken him long to pick up Atoy Muzazi's trail. As part of his training, he'd hunted ravenous beasts through the abundant jungles of Merzhun. Hunting a man through the urban jungle was no great feat in comparison.

Still, Ash was surprised by the route that Muzazi had taken. As anticipated, he was proceeding to the Arena through mundane means, preserving as much of his strength as he could. He'd reached the Prominence District, where shuttles were taking the crowds up to the floating Arena -- but from there, he'd moved off the streets.

The path he'd chosen was one away from prying eyes. The stinking, filthy drainage channels of Azum-Ha -- the sewer that infested the planet's upper levels like metal kudzu. Muzazi would use this route to get to the shuttles, and from there proceed to the Arena proper.

That is… if Ash didn't stop him.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

If Ash had chosen to walk through the river of human byproducts, he'd have been up to his knees in it. Therefore, he had chosen otherwise. He was kicking off the sides of the metal tunnel, hopping from wall to wall as he advanced, staying as dry as he could.

That in itself was difficult -- it had begun raining not long ago, and it was battering against Ash's back from the grates overhead. The disgusting river below was growing deeper with each passing minute. It was disquieting, but there was opportunity there too: there was every possibility that Atoy Muzazi would be delayed by this as well.

A finger of melancholy dragged its nail against Ash's heart as he considered the commander.

Truly, he had not wished to come into conflict with Atoy Muzazi…

Click.

…or the one behind him.

“Don't move.”

Ash stopped, planting his feet against the wall and allowing himself to slowly slide down. Sure enough, his legs descended deep into the muck he'd hoped to avoid. Wrinkling his nose in disgust, Ash turned to look at his assailant.

“I said don't move,” Marcus Grace glared.

The gunslinger stood on the other end of the long tunnel, pistol held in both hands as he pointed it at Ash. His eyes were good -- cold, prepared to pull the trigger and do what had to be done. Ash expected no less.

“Do you think you could hit me,” Ash said. “If you fired right now, I mean?”

Marcus narrowed his eyes, refining his aim further. “I've never missed before. Not once in my life.”

“And I've never been hit by a bullet before tonight,” Ash raised his hastily bandaged hand. “You should have been satisfied with your miracle and gone home.”

For a long moment, they just stood there, facing off down the length of the tunnel. The rain continued to beat down, stabbing its pattern into the rancid water below. It plastered Marcus' short hair to his head and dragged Ash's long hair down.

This, too, was a strategy, Ash supposed. So long as they were trapped in this standoff, Atoy Muzazi could proceed to the Arena of the Absolute unmolested.

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That wasn't something he could allow.

“You know,” Ash said. “I've always thought you and I were of a piece, Mr. Grace.”

Marcus slowly took a wading step forward, his gaze -- and his gun -- trained on Ash all the while. “How's that?”

“Two men without specialized Aether abilities,” Ash replied. “We make our way in this world through mastery of the basics alone. You with the gun, I with the fist.”

“No,” Marcus smirked. “You have an Aether ability. I'm guessing you just don't feel like wasting it on me?”

Ash smiled right back. “No offense, but we're literally standing in piss and shit here. It would hardly make for a good epitaph.”

As the rain intensified into curtains of water, slamming down on the two of them to such a degree that it almost hurt, Ash considered his options. Could he continue moving down the tunnel, dodging Marcus' fire?

There was a fork right behind him -- if he could move down one of the split paths, he could possibly lose the gunslinger among the forest of pipes. It wasn't a sure bet, though… in fact, it wasn't even a likely bet. Marcus' earlier statement had been no mere boast: the Cogitant had a reputation for precision. Dodging a shot from him would be its own sort of miracle.

Stopping and surrendering to Marcus Grace wasn't an option, either. To do that would be to accept failure. Ash wasn't ready for such humiliation yet.

So… that left one option.

It was just as he'd said. They were masters of the fist and the gun. It was time to see which of those disciplines would come out on top here.

He'd need to cross the length of the tunnel -- ten meters at least -- and strike Marcus Grace before the Cogitant could aim and shoot.

Could he do that? He couldn't afford not to.

“I'm curious,” Marcus said, thumb slowly sliding over the barrel of his gun. “You really think Aclima has any chance against Dragan Hadrien?”

Ash adjusted his footing slightly, the movement made invisible by the filth his feet were resting in. “I saw that girl take down one of the Contenders with a touch,” he replied. “From a ship in orbit. I certainly think she has the right to try. Do you disagree, Grace?”

Marcus swallowed. “I've got two daughters of my own.”

“So it's merciful for you people to steal her birthright? That's how you're excusing it to yourself?”

“Nah,” Marcus said, clicking his tongue. “It's a shitty thing to do, I'm well aware. Atoy Muzazi bought my loyalty with my son -- that's what it boils down to. But I won't lie…”

His aim grew even more rigid.

“... I'll sleep a whole lot better at night knowing that girl didn't end up at the Arena.”

The look in Marcus Grace’s eyes had gotten even better. Hard as steel and cold as space’s void -- filled with readiness to kill. There was a good chance that this would be someone’s last memory. Ash let out a cold breath that danced in the air as mist.

“We’re done talking, it seems,” Ash whispered under his breath.

“What?”

“I said it seems we’re done talking,” Ash repeated.

“You move,” Marcus said calmly. “I shoot.”

When his body had been young, Ash knew he’d have been able to cross this tunnel in the blink of an eye. The boy would have defeated Marcus Grace as easily as anyone else, barely even conceiving of what it cost him. The boy would have won every battle with a single step, and never even realized the war had long since passed him by.

But the path that boy had walked had been a false footing from the start. Now he was a man beyond his years… now he had to walk with care.

Ash del Duran’s Aether tic was accelerated aging -- but that wasn’t the full extent of it. The older his body grew, the faster the accelerated aging became. At first, he hadn’t even realized he had an Aether tic. Now, he didn’t even know how many more times he could use Aether before it would kill him.

So… he had to make it count.

Killing Arts: Liar’s Gasp.

To the eyes of Marcus Grace, it would look like Ash was just taking a breath, but if anything the opposite was true. He was manipulating the laryngeal muscles in his throat, forcing a blockage of his airway… and, by intentionally suffocating himself, he fooled both the enemy and his own body. Right now, as far as this withered shell of his was concerned, Ash del Duran was dying.

Well… it wasn’t that much of a lie. Ash del Duran was dying. The only falsehood was the speed.

There were two flashes of light.

Blue Aether flashed as Marcus pulled the trigger, a shining streak erupting from the barrel of his pistol and zooming towards Ash.

Red Aether flashed as Ash lunged down the tunnel, the split-second usage bolstering the adrenaline his body was giving him following Liar’s Gasp.

The bullet sailed over Ash’s arm as he brought his body low -- and, before that bullet could even reach the wall behind him, he slammed his fist into Marcus’ stomach. Defeat was immediate. Marcus’ eyes rolled up into their sockets, and a fountain of blood and spit spewed out of his mouth. Ash kept his fist planted against Marcus’ body, so that the other man didn’t fall into the water, but he had surely inflicted internal damage with that.

Ash relaxed his throat and let out a breath -- this time of steam, the heat his movement had created finally escaping his body. His limbs shook. His head throbbed. His bones felt like someone had sucked the marrow right out of them.

…damnit.

Hadn’t he trained so hard in the Killing Arts so he could avoid Aether usage as much as possible? How many months had that little maneuver cost him just now? How many years? He ran a wet hand over his face, feeling for new wrinkles.

Creak.

He felt older, at least.

Crack.

“Hm?” Ash looked up.

There was a blue glowing point in the wall far behind him -- the spot where Marcus’ bullet had hit. No -- now that Ash looked properly, he could see that glow was the bullet itself, still intact. The projectile was lodged firmly in the metal, long jagged cracks spreading out from the point of impact… and those cracks were growing wider.

Creak. Crack.

“Ah,” said Ash.

The wall exploded inwards with a sound like a bomb going off -- and with it came a tidal wave of filthy water. It filled the entire tunnel as it rushed onwards, so contaminated that it was nearly completely black. Ash braced himself. Under these conditions, in this environment, escaping was not an option.

“Well, Mr. Grace,” Ash said to the man hanging from his arm. “I suppose you were right. You really don’t miss.”

Killing Arts: Brick Body!

----------------------------------------

It hadn’t been easy to get out of the sewers. Ash hadn’t been used to the fragility of his new body, and so his attempt to withstand the tidal wave had resulted in him breaking an arm. It flopped at his side uselessly as he jogged through Unicorn Park.

He’d left Marcus Grace unconscious on the banks of the artificial river where they’d both washed up. There hadn’t been a need to finish him off -- and anyway, Ash quite liked the man. Alive or dead, Grace had accomplished his mission: he’d managed to delay Ash.

That didn’t mean Ash had lost yet, though. If he could catch up to Muzazi before he reached the Arena, he could --

Danger.

Ash skidded to a halt, dirty water flying off his body and splattering onto the floor. Something was ahead, standing between two of the park’s massive Apex trees. A predator: something that raised goosebumps just by being there.

He narrowed his eyes, peering through the fog -- and then his eyes widened.

“Have you truly fallen so far, Atoy Muzazi?” he hissed to himself.

He knew the man standing before him. They’d never met before, but Ash knew his face, and Ash knew his name. Any competent warrior would be aware of such a terrible rival. Ash’s heart thundered in his chest. Yes, he knew this man… and, more importantly, he knew the spear this man was holding.

Jamilu Aguta. Nebula Two of the Unified Alliance of Planets -- and Victory, one of the five Old Demons of the Dawn.

“Sorry,” the man said. “I can’t let you pass.”

Weakling, the demon spear snickered.