Stretch had been in plenty of dangerous situations. Hell, his whole job was to willingly put himself in them. So getting hurt or even dying wasn't only a distinct possibility; it was all but the certain consequence of all his life decisions.

That was the usual Ranger bluster, at least. Decentralized as the Corps had grown there wasn't much of a shared culture across Outposts, but the one thing every one of these licensed Magicians had in common was a sardonic fatalism about the risks they undertook on a daily basis. Most assignments were relatively low-level, and with enough experience even the weakest of them would be sure to at least survive the average monster encounter, but all it took was one unlucky day when the assignment turned out not to be low-level and the monster encounter turned into a monster disaster. Close calls were common enough to turn even the most optimistic rookie into a jaded veteran within the first year.

So yes, Stretch was used to risking his life, and yes, he was even comfortable enough with it to throw in the odd joke or two as he did. But there was risking his life, and then there was facing down the kind of people who'd hardly register the effort.

The two Magicians standing before him were in that category. Arthur and Falnir, or so they'd called each other, the first a lithe swordsman and the second a goliath with an equally large hammer. They looked back at the Roxbury Rangers with a shared arrogance that Stretch could immediately tell wasn't the kind built on ignorant presumptions, not only because the pressure exerted by their Spirits easily squeezed his but also because Jason seemed to be taking them seriously. You knew you were in trouble the second someone like Jason wasn't willing to mess around.

At least, you knew that as long as you weren't Red. Said boy was the first to break the silence, pointing at Falnir. "I'll take the giant hammer guy."

It was abrupt enough that Arthur's self-assured sneer slipped into brief confusion. "What… Excuse you, but we're the ones making demands here."

Red's eyes passed to him, and after a moment of consideration he shrugged. "Okay, I guess you look pretty tough too." He bent, hands on his knees, and started stretching one leg after another. "You ready? I've been waiting all day for this."

"Waiting all…" Arthur shook his head and looked at Jason. "Anyway, as I was saying—"

"Let's start on three." Now Red moved on to stretching his arms, holding each one across his chest in turn. "One…"

"Column, I'm sure you wouldn't want harm to come to your little minions. There's no need to fight."

"Two…"

Jason glanced sideways at Malcolm. "Stick close to him."

Malcolm groaned, but gave a reluctant nod. "If you say so."

Arthur held out a hand. "Now, the sword—"

"Three!"

In a second Red covered the distance to Arthur, reaching the man in a single bound. Wide-eyed, Arthur noted first the grin that split the boy's face and then the fist making its way to slam against his own, the approach coming in a hazy slow motion activated in his brain by the sudden intuition that there could be enough power here to actually kill him.

Fueled now by panic, Arthur barely turned out of the way before the fist passed with a violent whoosh of air right through where his head had been. Then, as soon as he found himself out of immediate danger, that panic turned into indignant rage. "How dare you!" he seethed, drawing his sword and slicing at Red in one fluid motion.

The cut came horizontally, the shear of metal ringing with the wind. Red saw it from the corner of his eye, and since he was already off-balance due to his previous attack he just went with the momentum, tucking into a roll that had the blade pass harmlessly overhead. Still moving, the boy then popped back up, slid a bit on the dirt-coated stone floor, and launched another punch at Arthur's face.

This time the man was able to react with much more class. Seeing the fist clearly, he merely cocked his head aside and let it pass inches from his cheek, a smirk growing on his lips as his sword arm pulled back to make a counter slice.

Except, impossibly, he didn't dodge the blow. Though the fist flew by without so much as grazing his hair, Arthur's head still snapped back as something else nearly caved his face in. An invisible force followed in the wake of Red's punch, a ripple or an echo of the attack that had somehow been detached from the real thing and used as a backup in case the original missed.

Backup or not, it hit with enough force to send Arthur flying across the long room. One more glance from Jason and Malcolm, rolling his eyes, ran after the pair with hands already coming together.

Jason got his sheathed sword ready, preparing to swing at anything Falnir now tried to throw at his dashing brother, but the big brute merely watched Malcolm go past with a raised brow.

"Much power for such a little man," Falnir said instead, laying his giant hammer against his shoulder. The arcing motion belied any of the heft that should've come with such a monstrous weapon, its excessive bulk swinging up and around with an ease that spoke to either his own great strength or, more likely, the effects of a Talisman.

"Every team needs a tank," Jason said, wary despite his easy smile. "I'm guessing you can relate."

Falnir began walking towards them, what should've been a casual stroll turning into a trembling march from the sheer weight of each step. Stretch tensed beside Jason, one foot sliding back, and seeing it the big man gave a low chuckle that rumbled deep through the room. "I am not the tank..."

The wind-up was too quick. One second Falnir was walking, and then with one last booming step he was practically flying across the distance between them, both hands on the handle of his hammer, swinging its metal boulder of a head down to crush them both at once.

"I am the missile!"

Stretch, ready as he had been, couldn't avoid the blow. The only thing that saved him was Jason, who pushed him aside and then swung his sheathed blade with an impossible speed.

An invisible wall slammed into Falnir, displaced air pounding directly into his chest. It wasn't enough to stop his charge, but it was enough to slow it, and the two Rangers took advantage by leaping out of the way just as his hammer fell into the ground where they'd stood.

The floor shattered, blocks of stone rising up like mountains around a new crater. Dust and rubble flew out in a wave of destruction, enough that Jason and Stretch both had to hold an arm up to their faces to block it, squinting eyes searching through the blinding surge.

Falnir stepped out of the dissipating cloud, hammer back on his shoulder, eyebrow raised once more. "I do not understand," he said, looking at Jason. "Why not release your blade? You could have killed me."

Jason waved the dust away. "This is... just a friendly competition, right? I'm not looking to kill anybody if I don't have to."

Falnir frowned at that, reaching up to his chest. His shirt had been ripped to shreds by Jason's blunt attack, now hanging off his shoulders in a stringy mess of cloth and revealing a long red bruise that spanned from one end to the other. "You underestimate me."

"No, I think you underestimate me," Jason said, holding his sheathed sword back at the ready. "See, it turns out that, in our team, I'm the missile." His smile returned. "Now let's see who's packing the most heat."

Whatever humor he'd found in the situation, neither Falnir nor Stretch shared in it. The former drew himself up, grip tightening on his hammer, getting ready for the next attack. And the latter? It was all Stretch could do to gulp down his doubts.

Doing so got easier when Jason's smile turned briefly to him. I'm counting on you, partner. They'd done this often enough at this point that Stretch didn't even need him to say the words.

Okay. Stretch balled his fists, felt for his Spirit and found it there within him, trembling but ready to be called. If there was ever a time to live up to those expectations it was now, right? As Falnir neared, Stretch pushed himself into his Ranger's mind, hoping that this time it would carry him through.

- - - — MKII — - - -

Arthur's surprise didn't last very long. He landed on his back, rolled onto his feet, and slid to a stop with a hand on his bruised cheek. The glare he fixed on a coming Red then was one of contained rage, a silent promise of death that brought his hand down to the handle of his sword.

Before, Red would have stormed right in regardless, but now he knew he didn't need to get close to someone clearly prepared to stab at him with something sharp. Still grinning the boy instead held out a hand, middle finger bent at the ready, and flicked in Arthur's direction.

The attack came instantaneously, something invisible slamming like a bullet into the shoulder of Arthur's sword arm. Rather than bring him pain, this only seemed to fuel the man's seething anger. "You maggot," he said, teeth clenched. "I'll stomp that smile clean off."

"All bark, no bite," Red said, flicking again and again, shooting invisible bullet after invisible bullet.

Well, calling them bullets was a bit of a misnomer. The way his friends always described it, Remote Control took on Red's shape, like a distant shadow made of Spirit, not sent like a projectile but directly appearing at its intended location while moving in perfect sync with whatever his body did. Had that body not been as powerful as it was, those finger flicks wouldn't have hit as hard as they did.

Arthur couldn't exactly see the shadow—Spirit was rarely visible to the naked eye—but with his Spirit Flow pushing out like a raging torrent and his Spirit Sense pulsing with each wave, the shadow's signature was made apparent. It couldn't be seen, but it could be felt, and that feeling was enough for Arthur to sidestep around, closing in and weaving around the shadow's replicated attacks.

It happened so fast and so fluidly that Red, watching it all happen right before his eyes, found himself taken by surprise regardless. He held a hand out, Remote Control forming a wall of Spirit between him and Arthur, but the man didn't slow down despite definitely being able to feel the projected barrier. Rather, he just unsheathed his sword with his uninjured arm, holding it in a reverse grip, and slashed right through.

Red could feel his Spirit self get split in half, something rending outside and inside of him all at once in a gut-wrenching snap. The shock and disorientation that rocked him then was enough to freeze him in place as Arthur continued his advance, blade twirling into a proper grip as it came back to slice into the boy's body.

Closing his eyes, Red prepared for the pain of metal severing flesh, but instead he felt something cool slip in, like an ice cube sliding across his skin. He looked down, finding Arthur still there on the backswing, slice complete, but no blood oozed from some new wound. Instead, the place where he'd been cut stretched out with a sharp, glowing whiteness.

Before he could register what had just happened, Arthur made to swing down again. Red brought his hand up, meaning to push the man back, but something hot and bright beat him to it. Arthur noticed it too, head turning with Red's to see a giant ball of fire flying through the air towards them.

Clicking his tongue, Arthur jumped back out of the way, letting it sail past. Behind it came Malcolm, hands clasped together and sliding into place at Red's side. The two young Rangers stood warily across from their enemy, both sides examining the other.

"What the hell happened to you?" Malcolm said, giving Red a brief glance.

"Like I know." Looking at his strange new injury, Red saw that the glowing whiteness now wafted out like smoke, dissolving into the air almost as soon as it exited his body. It didn't hurt, but it did have a strange pull, almost like someone was vacuuming his insides. "Feels all tingly."

"It's a soul-wound, boy," Arthur said.

The Rangers turned to him, and he smirked when their eyes bulged at the sight of his sword. Jutting out from the simple steel crossguard was not an equally simple steel blade, but rather one made of a softly glowing white light, as if a moonbeam had been taken from the sky and forged into its dual edge. Its shimmer pulsed with such mesmerizing energy that Red and Malcolm both struggled to force their attention back on a now smug swordsman.

"My Marmayadose doesn't cut through the body, but through the soul. Its edge spills Spirit rather than blood." Arthur arched a brow. "With a soul-wound like that, any normal Magician would've run out already. I'll admit, I'm rather impressed you haven't. Not bad for a low-bred whelp."

Malcolm sent Red a scowl. "Idiot, see what happens when you just rush in without thinking?"

Red scratched the back of his head. "How was I supposed to know this guy would have a friggin' lightsaber on him?"

Shaking his head, Malcolm turned back to Arthur. "What's the point of this anyway? Your Talisman seems strong enough to me. Why go after my brother's?"

"Ah, so you would be Malcolm Column, then?" Arthur's smirk widened, shifting to Red. "And by process of elimination, that would make you Red Two. How convenient." Straightening up, the man gave his sword a few practice swings. "Your brother doesn't own that sword, you fool. It's my birthright. Having it in someone else's hands is an insult to my name."

Something was wrong. Even Red could tell that much. The man was too confident, too casual, which probably meant he had some ace up his sleeve. He'd done his research too, coming up with their names without any trouble. This whole encounter felt too planned out. Red glanced around, body tense, feeling in his bones that some trap was set to snap on them.

"If you really feel that way, just win the Tournament," Malcolm said. "I don't know how you found us in the middle of this place, but it feels like a whole bunch of unnecessary trouble when us losing means Jay's sword goes to the RC anyway."

"We'll certainly win, but I'd rather not take any chances, so the sooner your pathetic lot gets eliminated the better. And finding you was no trouble at all." Arthur pointed his sword at Red, who put his hands up to guard though nothing shot out at him. "Allow me to demonstrate. Red Two, your Spirit will be mine!"

At once, the smoky whiteness flowing out of Red's wound lengthened, stretching across toward Arthur rather than fading out into the air. Within seconds the bruise on his face disappeared, and he held out his sword arm to show its own lack of injury.

"Hey!" Red covered his soul-wound, trying to put a cap on the Spirit streaming out of it, but the energy slipped easily between his fingers. "Stop suckin' my soul out, ya weirdo!"

Teeth grit, Malcolm cupped a hand over his lips and blew out a long stream of fire. It seared across at Arthur, larger and hotter than any flamethrower, but rather than dodge it the man merely swung his sword in its path, slicing right through it as if cutting through a river.

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"I just said this blade can cut through Spirit, dimwit!" Arthur reached out to hold his sword with both hands, keeping it up against the torrent of flames. "And in case it's not obvious enough for your puny mind, let me make things even more clear. Malcolm Column, your Spirit will not hurt me!"

With that, Arthur lowered his sword and let the fire consume him, body soon disappearing under a coat of orange and white fury. Malcolm kept blowing for another few seconds, exhausting his breath, until he was all out and hunching over in exertion.

The fire raged a bit longer, searching for something to burn, but eventually it fizzled out in the stone room, and when it did Arthur stood there, dusting himself off without so much as a singed hair. Even his clothes were practically spotless.

"H-How?" Malcolm said, hand on his chest. He hadn't held back on that one, and his lungs burned with mild pain.

"I commanded it, and it became so. Such is my might." Arthur's eyes lacked any respect one warrior might feel for another. Red and Malcolm, they were more like poor, mangy dogs he'd been called to put down than real people. "What do you think I sought your brother out for, outside the Peak? Just for entertainment?" He shook his head. "No. I needed to link my Spirit to his, and thankfully he was foolish enough to give me a full showcase. A name, a Spirit Link, and a command that encompasses both. Jason Column, I will find you. I need only meet those meager requirements to activate my Royal Decree."

A Relay Art, then, and a troublesome one too. Malcolm frowned at the man, thinking through what he'd said, trying to find some loophole. Of course, there wouldn't be any; why tell them the rules of his Trick so straightforwardly if he wasn't certain they wouldn't be able to do anything about it?

No, Malcolm wasn't thinking right. If the Trick was so powerful, Arthur be using it for far worse things. He'd have just told Malcolm to attack Red or vice versa and sat back while they fought each other.

Red wasn't nearly as introspective. He went and charged right for Arthur again, fist pulled back with a carelessness that even Malcolm was surprised to see. The bespectacled boy was about to shout, anger and alarm urging him to step forward, but then Red glanced back to look him in the eyes.

That glance called for only one thing: attention. Red was trying to tell him something, and the instinctive knowledge of that was forestalled Malcolm's impulsive worry. In an instant he scanned the battle, seeing Arthur's readied stance as the other boy neared. He saw Red's soul-wound, as prevalent on his back as it was on his front—Marmayadose had cut straight through his body, just as Arthur had said. And that wound, which only moments before had been streaming Spirit toward Arthur, had now returned to its original sizzling state, the runoff energy dissipating directly into the air, directionless once again.

Alright, I get it. Malcolm put his hands together and breathed in. It was a good enough plan that he wasn't even mad at Red for picking up on it before he had. Not bad for an idiot.

Arthur, thankfully, was a bit slower on the uptake. That made some sense—he'd clearly made his mind up about their intelligence, and as far as he was concerned they couldn't have figured his weakness out so quickly. The arrogance would work in their favor.

"Red Two," he said, looking rather bored at the boy's approach. "You will not get near me."

Red stumbled, and Arthur sighed at the ease of his control. Then the boy grinned and, without missing a beat, turned his stumble into a high jump, flying far enough over Arthur to follow his given order. And as soon as he did, Malcolm let rip with the biggest fireball he could manage. It reached Arthur and exploded against him in a storm of flames and thick smoke.

Red landed far behind him, still warded off by the man's command, but the wave of heat and eye-watering light a few yards away was enough of a victory to make him pump a fist. "Nice one, Four-Eyes!"

Malcolm grunted and breathed in to cool his lungs. He wouldn't grant Red a compliment of his own even if the other boy did deserve it. Still, he would've been lying if he said he wasn't pleased to see the newly lit bonfire that now flickered in long bouts of flame between them.

Arthur's Royal Decree had Linked with Malcolm's Spirit to make his fire harmless, but at the same time its Link with Red's Spirit had vanished. Either Arthur had chosen not to just Link to both of them at once or, more likely, he couldn't. As strong as it might appear on the surface, no Trick was all-powerful. As many other limits as Arthur's might have, Malcolm and Red could at least depend on this one: the man had to choose which one of them to handicap at any given time.

The bonfire swayed, flames waving roughly before a sharp light cut them apart. Standing amidst the receding embers stood Arthur, glowing blade held fast, half his body coated with soot and angry burns, skin torn and seared black. His face, curved into a deep hateful glare, looked almost as terrifying as his new injuries.

"Red Two," he seethed, "your Spirit will be mine."

Again Red's soul-wound released a long stream of energy that spanned the distance and coated Arthur's body. His torn skin closed, burns healing in seconds—more a product of Red's strong Spirit than something inherent to the Trick itself, Malcolm thought.

But as depressing as it could've been to watch their progress get so easily undone, Red and Malcolm knew they now had a winning strategy. Eyes meeting from across the room, the two shared a ready nod, both thinking the same thing. Arthur might think them lowlifes and dimwits, but even lowlifes and dimwits could prove to be a huge pain in the ass.

- - - — MKII — - - -

Something huge and bright and hot went off somewhere across the room. Stretch didn't see it but figured Malcolm had blown something up, as was the boy's habit. Regardless, he wasn't exactly in the best position to be minding someone else's battle.

Falnir, despite what should've been all evidence to the contrary, was not a slow fighter. His great size and the sheer discomforting proportions of his hammer all pointed to a warrior who was as measured as he was strong. Their fight should've been like one against a cannon, getting damage in while Falnir drew back and prepared a big swing before getting out of the way once shot it out.

But it wasn't like that at all. Falnir chased Stretch and Jason down like a rabid hound, his great hammer spinning overhead and crashing the floor beneath into a sea of pebbles. There was no time to wait and plan, no time to attack unless it was done as an outright counter. What few blows they managed to deal him were shrugged off, bruises building on bruises all along his body but hardly eliciting more than a grunt of mild discomfort. Sometimes Jason even missed, his emitted swings crashing into the ceiling with a reverberating thrum.

The guy wasn't human. Stretch kept thinking that every time he barely ducked under a hammer swing. His hair and beard already marked him as some kind of viking wannabe, and if the way he fought meant anything then that likeness was very much intentional.

"Is this all the great Jason Column has to show?!" Falnir roared, shooting his hammer forth in a straight thrust that only worked due to its illogical weightlessness. "Nothing but running?! Nothing but the weak tap of a blunt sword?!"

Jason's response came with another swing of his sheathed blade, this time to Falnir's forearms. The blow slapped against the giant's skin, bringing out another bruise. The older ones were already starting to turn purple, and it wouldn't be long before this one joined them.

Stretch knew what the plan was without needing to be told. Stick close together and don't give any easy openings. The longer they stayed on the defense, the more Falnir would get worn down. He might not feel his injuries yet—or at least he was doing a good job of hiding the pain—but even a monster like him would eventually succumb to enough of them.

In a way, Jason was being a little too merciful. He could have just unsheathed his sword at any time, at least to cut through Falnir's hammer and leave him without a weapon if nothing else. But with great power came great responsibility, and to the Captain that meant holding back the bulk of his strength unless it was absolutely necessary. Had it been Stretch, he'd have long done away with such restraint, if only because he didn't have the kind of self-control needed to willingly put himself in more danger for the sake of it.

But maybe going to such lengths for such irrational reasons was part of why Jason had come so far in this business. Sometimes you needed to be a little crazy. Red certainly was, and look at how much stronger he'd become in just a couple of months. Kitty too, and even Malcolm in his own way, all of them had that bit of insanity within them, a spark that drove them to greater heights.

Meanwhile, what had Stretch done all these years? Coasting by on a mastered Trick worked fine for the average Ranger, so that's exactly what he had done. There had never been any need to be more than that, so he hadn't bothered. But had he needed a reason to become better? Wasn't the lack of a reason just an excuse for his own laziness?

His friends had consistently proven themselves to be anything but average, so if he wanted to keep being involved with them he'd have to learn to do the same. And Stretch did want to keep being involved. He wanted to keep helping the others, keep watching their backs. He wanted to prove that he could be more than average too. He wanted the same spark of something more, because if he didn't find a way to get it then... then...

Falnir's beady eyes narrowed on him, and Stretch blinked, realizing along with the big man that he'd missed a step behind Jason. There wasn't much more space between the two than had become usual, but it was enough to pounce on.

And pounce Falnir did. The large man stomped forward, turning as he did, hammer trailing like the metal edge of a spinning top. Stretch flinched at its approach, watching the hammerhead consume his vision, and for a brief moment he thought he saw his name carved into its metal surface like a tombstone. Lawrence Andrews, Dead at 24. Sorry, but we couldn't find all the parts.

Except the hammer didn't hit him. Instead it swerved away at the last second, passing right over his head and heading directly for Jason, who'd turned in an attempt to protect Stretch a moment before. Unprepared for the feint, it was all the Captain could do to bring his sword up as a makeshift shield, letting it take the brunt of the impact with a high-pitched thunderclap of striking steel.

The blade didn't snap—it never could have—but the force of Falnir's hammer pushed it hard into Jason and sent him flying like a baseball. The Captain slammed right into the nearby wall in a puff of dust, hitting the stone surface hard enough to crack it with his body.

Stretch watched his friend fall to the ground in a heap, eyes wide and disbelieving. That had hit hard. Too hard, even for a Ranger. Could Jason be...

A wave of pressure crashed onto his Spirit like an avalanche. Stretch turned to Falnir, whose victorious Flow met with little resistance. Swinging back his hammer, the big man raised it up and, with a sharp yell, brought it down.

Watching it almost in slow motion, Stretch could only think about that image of Jason on the ground, unmoving. He couldn't be... Not because of him.

Not because of him.

Face morphing with rage, Stretch bent aside and let the hammer fall where he'd been standing. Its great metal head exploded against the floor, sending up the cloud of broken rock that had now become standard, and in an instant Stretch plotted out his revenge.

His hand snapped down, every bit of his Spirit surging to Boost his strength to smack Falnir's own hands away. The bruise Jason had dealt the giant worked in his favor, and Stretch's chop produced the first grimace he'd seen out of the giant. That done, Stretch then gripped the hammer's long handle and, with another surge of Spirit, performed another of the many new techniques he'd forced himself to practice.

Blowing up like a balloon, Stretch's hand grew. Twice the size of the giant's hand, three times, four, growing and growing until it far outclassed Falnir's own, so big that it practically doubled Stretch's mass by itself. It took up the hammer's whole handle, some fingers pushing into the stony earth, so that for once the hand seemed to fit the weapon.

Stretch was no monster of brute power, he was no elite Ranger or insane genius. But with his Trick, he could at least pretend for a little while. His body, malleable like gum, could gain a momentary strength he didn't truly possess, and that moment was all he needed to swing this hammer up and bat Falnir's head clean off.

So Stretch gripped the hammer, felt the fake muscles of his new hand and the expanded arm he'd formed to carry it, and glared directly up at Falnir's eyes. Then, with all his rage and passion, he pulled.

... He pulled.

... He. Pulled.

Falnir just stared down at Stretch, watching the other man try and fail to bring the hammer up. The expanded hand should've worked, momentary as its strength was, but it wasn't working. Pulling and pulling as it was, the hammer it gripped sat as still as a statue on the ground, its great head planted solidly in a crater of its own making.

Still Stretch tried and tried, eyes wide and angry and beginning to shimmer with tears. Shaking his head, Falnir merely put a hand on Stretch's chest and pushed.

The shove was hard enough that Stretch stumbled back, hand shrinking back down to normal and letting go of the hammer's handle. With practiced ease, Falnir reached down for it and plucked it right up, dust and debris falling from it as he did.

"It was a good try, little man." Falnir brought a hand up and gave the hammerhead a fond pat. "But this is the great Mjolnir you try to claim. Such a treasure as this will not let itself be wielded by someone of your puny bearing." He raised the hammer high, looking up at it with reverence. "The Iron Judge, it is called. Only the worthy may carry it. And you, my friend, are not worthy."

Stretch stood there, watching Falnir swing the hammer back around to grip it with both hands. Something like exhaustion now worked up from his arm to his chest, blooming throughout the rest of his body. Not a side effect of his Trick; he'd not felt anything like that during the times he'd practiced. It was a much simpler feeling.

Failure.

He'd given it his all, had used all the anger and strength he could muster, had for once used every bit of energy he was capable of expending, and he had failed. This, standing there in total defeat, had been the best he could do.

Falnir sighed, and when he looked down at Stretch his eyes looked almost pitying. "Do not feel too sorry. Destiny is something nobody can escape. Some are meant for greatness, and others not." He shrugged, readying another hammer swing to finish the fight. "You were not. It is that simple."

Stretch believed him. He couldn't do much else.

But as Falnir brought the hammer down on him, something slammed into his forearms once again and made the swing veer off course. The big man and Stretch both looked over to see Jason not only alive and well, but actively rushing toward them.

"Stretch!" he called, holding out a hand. "Good job distracting him!"

Blinking, Stretch just stared, face pale. "What... You're alive?!"

"Played possum for a bit." When Jason reached him, Stretch suddenly found himself pulled off his feet and onto the other man's shoulder. "But look, it's time to go!"

"What are you—"

"The ceiling, man! Look up!"

Stretch did so, and what he found there took some time to process. A network of cracks, some thin and others big fractures along the stone. The more he looked, the more he noticed the dust that seemed to come down from it, the chipped stone and rock that fell from its damaged openings...

"You..." Stretch gulped, his mind catching back up. "You never actually missed any of your swings, did you?"

"Nope." After a bit of running, they passed by the second battlefield at the room's other end. "Red! Mal! Time to move!"

Looking over at the boys, Stretch saw that both looked a bit worse for the wear. Red in particular sported a strange white slash across his whole body, one that seemed to leak light in a way that couldn't be anywhere near natural.

But Arthur didn't seem much better. Though the enemy swordsman sported few injuries, something about his whole demeanor just seemed... extremely out of patience. Stretch could guess that the man had been treated to the usual thing that happened whenever someone didn't give Red enough credit.

Still, the swordsman was attentive enough to try and run after them once Red and Malcolm fell into step with the other Rangers. Jason was quick to send a blunt slash his way, sending Arthur off his feet with a sharp yelp.

Jason led them to the door at the end of the corridor, its circular shape having caught their attention from the moment they entered this particular room. Then, without much fanfare, the Captain dropped Stretch back on his feet and for the first time that day unclipped the lock on the sheath of his sword.

Steel rang free, and with a few quick slashes the circular door fell to pieces. Each chunk dropped as a perfect shape, its edges cut straight enough that even the finest stone mason would've found it impossible to replicate. Not given a moment to admire his handiwork, Jason pushed the rest through the opening and into the corridor that lay on the other side.

"Stop this instant, Column!"

Turning, Jason and the others saw Arthur running after them, Falnir not far behind.

"You sully that sword!" Arthur said, his own glowing blade held out as he charged. "A nobody like you... It doesn't belong to you! I refuse to let some... some Ranger wield the sacred Excalibur!"

"Wield it like this, you mean?" Jason held his sword up, its naked metal both unassuming and yet the fulcrum of some great weight. Each slight motion of its edge seemed to turn the whole room, mesmerizing all who looked upon it, as if the very space surrounding it seemed somehow more real and vital.

"Hate to cut this short, fellas," Jason said, shooting them one last smile. "But we've got a Tournament to win. "

Legs wide and arm a blur, Jason sent a barrage of fling slashes that immediately shattered the ceiling. The cave-in spanned the whole room, or at least as much of it as the Rangers could see, consuming Arthur and Falnir along with it in a chaotic cacophony of falling rock. Once it ended, and once their ears stopped ringing from its volume, the four stared at the pile of rubble that now consumed the exit, all of them huffing as the shared effort of the last few minutes finally caught up to them.

In the silence, Jason re-sheathed his sword. With it contained again, the aura around the man seemed to shrink, and the soft light of the surrounding gemstones seemed to dim somewhat. "Well, kids, did you have fun?"

Red, the only one of them still grinning, poked at the soul-wound on his chest. From what he could tell it was starting to fade, which only made him feel better. "That was cool enough, I guess. But next time, I get the big strong guy."

Malcolm gave a harsh chuckle while Stretch shook his head and leaned hard against the corridor wall. But before they could rest, all heard a thud rock through the walls. Slowly, they looked back at the rubble, seeing it tremble as another thud sent low vibrations along the ground.

"Let's, uh..." Stretch stepped back from the rubble. "Let's find somewhere else to take a break."

"Good idea," Malcolm said, getting a nod from the others.

They journeyed deeper into the corridor without any more time to waste, the repeated thudding shake behind them thankfully fading into the distance. Still, none of them could avoid the impulse to look back every once in a while, just to check.