“What exactly is our mission now?” Zack asked, his voice firm, as though the words themselves might steady the dizzying revelations of the past hours.

  He, James, and Lori were seated on a soft green slope along the banks of a narrow, murmuring stream that wound through District Air like a ribbon of silver. The serenity of the place clashed violently with the storm raging inside his mind.

  Tony leaned forward, his gaze calm yet piercing.

  “Rick kept his secret documents in a house somewhere in Brittania,” he began. “He sensed that the Royal Guard would come for him one day, so he gathered every secret he possessed and hid them there. He left the key to that place to his son.”

  James, staring into the flowing water, continued in a lower, harder voice.

  “There’s no concrete proof yet, but we suspect the Royal Guard sabotaged the Wall ten years ago… to ensure Rick’s son died as well. To bury the truth forever.”

  A burning, icy rage flooded Zack’s chest. His blood boiled; his fists clenched until his knuckles turned white.

  The Royal Guard… sabotaging the Wall?

  So his family had been slaughtered in the name of the Royals?

  Images crashed through his mind—the inferno, the screams, the unbearable helplessness of that night. He wanted to scream, to tear apart the peaceful quiet of District Air with his fury—but he forced himself to remain still.

  “Okay,” he said hoarsely, the word scraped raw by suppressed rage. “But if both Rick and his son are dead… how are we supposed to find that house? How can this mission even be possible?”

  Tony smiled faintly. There was no warmth in his eyes—only iron determination.

  “You’re going to tell us, Zack.”

  Zack’s heart skipped. His mouth parted slightly as he stared at Tony.

  Tony let the words fall slowly, deliberately.

  “Rick Miller, founder of the Research Team, was your grandfather. And ten years ago, the Royal Guard was ordered to ensure his son—your father—died.”

  The ground seemed to give way beneath Zack’s feet. The air was ripped from his lungs.

  He stared at Tony, stunned, his entire existence splintering in a single breath.

  His life. His identity. The tragedy of his family.

  All of it had been built on a lie.

  His grandfather hadn’t left him a key to a house.

  He had left him the key to the truth.

  And that truth was heavier than any weapon.

  “But… I really have no idea…” Zack began, his voice a fragile echo of disbelief. He still couldn’t process the impossible revelation—that the key to everything lay within him.

  Before he could finish, Tony drove a brutal, unexpected punch straight into Zack’s stomach.

  The blow was hard and absolute. It tore the air from Zack’s lungs. Completely blindsided, he dropped to his knees, coughing violently, breath stolen from his body. The pain was sharp—but the betrayal cut deeper.

  Tony.

  The man who had saved him.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  The man he had trusted.

  “Lori will search your miserable little shack in District Fire with James,” Tony said flatly, without the slightest trace of emotion. He ignored Zack’s pain and confusion entirely.

  “As for you—it’s time to train. Get up.”

  Zack staggered to his feet. His stomach burned, but shame and doubt burned deeper.

  I’ve fought in the streets. I know how to fight.

  He raised his fists, instinctively ready to strike or defend. It was the only language he knew.

  Tony did not move.

  He stood like a mountain, eyes like steel. The silence between them crackled.

  Zack made the first move.

  With a raw shout, he charged, throwing a wild, desperate right hook at Tony’s face.

  Tony dipped effortlessly, like a reed bending in the wind. Zack’s fist cut through empty air. Before Zack could recover, Tony caught his arm, pivoted, and used Zack’s own momentum to slam him into the ground.

  Zack hit hard. The breath rushed from his lungs.

  He rolled away instantly, eyes locked on Tony, who never once lost sight of him. Zack rose again—more cautious now.

  This wasn’t a street fight.

  This was something else.

  Zack attacked again—a fast left followed by a right hook. Tony blocked the left with his forearm. A dull impact echoed. Before the right could land, Tony seized Zack’s wrist, twisted sharply, and used his arm as leverage. White-hot pain shot through Zack’s shoulder. Tony’s other hand drove into Zack’s stomach with surgical precision.

  Zack gagged, folding in on himself, dropping to his knees.

  A merciless display of strength and technique.

  He looked up into Tony’s face.

  Unmoving.

  Unforgiving.

  Rage flared within him.

  He was C-rank—but he was not weak.

  With a roar, Zack launched himself into a jumping kick aimed at Tony’s chest. The ground seemed to crack beneath his feet.

  Tony sidestepped, caught Zack’s leg, and twisted. Zack lost his balance—but Tony didn’t let him fall. Instead, he pulled him forward, seized him by the neck, and flipped him over his shoulder.

  Zack slammed into the ground. Pain exploded through his back. His heartbeat thundered in his ears; the world warped and slowed.

  Every impact burned—but he was beginning to see patterns.

  Tony’s movements were efficient. Minimal. Calculated.

  If he could just find an opening—

  Tony stood above him, an unshakable presence.

  Zack tried to rise, but his body rebelled. His muscles screamed. His head spun. He saw Tony’s foot lift and knew another strike was coming—but he was too slow.

  A powerful, controlled kick slammed into his side.

  Zack rolled away, gasping, half-conscious. Every fiber of his body was on fire. He had never known humiliation like this.

  Tony wasn’t simply better.

  He operated on an entirely different level.

  Zack’s vision cleared. Tony stood calm, posture flawless, as if nothing had happened.

  Adrenaline surged again, mingled with raw frustration.

  He would not give up.

  Not now. Not here.

  He forced himself upright, muscles burning, fists clenched.

  He stood—shaking, but unbroken.

  Tony remained motionless, his expression unreadable, granting Zack space to move.

  The silence was deafening, broken only by Zack’s ragged breathing.

  Then Tony moved.

  Fast.

  A low kick snapped toward Zack’s knee, followed by a lightning-quick strike aimed at his jaw. Zack tried to react, but pain and exhaustion dulled his reflexes. The kick struck his leg, throwing him off balance. The punch followed—a sharp, explosive burst of agony at the side of his head.

  Zack’s world spun.

  He crashed to the ground.

  But before he could fully register the fall, something primitive inside him forced him back up.

  He fell.

  He rolled.

  He stood again.

  But this time… something was different.

  His eyes rolled back until only the whites showed. His breathing became a rapid, feral rasp. His body locked into a rigid, coiled tension, like a bowstring drawn to its breaking point.

  The rage he had suppressed for years finally erupted.

  He stood there—not a boy, not even a fighter—but something possessed.

  Tony smiled.

  Just slightly. A thin, almost satisfied curve at the corner of his mouth.

  “Now it finally becomes interesting,” he murmured, shifting his stance.

  And he attacked.

  They collided in a violent storm of fists and feet.

  Tony slipped past Zack’s wild, brutal swings, his body flowing like water. He countered, his fist arcing in a lethal curve toward Zack’s head.

  This will land, Tony thought.

  But in that split second—

  a flicker of awareness,

  a glimpse of what was about to unfold—

  Zack saw it.

  He knew where the punch was going.

  His body reacted a fraction faster than Tony anticipated.

  Zack ducked just in time. Tony’s fist sliced through the air above him.

  Then Zack moved in a way he never had before.

  His arms, his legs—his entire being—aligned with his perception.

  With speed and force that shocked even Tony, Zack launched a devastating counterattack.

  His right fist—fueled by some unseen inner force—crashed into Tony’s side.

  The impact was brutal. Hollow. Thunderous.

  Tony gasped, eyes wide with shock and pain. He was hurled backward, losing his footing, and slammed into the trunk of an ancient oak.

  The tree cracked.

  A deep fracture split the wood; branches shuddered violently.

  Tony collapsed at the base of the tree, motionless.

  “Tony!” James shouted, eyes wide with disbelief. He had never seen anyone strike Tony like that—never seen him absorb a blow so devastating.

  Lori stood frozen, her mouth parted.

  Zack’s eyes remained rolled back. His breathing was uneven, powerful. He was no longer himself.

  He was a machine of blind rage and unstoppable force.

  He stepped toward Tony, fists clenched, intent on finishing it.

  James knew he had to act.

  This was no longer training.

  This was dangerous.

  Zack was no longer in control.

  With a desperate shout, James rushed forward, leapt onto Zack’s back, and wrapped his arms around Zack’s neck, pouring all his strength into restraining him.

  Zack roared.

  His strength was unnatural.

  He flung James off as though he weighed nothing—but the interruption was enough.

  Tony staggered to his feet, breathing hard, his gaze now icy and focused. The faint smile had vanished, replaced by lethal seriousness.

  He moved.

  Faster than Zack. Faster than James. Faster than Lori had ever seen.

  A series of rapid, precise strikes landed against Zack’s temples and neck—not with excessive force, but with perfect, surgical timing, disrupting his nervous system.

  Zack staggered. His eyes flickered briefly back to their natural colour—then rolled white again.

  He screamed—a raw, animal sound of agony and resistance.

  His body faltered. The power drained from him.

  With one final, violent spasm, Zack collapsed heavily onto the grass, completely unconscious.

  His body lay still upon the soft earth.