CHAPTER 92: CHAPTER 92 : DOMINANCE

Dirga’s strategy was simple—defend first, strike later.

He layered his telekinesis like an armor around his mind, erecting a field of pressure-tight mental plating to absorb the worst of the tiger’s psychic roars. It wasn’t perfect.

The creature’s attacks weren’t just force—they were frequency. Vibrations tuned to rattle the soul, not just the skull.

And Dirga could only hold the barrier for so long before it started to crack.

But that was the trade-off.

Time.

He needed it to analyze, to adapt, to understand how to fight this thing.

Problem was—this wasn’t like fighting a dumb beast.

The silver tiger floated like a phantom in the air, small and elegant. But each second that passed, it grew more violent. Smarter. Sharper. Faster.

Its telekinetic attacks weren’t waves anymore.

They were paws.

Claws.

Fangs.

Invisible limbs formed from raw will and shaped air. They struck from every angle—overhead slams, sideways swipes, upward bursts that exploded beneath Dirga’s feet.

He leapt, ducked, rolled. His body danced through the garden like a leaf in a windstorm, every breath a near-death experience.

One paw smashed a tree trunk beside him, and it didn’t just fall—it imploded, splinters compressing before exploding outward like bullets.

"It’s learning..." Dirga muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.

Each clash, each miss, each counter seemed to feed the tiger.

No, it wasn’t just instinct. It was evolving. Sharpening its control. Growing aware of its power like a child realizing its own hands.

Dirga grit his teeth.

)

This wasn’t a game anymore.

If he let this thing ramp up much longer, even a Black Star wouldn’t save him.

He had to act. Now.

Dirga launched forward, a comet of will and velocity. The Crimson Core unraveled, reshaping into its bandage form, lashing out in ribbons of blood-hued light.

It spiraled around the tiger’s floating bubble, binding it in midair—a net meant to hold a storm.

He gritted his teeth. Pulled.

Nothing.

The tiger didn’t budge.

Not an inch.

Not a goddamn millimeter.

It was like trying to drag a mountain out of the earth. No—worse. It was like gravity had been reversed. Like the tiger wasn’t part of this world’s rules.

Dirga’s muscles strained, his veins pulsing under his skin. But the silver tiger just looked at him—and smiled.

A child’s smile. Innocent. Curious. Cruel.

Dirga scowled.

"Fine," he growled. "Then I’ll come to you."

He reversed the polarity of his pull.

Instead of dragging the tiger to him, he hurled himself toward it, gravity bending in a sharp arc.

His hand wrapped in the Crimson Core, bandages tightening around his fist—compressing bone, tendon, and raw telekinetic force.

One strike. One point. One collapse.

"Punch Style: Collapsing One Point."

Bang.

His fist crashed against the tiger’s shimmering barrier. Space bent—recoiled—like a drumskin struck by a hammer made of stars.

But it didn’t shatter.

No.

The barrier didn’t break.

It rippled.

It sang.

And then—it absorbed the blow.

Like it ate it.

The kinetic energy vanished. The punch was gone. Not deflected. Not blocked.

Devoured.

Dirga staggered back, eyes wide.

"...No way."

The silver tiger’s golden gaze locked onto his. Its tiny fangs peeked through that childlike grin.

And then—

Its eyes glowed.

Not with fury. Not with instinct.

But with understanding.

Oh no.

It learned.

Dirga’s mind spasmed.

The air rippled. His thoughts scattered—shards of memory and instinct, vibrating like glass under sonic assault.

Not even a roar this time. Just eye contact.

And it felt like the universe cracked inside his skull.

He dropped to one knee, clutching his head.

His vision shook.

"You’ve got to be kidding me..."

"Fuck."

Pain lanced through his consciousness like a blade made of thought. But Dirga bit down, hard, and forced himself to move.

Telekinesis.

He wrapped it tighter around his mind—layer after layer, spinning it into a cocoon of force, an invisible helmet forged from sheer will.

He would not break here.

Dirga stood again. Staggered. Then straightened.

He couldn’t pierce the barrier.

He couldn’t out-think the beast.

But he could still survive.

He could still fight.

So he ran.

Zig-zagging through the strange, floral battlefield—dodging invisible strikes, leaping over gravity-punched soil, his mind spinning with each second.

His Crimson Core pulsed harder, brighter—the Concept inside it awakening.

Black Star.

It wasn’t just a weapon. It was a boundary. A question. A frontier.

And it was responding.

Dirga’s mind honed like a blade under pressure.

He kept reinforcing his mental defenses with telekinetic buffers, while his core Concept burned hotter.

All the while, he fought.

He shifted forms on instinct:

A shield to block the crushing waves.

A sword to deflect raw psychic strikes.

Bandages to restrain, to grapple, to delay.

He was bleeding.

A gash on his ribs.

A graze across his temple.

Blood soaked his side as one mental lash clipped him clean.

But he kept moving.

Because if this fight dragged on any longer—

He would die.

I can’t die here. Not yet.

Naya’s face flashed through his mind. Pale. Still. Unaware of the hell her brother was facing for her sake.

Not now.

Not here.

Dirga’s teeth clenched. His eyes widened.

And his Black Star—

—flared.

A humming heat spilled out from his body.

At first, smoke.

Dark and slow, like shadows leaking from his pores.

The tiger floated still, golden eyes narrowing—not afraid. Curious.

It pressed harder.

Telekinetic pressure crushed the air. The trees bent away from Dirga like prey before a coming fire.

And Dirga—

—burned.

Black fire burst from his skin.

It danced like a sun reborn in shadow—a Black Star incarnate.

The light didn’t glow—it devoured.

A black sun had risen.

And Dirga stood at its center, wrapped in the gravity of something that was no longer human.

His thoughts sharpened into singularity. His wounds stopped bleeding—not because they healed, but because the Black Star devoured the pain, leaving only motion. Only clarity.

The tiger tilted its head, still watching. Its psychic claws hovered midair, frozen for the first time—not from hesitation, but fascination.

Dirga’s voice broke the silence, low and cold:

"This isn’t about survival anymore."

His eyes glowed black. His Concept twisted tighter.

"This is about dominance."