CHAPTER 105: OVERWHELMED

He lifted his boot, then stomped down hard on Fin’s left shoulder. A distinct crack echoed in the room. Fin cried out, his body arching off the floor for a second before collapsing back down. His left arm lay limp at his side.

"My abilities are diverse," the man continued, his voice unchanging. He nudged Fin’s useless left arm with his boot. "Your absorption is singular. Limited. You cannot adapt."

He crouched down beside him. He grabbed Fin’s right wrist, the one still pulsing faintly with the green knuckle construct. He examined it for a moment.

"Interesting construct. Unstable, but focused." He squeezed. The green energy construct flickered violently, then dissipated. He squeezed harder. More cracking sounds came from Fin’s wrist and hand. Fin grunted, biting his lip, his face pale.

The man released his wrist. Fin’s right hand spasmed, fingers bent at unnatural angles.

"Let’s see what happens," the man murmured, "when your absorption is overloaded."

He placed his hand flat on Fin’s chest. He pushed gently.

Fin’s eyes widened. The green aura around him flared violently, pulsing outwards erratically. It wasn’t leaking anymore; it felt like it was being force-fed, pushed back into him. Pressure built behind his eyes. He gasped, unable to breathe.

The man pushed harder. Green light pulsed faster, brighter, becoming almost blinding within the room. Fin’s body began to tremble uncontrollably on the floor. A low humming sound filled the air, emanating from Fin himself.

"Too much for you?" the man asked calmly. "Can’t process it?"

The humming intensified. Fin’s trembling became convulsions. Veins stood out on his neck and temples. The green aura sputtered, flickered between green and silver and something darker, chaotic.

He screamed, a raw, ragged sound torn from his throat. The light flared one last time, white-hot, then abruptly vanished.

Fin collapsed fully onto the floor, limp, silent. His eyes were closed, faint trails of smoke rising from his torn tunic where the man’s hand still rested. The trembling stopped. He didn’t move.

The man kept his hand on Fin’s chest for another moment, then slowly removed it. He stood up, looking down at his unconscious form. He nudged him again with his boot. No reaction.

He looked down at his own hand, flexing the fingers. He bent and retrieved his battered case from the floor near the wall, slinging the strap over his shoulder. He then reached down, grabbing the collar of Fin’s torn tunic. He lifted Fin’s limp body easily, draping him over his other shoulder like a sack.

He walked out of the library, stepping over the scattered books and splintered wood. The corridor outside was empty, except for the jagged hole in the wall where Scarlet had crashed through earlier. Dust still hung faintly in the air. He continued down the corridor, his boots echoing softly on the stone. He reached the main hall. Empty. He walked towards the large entrance doors, still slightly ajar.

He pushed the doors open wider and stepped outside onto the packed earth of the training ground.

Arachne stood ten paces away, directly in his path. Her dark clothing was torn, her face bruised, dried blood crusted near her temple. She held herself stiffly, favoring one side, but her stance was steady. Her hands were empty, clenched into fists at her sides.

Beside her stood Meg. Her workout clothes were dirty, her face showed faint residual bruising around the jaw. She stood slightly behind Arachne, her expression tight, knuckles white where she gripped a plain steel sword in a two-handed, unsteady hold.

The man stopped. He looked from Arachne to Meg, then back again. He shifted Fin’s body slightly on his shoulder.

He walked forward slowly. Arachne didn’t move. Meg didn’t move, though her grip tightened on the sword hilt, the blade trembling slightly.

He stopped five paces from them. He looked at Arachne. "I dealt with you already." He looked at Meg. "And you."

"Let him go," Arachne said. Her voice was low, strained.

The man adjusted Fin’s weight again. He slid Fin off his shoulder, holding him upright by the tunic collar for a moment before throwing him forward. His body landed hard on the packed earth between them, limbs sprawling, unmoving.

Meg flinched, gasping slightly. A flicker of anger crossed Arachne’s face, tightening her lips.

"Move aside," the man said.

"No," she replied.

Meg swallowed, shifted her feet, but held her ground behind Arachne, the sword point wavering slightly towards the man.

"This does not concern you," he stated, looking past Arachne at Meg. "The boy is Association property. So is the artifact he carries." He took a step closer. "He is coming with me. Alive or dead."

"You will not take him," Arachne said.

He looked back at her. "Your loyalty is misplaced. He is weak. Untrained." He paused. "I expected resistance. Not... this." He shook his head slightly. "An acceptable outcome."

He started walking forward again, directly towards Arachne.

She tensed, dropping into a low fighting stance despite her visible injuries.

He continued walking. When he was almost upon her, he raised his hand.

Arachne lunged, a blur of motion despite her injuries, aiming a palm strike towards his chest.

He batted her arm aside easily with his left hand. His right hand shot out, grabbing her by the throat. He lifted her slightly off the ground, her feet kicking uselessly. Her hands clawed at his wrist. Choking sounds escaped her throat.

He held her there for a second, then threw her sideways. She flew through the air, hitting the ground hard ten feet away, rolling once before lying still, gasping, clutching her throat.

The man turned his attention to Meg. She stood frozen, sword still held out, eyes wide, watching Arachne struggle on the ground.

He walked towards her slowly. She took an involuntary step back.

"Put the sword down, girl," he said, stopping just out of her reach. "You cannot win."

She didn’t lower the sword. She didn’t speak.

He looked at her. His gaze traveled down her body, then back up to her face. He took another step closer.

"You are unmarked," he observed, his voice flat. "He kept you protected." He reached out slowly, not attacking, his fingers moving towards her cheek. "Interesting."

She flinched back, trying to angle the sword between them, but he moved faster. His hand clamped onto her wrist, the one holding the sword hilt. He squeezed. The sword clattered to the ground. He pulled her forward sharply, off balance, stumbling against his chest.

His other arm wrapped around her waist, pinning her arms, holding her tight against him. She struggled, pushing against his chest, twisting, but his grip was like steel. He lowered his head slightly, his face close to hers.

She could feel his breath on her cheek.

"You smell clean," he murmured, his voice a low rasp near her ear. He shifted his grip, one hand sliding up her back, tangling in her hair, pulling her head back slightly. "Ripe."

Meg struggled harder, kicking backward against his shins, trying to wrench free. A choked cry escaped her lips.

He ignored her struggles, holding her easily. His gaze remained fixed on her face, on her wide, terrified eyes. He leaned closer.

But before he could do anything, an explosive punch to his face sent him flying.