The Crawler lunged.
Raith dropped low—his knees flaring with pain—and threw himself into a clumsy roll just as one of its crystal-tipped limbs sliced overhead. The air hissed behind him.
The monster's leg crashed into a concrete bench, splitting it in half with a sharp crack. Shards and dust exploded around him.
Raith didn't stop to look.
He pushed off the ground and ran—legs aching, lungs on fire, everything screaming at him to slow down.
But he didn't as he had no choice but to keep moving before it did.
Super Strength wasn't just in the fists.
It ran through his whole body—his legs, his spine, his chest—like pressure in a pipe about to burst.
Every step hit harder than it should've. He tried to guide it, keep it under control, and stay ahead of the thing chasing him.
But he pushed too far.
His shoulder locked. His thigh seized up. Something near his ribs tore like wet fabric, and the pain spread fast—sharp and hot—rippling through his side.
'Am I gonna die like this?'
Behind him, the Crawler shrieked. He heard its limbs slam into the pavement, the crack of crystal legs sparking against stone.
It was gaining on him.
Raith leaped over a fallen street sign. Twisted in the air. Landed rough.
His leg buckled.
He stumbled, caught himself, and pushed forward again. Every step was slower than the last. He could feel it—his body falling apart one piece at a time.
And the heat—that deep, burning pressure inside him. The source of it all. Now he could feel it more clearly. The Flux.
He remembered the word. Some scribbled line in an old book he'd read years ago. Flux—the energy that powered every Tuner, every Force.
It was invisible, internal and the worst part was... limited.
He didn't know how much of it he had. Or how to track it. Or how to stop it from draining out of him like a leaking fuse.
He just knew it was running out.
'Is this it? One good hit and I'm already burning out?'
He wondered if that was the case, he should be considered a super-special-secret weapon since he could only attack at full power once before he was broken.
"How... can I... survive this..."
His lungs couldn't keep up. His vision shook. The ground swayed under his feet even though he was still running.
Another shriek came behind him.
He dove low—barely dodged a sweeping limb that snapped a metal pole beside him clean in two. The broken pipe crashed down, spraying sparks as it hit the ground.
His boots skidded. His arm screamed. Every part of him was breaking under the weight of the power he thought he wanted.
But still—he didn't stop.
Not because he could continue to run. It was because stopping meant death.
He saw the others—his group huddled near the mining cart. Mira had her hand out. Dane was shielding the Kid. Kev looked stunned and pale.
No one was running.
He wondered why they weren't running.
He turned and tried to flank the Crawler again. One more push. One more jump.
His boot caught on a bent rebar. His balance snapped.
His leg buckled. Then gave out entirely. He crashed to one knee, the shock rolling up his spine like a hammer.
'Can I even finish this?'
His hand hit the ground, trembling.
That boiling strength inside him—it wasn't gone, but it flickered now. Like a flame choking on its own smoke. He was burning through it too fast.
His strength faltered.
His head sagged.
Then came the silence. The awful, ringing silence of failure clawed its way up his throat.
But before the darkness could swallow him—came the shout.
"Raith!"
It wasn't panic. It wasn't fear. It was a voice filled with hope, coming from Dane.
Raith's head snapped up. That voice—Dane's. Blurry as his vision was, he saw him—limping forward, eyes burning.
His voice shook with something deeper than desperation.
"No one else is dying," Dane muttered, more to himself than to anyone. "Not like this. Not again!"
Then the air around him shimmered—subtle at first, like a trick of heat. The light bent. The ground near his boots wavered. And then it sparked.
A sharp pulse of searing red light ignited across the back of Dane's right hand.
A Mark—fiery, jagged, shaped like a splitting sun—etched itself into his skin. It pulsed once, then twice like it was syncing to a new rhythm pounding beneath his ribs.
Raith's eyes widened, and his vision became clearer just enough for him to recognize it. That mark… he'd seen it before.
The same mark that had appeared on Pavel Morozov's hand, a century ago—when he became the First Tuner.
The legendary Mark of Fire.
Dane stumbled forward. He struggled to breathe as soft red-orange lights flickered across his arms. Heat spilled off him in waves.
He didn't know what he was doing. His body barely obeyed him. His stance was wide, unbalanced. But something inside him had clicked.
The Crawler shrieked again and lunged.
Dane didn't flinch. He raised his hand—not to block, not to punch. Just instinct. And as the creature closed the last few feet, a burst of fire exploded from his palm.
"Die!" he shouted.
It wasn't clean. It wasn't controlled.
It was a flash—more like a torch sputtering to life—and it blasted outward in a short, wild burst.
The Crawler screeched, veering off course, its front limb sizzling where the fire had grazed it. The attack hadn't done much damage—but it had stopped the charge.
Just for a second. Just enough for him to buy time and distance for Raith.
Dane's knees buckled. He fell to one hand, panting, his eyes wide behind the helmet.
"Wh… what was that…" he breathed, staring at the heat still smoldering off his palm.
Raith watched in disbelief.
He wasn't the only one.
"Did… did Dane just awaken, too?" Kev asked, voice thin and flat like his brain couldn't quite catch up.
Mira breathed. "He used fire... That was fire."
Kev turned toward her, mouth slightly open behind his visor. "That means... he's the same as Sir Pavel, right?"
The name hung in the air—sharp and electric. No one said anything else. They didn't need to.
Because suddenly, the impossible didn't seem so impossible anymore.
Even the Kid—quiet, withdrawn—tensed beside them. She didn't speak. Didn't need to. Her fingers curled tight at her sides. She wanted it too.
All of them did.
Dane stumbled to a stop beside Raith, still panting hard. Inside the helmet, his face was pale. But his eyes locked on Raith with something new behind them.
It wasn't fear anymore. It was hope.
"You still breathing?" Dane asked.
Raith blinked hard, his legs trembling. "Barely."
"Then stand up," Dane said. "We're not dead yet."
Raith grunted and forced himself upright. The ground wobbled under him—but he stayed up.