Cracks Beneath Command

It began not with flame, but with stillness.

Maverick was breathing harder now. Not out of fear—but because the fire-wielding Unco user had stopped fighting like a hammer and started fighting like a mirror. No more heat waves launched blindly. No more wild swings lined with smoke. The man had recalibrated. The way he moved wasn't desperate anymore—it was methodical. Cruel in the way traps are cruel, not because they snap, but because they wait.

Maverick's coat was gone. His Bastion Blade was planted beside him, vibrating faintly from the last resonance pulse. His skin shone with sweat and soot. The inside of his chest felt raw from heat drawn too deep. And when he moved now—his body asked him why. His Unco still burned behind his ribs, still surged when he clenched his fists, but the man in front of him had begun to box it in. Cut off angles. Shape the space.

He wasn't just fighting with fire.

He was using terrain.