The Unbound

The air in the chamber was heavy. Silent.

Ash knelt on the cold floor, his breath ragged. His body screamed in protest—bruises throbbing, ribs aching, blood dripping down his face. The fight had lasted minutes, but his body felt like it had been through hell.

He didn't understand what had just happened.

And neither did the Nine.

Solomon Graves, the Head Professor, stood still, his sharp eyes analyzing every detail. His expression was unreadable, but Ash could feel the weight of his scrutiny. The others exchanged glances, quiet murmurs passing between them.

The only one who looked amused was Renji Varos, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"What the hell was that?" Renji finally said. "He stopped the strike mid-air. Without touching it."

Selene, the lone female among the Nine, stepped forward slightly. Her violet eyes narrowed as she studied Ash.

"It wasn't telekinesis. There was no visible force."

"Then what was it?" Renji asked.

Solomon didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned to Veylin Calder, the professor with the artificial arm, who had been observing with an unnerving intensity.

The old man exhaled. "It was… a distortion."

Ash flinched at the word.

Veylin stepped closer, his metallic fingers flexing. "His power isn't like the others. It's not a manipulation of an element, not an external force being exerted. It's reality itself shifting in response to him."

A cold chill crawled down Ash's spine.

That wasn't normal.

Lifted had control over fire, ice, shadows—something tangible. Not… this.

"Unstable." Solomon's voice cut through the murmurs. He regarded Ash with a cold gaze. "You don't control it, do you?"

Ash gritted his teeth. He wasn't about to lie—Selene was still watching. Her power compelled truth from those weaker than her, and right now, he had nothing to resist her.

"…No," he admitted.

Selene tilted her head, her expression unreadable.

Veylin nodded. "It makes sense. He's untrained. The Trial must have forced it to awaken."

Solomon's eyes narrowed further. "Then the question is—what exactly has he become?"

Ash clenched his fists.

I'm still me.

But even as he thought it, doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind.

He had felt something in that moment. When the blade stopped. When space twisted. When the world obeyed.

That wasn't normal.

And it hadn't been the first time.

The Pull. The Trial. The way he kept moving despite everything.

Something inside him had changed.

But he had no idea what it was.

The silence stretched. Then, Renji chuckled. "I'll tell you what he is—he's a damn survivor."

Solomon didn't look amused. "Survivors die when their luck runs out."

Renji shrugged. "Then let's see how much luck he has left."

A hum filled the chamber again. The construct rebooted.

Ash barely had time to react before it lunged.

The Fight Resumes

Pain. Again.

Ash dodged, barely avoiding a crushing strike. His vision blurred—his body wasn't recovering fast enough.

The construct adjusted. This time, it didn't just swing—it anticipated his movement.

And it connected.

A brutal kick to his ribs.

Ash hit the ground hard. He coughed violently, blood splattering the floor.

Too fast. Too strong.

He tried to push himself up—but his arms trembled. His breath was shallow. His body was reaching its limit.

And still, the construct kept coming.

Something inside him screamed. MOVE.

And then—it happened again.

The moment the construct's blade came down, space twisted.

The strike never reached him.

It… hesitated. As if the air itself had turned against it.

Ash didn't think. He took the opening.

He surged up, slamming his shoulder into the construct's torso. It barely did anything, but he used the momentum to roll away—putting distance between them.

His head pounded. What was happening?

The Nine were watching closely. Their murmurs grew louder.

"He's doing it again," Selene muttered.

Renji whistled. "Not bad. Not controlled, but not bad."

Solomon, however, said nothing. His eyes remained locked onto Ash, unreadable.

The construct adjusted once more. Ash saw it in its movements—it was adapting. It wouldn't fall for the same trick again.The room reeked of blood and sweat.

Ash knelt on the cold floor, his body trembling. His right arm hung limply at his side, bent at an angle it wasn't supposed to be. Dislocated. His left eye was already swollen shut. Every breath sent white-hot agony through his ribs—at least two were cracked, if not broken.

And still, the construct came for him.

It wasn't human. It didn't stop. It didn't hesitate, didn't feel exhaustion, didn't care that Ash was barely holding himself together.

The metal colossus loomed over him, its jagged, armored limbs shifting with unnatural precision. Its fingers curled into claws, stained red with his blood.

The professors watched in silence. Their faces unreadable.

Ash forced himself to his feet. His legs screamed in protest, his vision blurred—but he didn't collapse. Not yet.

Something inside him refused.

Something deeper than instinct.

Something… wrong.

The construct lunged.

Ash tried to move, but—too slow.

A steel-plated fist crashed into his stomach.

A sound escaped his lips—a wet, choked gasp. His body folded around the impact. He felt something inside him tear. Blood bubbled up his throat.

Then came the second hit.

A backhand to the ribs.

Something snapped. A sharp, jagged pain. His body was lifted off the ground, spun mid-air—and then slammed into the cold stone floor.

The impact knocked the air from his lungs.

His back arched, every nerve screaming. He couldn't even gasp. Just silence.

He tasted blood. His own. Coppery. Thick.

He couldn't move.

Couldn't think.

Couldn't—

MOVE.

A whisper in his mind.

The Pull.

Something stirred.

Something not human.

The construct raised its foot—aiming for his skull. A finishing blow.

And then—everything snapped.

The moment before impact, space rippled.

A fracture in the air. Reality itself twisted.

One second, the foot was coming down—the next, it was somewhere else.

The construct stumbled. It hadn't moved, but… it had.

Like it had been erased from one point and forced into another.

The professors stiffened. Their murmurs stopped.

Ash exhaled—and the world bent around him.

The Pull was no longer passive. It was no longer subtle. It was in him.

It had always been.

A part of him.

His body moved before his mind caught up.

One second, he was collapsed on the ground—the next, he was standing.

No. Not standing. He had skipped the process of getting up entirely.

Like reality had jumped frames.

The construct recalibrated. It adjusted, analyzing, adapting.

Too late.

Ash stepped forward—but instead of moving through space, he moved past it.

Faster than a blink.

The distance between him and the construct vanished.

His broken right arm? It didn't matter. His body ignored it. He drove his knee into the machine's abdomen—and space folded.

The force should have been small. It should have been nothing.

But the moment his knee connected—it wasn't just an impact.

It was a displacement.

Like his strike had carried the weight of an entire world.

The construct imploded inward. Metal buckled. Plates cracked. Sparks and fractured steel burst outward.

The professors flinched.

Ash didn't.

His movements weren't his own anymore. Or maybe they were. Maybe they had always been.

He reached forward—and reality bent.

The construct tried to counterattack—its massive arm swinging toward his skull.

It never connected.

Not because he dodged. Because it was never meant to.

The moment it swung, its arm… vanished.

Not severed. Erased.

One second, it was attached—the next, it simply wasn't. Like it had never existed at all.

The construct staggered. Its system malfunctioned. It couldn't understand what had happened. Neither could Ash.

But his body knew.

It moved again.

A single, precise strike to the chest.

This time, there was no sound. No impact.

Just… absence.

The entire upper half of the construct was gone.

Not destroyed. Not shattered. Gone.

Like it had been erased from the timeline itself.

The fight was over.

---

The Aftermath

Silence.

No one spoke.

No one moved.

The only sound was Ash's own breathing.

Ragged. Uneven. Alive.

His legs finally gave out. He collapsed to his knees.

Blood dripped from his nose, from his lips, from the wounds covering his body. His entire being ached.

But he wasn't dead.

And the construct?

Nothing but half a corpse.

The professors exchanged looks.

"…Well," Renji finally said, breaking the silence. "That's new."

Selene frowned. Her voice was sharp. "That wasn't just the Searing."

"No." Solomon's voice was grim. "It wasn't."

Ash barely heard them.

His body was shutting down. He was slipping.

Not just into unconsciousness. Into something else.

The Pull was still there. Still calling.

But this time, he wasn't resisting.

This time, he let it take him.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

And neither would he.

No more running.

For the first time, he stared down his opponent without flinching.

If reality wanted to twist around him—then he'd force it to do more.

He wasn't dying here.

Not yet.