The journey to Cayocan (Part 5)

A current section of my story. Set in an ancient Mesoamerica world.

At the centre of the island, Xochi sprinted down a cracked stone path with ancient buildings looming on either side. Broken walls were covered in vines, their glyphs half-swallowed by time.

She burst into an open plaza—and at the same moment, Renzo came pounding in from the opposite side.

He bent over, panting, sweat streaking down his dark skin. "How are you so fast?"

Xochi gave him a sly smile. But instead of gloating, she nudged his arm and pointed. "Look."

The plaza spread wide before them—a square of stone ground bordered by ruined structures. At the far side, a Teocalli rose, a colossal temple scarred but still commanding. At the plaza's center, a fountain still gushed water despite the ages, its carved stone weathered smooth.

Above it, a thick branch drooped low. Hanging from it was a single glowing fruit, large as a papaya, pulsing faintly with a purple light. The glow throbbed like a heartbeat.

Xochi's eyes sharpened. "That must be it."

Renzo grunted in agreement. They stepped toward the fountain—until movement froze them.

Two figures stood on the far side. One wore a red bandana, a spear strapped across his back. The other, older, had a reed hanging lazily from his mouth. Both men bore the hard, weathered look of fighters who'd seen blood. One glance told Xochi these weren't just scavengers—they were killers.

Renzo muttered low, "I've heard of these two. Spike and Thatch. Northern raiders. They leave villages burning."

The men's eyes locked on them, sharp as hawks. The bandana-wearer unslung his spear. Thatch smirked around his reed, pulling out a jagged obsidian dagger.

"Well," he drawled, "looks like we're not the only ones who heard the rumors."

Xochi narrowed her eyes. "You don't look like the sharing type."

"Listen, kids," Thatch said, voice steady and cold. "Walk away, and nobody has to get hurt."

Xochi and Renzo shared a look—amused, unafraid. Renzo let out a booming laugh, clutching his stomach until his eyes watered. He locked into place, arms folding as his eyes narrowed.

"No."

The bandits shifted their stance and pounced.

Renzo darted around the fountain while Xochi vaulted upward, her frost racing across the fountain in a single surge until the whole structure gleamed white. She scaled the ice with quick, sure steps, reaching higher toward the dangling fruit.

Spike, unfazed, snapped his arm back and hurled his spear with vicious precision. The weapon cut clean through the branch, sending the fruit tumbling just as Xochi reached for it. Spike caught it on the rebound, scooping his spear back into hand with the same motion.

Xochi jumped, landing in a squat beside him.

Meanwhile, Thatch rushed Renzo with a dagger raised. Renzo slammed his heel into the ground, a sharp tremor splitting through the stone. Cracks spiderwebbed outward, forcing Thatch to stagger back, teeth grit as he regained his footing.

In seconds, they squared off again—bandits standing back-to-back. Renzo and Xochi closing in from opposite sides.

"You kids are sorcerers," Thatch said. "But you're still kids. And you're limping into this fight."

Renzo rolled his shoulders, smirking. "Yeah, I'm hurt. Makes it a fair fight, doesn't it?"

Thatch's grin widened, showing a chipped tooth. "Cocky little bastard." Spike shifted his grip on the spear, eyes narrowing.

Thatch darted forward with a sudden lunge, his dagger flashing. Renzo braced, arms hardening as he caught the strike, but it was only a feint—the real hit came when Thatch swept a chunk of rubble with his foot. Stones skidded under Renzo's heel, tripping his balance and cutting off his step toward Xochi.

In that heartbeat, Spike pivoted away and lunged straight for her, obsidian spear jabbing in a blur.

Renzo gritted his teeth, shoving himself upright, only for Xochi to whirl back toward him. Their shoulders pressed together—back-to-back—breathing in sync as the bandits closed from either side.

"Stay close, big guy," Xochi murmured, a grin tugging her lips.

Spike's spear shot forward again, a storm of quick thrusts. Frost leapt from Xochi's hands, icing the air itself, locking the spearhead mid-drive. At the same moment, Renzo slammed his hardened fist down, the earth shattering the frozen tips into glittering shards.

The bandits staggered but recovered fast, circling like wolves. Thatch snapped his dagger toward Renzo again, while Spike darted to Xochi's flank.

"Enough playing," Thatch growled.

"Separate 'em," Spike barked.

And just like that, they drove between the siblings-in-arms, herding Renzo toward the ruins' shadow and Xochi onto the slick stone base of the fountain.

Spike lunged first, his spear darting like a serpent. Xochi slipped aside it with casual ease.

Thatch pressed Renzo at the same instant, his dagger flashing for the boy's chin. Renzo jerked back, skin barely grazed. He then hardened his forearm in jagged earth. The next strike clanged off stone, and Renzo countered with a heavy hook to Thatch's face. Blood bursted from the man's nose as he staggered, spitting out his reed with a curse.

"Easy, pal," Thatch sneered, swiping blood from his lip. "You're gonna make me kill a kid today."

Renzo flexed his fists. "Good. Been waiting for a real fight."

On the fountain's edge, Spike pressed his assault. Xochi, on the base, skidded back across the wet stone, sandals squealing. His obsidian spearhead gleamed in the sunlight as he jabbed in quick succession. Xochi weaved away, each thrust whistling past her ear. He vaulted onto the frozen basin to corner her, sweeping for her shoulder in a broad arc. She ducked, one palm dragging across the stone—frost bloomed beneath his boots.

When his heel slipped, she lunged, tackling him. Spike hit the ground hard, air blasting from his lungs. Xochi landed on top of him and, without hesitation, tore the spear from his grip.

The two wrestled over the fruit clutched tight in his other hand. Xochi slammed his face sideways into the stone, straining to pry it free.

"Drop it already," she hissed.

Spike snarled and yanked her hair viciously, jerking her head to the side, making her gasp. The fruit between them pulsed furiously, humming as if resisting their struggle.

She responded by releasing her hand from his face, battering his arm away from her coils. She pinned his arm to the floor and froze it, prying the fruit loose. The glow flared as it slipped into her hands. She dashed—but he swept her legs, and both scrambled back to their feet.

Xochi's eyes narrowed. She released his face, battering his arm away from her coils. She pinned his arm down, and froze it to the stone. With both hands she clawed at his grip, the glow flared as it slipped into her hands. She scrambled up, clutching it, but Spike hooked her ankle with his boot and sent her sprawling. By the time she staggered back to her feet, he had shattered the ice and was rising too.


Across the square, Renzo fought like a storm unchained. He swung too wide, too reckless, and Thatch's blade found his shoulder. The wound split open, soaking the bandages with fresh blood. Renzo's teeth ground together as he seized his own arm, but he stood his ground. Thatch lunged for the kill—only for Renzo's stony forearm to smash the dagger aside. His other fist slammed into the bandit's gut, folding him over.

Thatch answered with a desperate punch to Renzo's jaw, then dove for his fallen dagger near a ruined wall. Weapon back in hand, he turned—just in time to see Renzo lower his stance, power coiling through his frame.

Renzo charged. The earth split with his momentum. Thatch tried to sidestep, but his foot refused to move—snared by Renzo's enchantment. Panic flickered across his face as Renzo thundered closer. At the last second, Thatch wrenched himself free and dove aside.

Renzo struck the ruin head-on. Stone shrieked as the ancient wall collapsed in an avalanche of dust and rubble. The crash echoed across the island, scattering birds from the treetops. When the dust began to settle, Renzo was nowhere to be seen—buried under tons of stone.

Xochi froze. Her chest clenched, throat dry. "Renzo!"

Her hand tightened around the glowing fruit. For one breath, she almost faltered. Then her jaw hardened. She stuffed the fruit into her bag.

She inhaled sharply, masking her worry, and bent to snatch up Spike's discarded spear. Spinning it in her grip, she smirked, though her eyes still burned with worry.

"This will do," she said coolly, admiring the weapon. "Looks much better on me anyway."


Further away from the ruins, the thunderous crash split the air. Its echo sent a storm of birds shrieking into the sky.

Tezca flinched so hard he nearly fell out of the bush. His heart was already racing. That wasn't just wind...

Izel tilted her head, squinting into the distance. "Not sure what that was... but I need to know." And just like that, she sprinted off without hesitation, vanishing between the trees.

Tzai didn't move. Didn't even breathe. He just stared at the empty clearing where she'd been, then blinked slowly, as if waiting for the universe to explain itself. "...She does that a lot."

He sighed through his nose, scratching his jaw. "You can come out of that bush now."

Tezca froze. Wait—what? He waddled out stiffly, guilt written all over his face. "Uh... hey. Fancy seeing you here."

Tzai raised a brow. "Do you spy on everyone you meet, or just us lucky ones?"

"I didn't know if you were friendly," Tezca shot back, narrowing his eyes. "How'd you even spot me?"

"Not hard to sense a rookie's Nahualli." Tzai yawned, like he'd been talking about the weather.

Tezca frowned. "Even though I concealed it?"

Tzai tapped his gourd bottle, unimpressed. "You tried."

Tezca crossed his arms, lips tightening. But before he could argue more, his ears caught faint echoes in the distance—shouting, maybe? His gut sank.

"Are you... a student?" he asked, more to distract himself.

He gave a faint nod.

"What did you even do to that spirit beast?"

Tzai sighed, tilting the gourd in his hand. "Stored its soul in here. Enchanted, obviously." He glanced at Tezca. "Any more questions, or is the interview over?"

Tezca grinned nervously. "Just one more. What... happens to it now?"

Tzai tapped the gourd with a finger. "Students take them to the Jade Council. They do some ritual thingy and send them back to Mictlan. That's the boring part."

Tezca eyed it warily. "That's... creepy. But neat. Name?"

"I thought that was your last question."

"Oh... right."

Tzai smirked. "It's Tzai. And the girl who just ran off? Izel."

"I'm Tezca," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "And Tzai... you're strong."

Tzai gave a quiet chuckle. "If you think I'm strong, Izel will blow you away. She's sharper than she looks. Much scarier, too."

Tezca blinked. "...You mean the nerdy girl?"

"Mm." Tzai nodded like it was obvious. "Stronger than me."

Tezca's face fell. He couldn't stop thinking about the earlier noise—and the way Izel had bolted toward it without a second thought. "Hold on... scary?"

Tzai's lips curved in a lazy smirk. "Oh, definitely. She'll cut down anyone who so much as irritates her."

Tezca froze. "...Anyone?"

"Anyone."

A chill ran up Tezca's spine. "Renzo. Xochi. Oh no."

"Who are they?" Tzai said, tilting his head casually.

Tezca grabbed his collar before he could blink. "Two extremely annoying people, who are probably about to make everything worse."

Tzai blinked at him, bemused. "...Mhm I see."

But Tezca was already pulling him forward, panic sharpening his voice. "Come on, we don't have time to chat—move!"


The bandit edged toward Xochi warily. She twirled her spear and slashed it through the air—frost swirled in its wake, a white curtain hiding her movement. Spike staggered as a foot slammed into his chest, knocking him flat on his back. When the mist cleared, Xochi stood over him, spear lowered, a smug grin curling her lips.

Her victory lasted a heartbeat. A flash of black tore across her back—Thatch's dagger ripping through cloth and skin. She cried out, arching forward as the strap of her satchel snapped loose. The fruit spilled out, rolling into Thatch's waiting hand.

Before she could recover, he drove his boot into her ribs. She hit the ground hard, gasping, pain rippling through her chest as the frost at her feet cracked apart. Thatch didn't stop—slashes grazed across her back, sharp and merciless, until she lay trembling, her spear just out of reach.

He chuckled darkly, hefting the fruit. "Troublesome little brats," he muttered, jerking his chin toward Spike. "Come on. Chief's waiting."

He hauled Spike to his feet, and the two turned away.

"THIS ISN'T OVER!"

The voice made them freeze.

Renzo staggered into view, fists clenched, blood dripping from his side. His chest rose and fell like bellows, his spirit weighed down by exhaustion—but he still stood, blocking their path. Behind him, Xochi groaned faintly, unable to rise.

"Sorry, Xochi," he said through gritted teeth. "I want to help you... but that fruit—we've risked everything for it."

Spike spun his spear lazily, smirking. Thatch flipped his dagger, its black stone edge glinting.

"You're still breathing? Tch—you should've been crushed."

Renzo spat blood and gave a crooked grin. "Stonehide. You'll have to hit harder than that."

"You look slow, big guy." Thatch circled, voice dripping mockery.

Renzo braced. He felt the hollow ache where his Nahualli should've been — his enchantments were gone, his strength spent. No stone to shield him, no earth to call on. All he had left were his fists.

But still, he raised them.

They came at once. Spike lunged low, Thatch swept wide. Renzo slipped sideways, catching the spear under his arm and yanking. The pull dragged Spike close enough for Renzo's elbow to crash into his nose. Blood burst from his nostrils as Spike reeled back, dazed.

Thatch was faster. His dagger carved a shallow slice along Renzo's ribs. Renzo hissed, twisting, his backhand grazing Thatch's cheek and drawing a thin line of red.

It was brutal, tight, too close to breathe. Wood clashed against bone, obsidian bit flesh, the dirt scuffed beneath scrambling feet. Every swing cost Renzo more blood, more breath—but he refused to break. His legs quaked, his arms burned, but his gaze stayed sharp, flaring with stubborn fire.

Spike jabbed again, catching Renzo in the shoulder. Thatch's blade flashed for his throat—Renzo rammed forward, smashing his shoulder into Thatch's chest and shoving him back.

The bandits regrouped, weapons raised, fruit still clutched tight. Renzo wiped sweat from his brow, his chest heaving. No choice left. I'll burn everything I have.

He drew in a ragged breath. "Second—"

But he never finished.

The fruit dropped from Thatch's hand with a dull thud. Spike's spear clattered to the dirt. Both men froze, their eyes wide, pupils dilating unnaturally. Their gazes didn't settle on Renzo—they were staring past him, unblinking, like prey sensing a predator in the dark.

Then, without a word, they spun and bolted, crashing into the undergrowth with wild, jerky strides.

Renzo blinked, lowering his fists. His lip twitched into a grin despite the blood dripping down his chin. "Heh. Must've realized they couldn't handle me after all."

He almost believed it.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Xochi still on the ground. His brow creased. When he turned back, a small white girl with midnight-purple hair stood in front of him, clutching something in her hands. His head jerked slightly. Who's this?

Izel crouched, turning the fruit in her fingers with slow fascination. "Interesting," she murmured, eyes tracing every line of its pulsing skin.

Renzo's voice rumbled as he stepped closer. "What's this? A lost librarian?"

She rose to her feet, ignoring the jab. "I'm the reason they ran," she said flatly. "You're welcome, by the way."

Renzo barked a laugh. "Sure you are. No offense, but I've seen scarier puppies."

Her expression didn't flicker. Behind her glasses, her gaze was steady, unreadable.

Renzo tilted his head. "Alright then. Hand over that fruit," he said, reaching out.

"No." She shifted her shoulder to guard it.

"I wasn't asking—" Renzo surged forward, dropping low.

She launched the fruit—it shot straight up, spinning into the air. In the same instant, she slid forward, her body narrowing, weight sinking low. Her left hand clamped his wrist, her right caught under his elbow, and with a sharp twist of her hips, his own momentum betrayed him.

His feet left the ground. A heartbeat later, his back slammed into the dirt, a burst of dust rising around him. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a rough groan.

Renzo blinked at the sky, then let a grin tug at his lips. "Okay... that was kinda cool."

Izel brushed the dust from her hands, then lifted her arm. The fruit dropped neatly into Izel's waiting palm. She tucked it into her satchel and walked off without so much as a glance back.

Renzo pushed up on his elbows, wheezing a laugh. "You're lucky I go easy on bookworms."

"You're obnoxious."

"I'm charming," he shot back.

She shook her head and wandered deeper into the ancient ruins. Her gaze drifted from the frozen fountain, still rimed in frost, to the collapsed building where rubble lay in uneven heaps. Only then did she spot Xochi, sprawled across the ground, her back torn with shallow cuts that bled through her clothes. Dust clung to her skin, her lip was split, and every breath came slightly ragged and uneven.

Izel tilted her head, peering down. "Are you okay?"

Xochi growled, baring her teeth. "Do I look okay?"

"I presume not. But I meant... Do you need any help?"

"I can help myself," Xochi hissed. She braced her palm to push herself upright, but her back seized with pain, and she collapsed with a hiss. Izel caught her before she could smack the stone.

"Be careful," Izel warned.

Xochi slapped her hand away. "Don't touch me!"

Izel raised both palms. "Okay, okay."

Planting her hand flat to the ground, Xochi exhaled sharply. A thin layer of ice crept up and spread, forming a jagged slab beneath her. She eased herself onto it with a grimace. "This will do for now."

Izel's eyes flicked to the fountain. "So you're the one who froze that."

Xochi only grunted.

"And I suppose that rubble over there is the big guy's doing?"

Another grunt.

"You're very eloquent," she said dryly.

Xochi's glare faltered into a frown. She raised an eyebrow, bloodied lip curling. "...Huh?"

Izel sighed through her nose and turned, taking in the ruins properly. "How could he be so careless? These structures are thousands of years old. They can tell us everything about the culture that built them."

She slipped her sketchbook from her bag, its corners frayed and pages fat with notes. Pencil scratching, she scribbled furiously, muttering under her breath as her eyes darted from stone to page. Her glasses slid down her nose; she shoved them back with one finger without pausing, flipping too quickly from one diagram to the next.

Her gaze inevitably fell to the temple towering over the ruins. It was immense, ancient—its stone fractured with time, draped in climbing vines. Her pencil was already racing across a fresh page, tracing its silhouette.

She sketched until a sound interrupted her rhythm. A faint thunk—wood against stone. Izel froze, head tilting like a bird. Then came a sharper clack, stone striking stone.

Her pencil hovered mid-line. The sound came again, closer this time. She shut the sketchbook with a snap. "I'll come back," she promised herself, already turning toward the noise.

Her eyes narrowed as she began to approach, her footsteps light as she neared a street.

The silence of the ruins was broken by rough hands tearing at ancient walls. Somewhere ahead, a laugh — coarse, loud, too alive for this forgotten place.

Izel rounded the corner. She stopped dead in the middle of the street. She saw them.

Spike wiped the blood from his nose with the back of his hand, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder. Thatch muttered curses as his chisel chipped ornaments loose. One man gripped a crude club, another leaned on a spear, prying at the cracked masonry.

And then their leader stepped into view.

Taller than Renzo and twice as broad, his frame corded with muscle, his presence so heavy it made the air itself feel narrower. His hair was bound back in thick cords, and a ragged headdress of multicolored feathers crowned his head: reds, greens, and blues, all weathered and uneven, like scavenged trophies. Slung across one shoulder rested a macuahuitl — a brutal club lined with obsidian blades that caught what little light the ruins gave.

His face looked as though it had been carved out of stone, harsh lines cut deep with time and battle.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" His voice carried like a drum, booming through the ruins. He gestured toward the fractured building, his grin spreading wider. "A civilization's pride, standing for a thousand years... and now it bows to me." He grinned, the flash of a gold tooth gleamed among the dark.

The bandits cheered half-heartedly, more out of obligation than true excitement.

The Chief's gaze swept over them, weighing, measuring. His eyes fixed on one man who had slowed, leaning too heavily on his spear instead of prying at stone. The smile vanished. His words cut sharp and cold:

"You." The word was flat, cold. He took a slow step forward, and the air seemed to tighten. "If your hands aren't pulling this place apart, then they're useless to me. Do you want to be useless?"

The man stiffened, fumbling to set his weight back against the wall, working faster now. The others redoubled their efforts without needing to be told.

The Chief's smile returned just as quickly, warm and booming again. "Good! That's it. Work, my brothers. Rip it apart! Every jewel, every stone, every relic here will crown our greatness. When the world speaks of these ruins, they will speak of us—the men who took a kingdom apart with their bare hands!"

This time, the cheer rose louder, though beneath the sound there was no mistaking the edge of fear. Spike and Thatch exchanged a look — half awe, half unease.

Izel was further down the road from them. One of the bandits spotted her just standing there. He nudged Spike, getting his attention. His eyes immediately widened.

"Look! She's the one who..." He squinted, confusion clouding his memory. He stuttered. "She's the reason we came back empty-handed. I think she took the fruit!"

The Chief shifted his massive frame toward her, his voice low and heavy. "This brat?"

Spike gulped. "Y...yes."

She muttered from about twenty feet away, her voice barely carrying:

"Desecrating what you don't even understand... You're breaking history just to fill your pockets... How pathetic." Her calm expression sharpened, serious and precise.

"Huh? What was that?" One of the bandits taunted, reaching for his weapon. He and the others crept closer, unsure.

Izel's glasses glinted as she reached for her sword. Thatch's face snapped into alarm. He'd seen her do this before—just before...

"Cover your eyes!" he yelled. "Don't look at her blade!"

They all obeyed, hands snapping up to shield their eyes. They had been told of her reputation as a sorcerer, a trickster. When they lowered their hands, she was gone—vanished from thin air.

The bandits scrambled, grunting, heads whipping around in disbelief. The Chief narrowed his eyes, his cold gaze unyielding. The other four hunched over, searching, but the Chief remained rooted, his presence like stone.

As the bandits passed the spot where she had stood, she reappeared behind them—in the blink of an eye. She struck with the hilt of her sword, knocking one man unconscious. She flowed between them, precise and deadly, dismantling them one by one. Panic widened their eyes, arms flailing, but none could land a single blow.

When the last of their bodies hit the ground, she paused, glancing up at the Chief. Izel's sword hovered just above her head, the point aimed toward the Chief, steady and unflinching. Dust swirled around the fallen bandits at her feet, their groans fading into the silence of the ruins.

The Chief remained unmoved, towering over the scene, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to shrink the air itself. The gold tooth in his grin caught the faint light, gleaming like a warning.

"Not bad," he rumbled, he took a slow deliberate step. "You defeated my men pretty easily." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, the stone under his feet echoing the movement. "But what are pawns... to a king?"

Izel's eyes narrowed behind her glasses. Every muscle in her body coiled, ready to strike. Even with the weight of the ruins pressing around them, and the sheer presence of the Chief before her, she held her ground—silent, controlled, deadly.

For a heartbeat, time seemed to pause. Dust, shadow, steel, and muscle froze in a single frame—one poised for action, one challenging it.

He roared, planting his feet, and launched forward. One bound devoured the space between them.

Izel swung, her curved blade spilling a pink shimmer that warped the air like heat. It cut toward him fast, silent. He vaulted clean over it, landing hard—only for a flurry of fresh slashes to shriek through the street.

These were different. Steel-bitten cuts gouged walls, split stone, spraying scraps with every impact. Real blades. Lethal ones.

His teeth bared in a grin. So the shimmer wasn't the same.

He twisted through the barrage, weaving past the storm. One pink arc came threading through the chaos. He leaned in, letting it skim the edge of his macuahuitl. The shimmer kissed the obsidian teeth and slid off, harmless. Not even a scratch.

His grin widened. Thought so. The pink doesn't cut. But it's not useless either... there's a trick buried in it.

He stomped, and the street convulsed. A slab of stone heaved up, torn free by his strength. With a snarl, he smashed it midair, striking the boulder at her like a cannon shot.

She sliced it clean, shards splitting wide—

And he was already there, hidden by the hurtling debris, he closed the distance. He emerged, macuahuitl raised, shadow stretching over her.

Most would have flinched at the suddenness of it. Izel didn't. Her gaze tracked him through the dust as if she'd expected this exact approach. A small adjustment of her stance, fingers tightening on the hilt, glasses flashing in the fractured light—measured, precise.

She wasn't rattled. She was already thinking ahead.

His macuahuitl whistled down in a brutal arc. Izel braced her blade just in time, sparks bursting as obsidian teeth screeched against steel. But the force was just too great. The impact launched her like a ragdoll, sending her flying across the end of the street.

Her body twisted midair, landing boots-first on the side of a crumbling ruin, unscathed. She crouched flat against the vertical wall, one hand splayed to anchor herself. Dust plumed around her, but her gaze never wavered from him—sharp, calculating, already measuring the angles.

The Chief stomped, tearing a chunk of ground free and hurling it with a guttural bellow. She sprang into motion, blitzing past a flurry of stone. Her sword blurred as she cut through the flying debris, each strike sending shards whistling past. The air filled with rubble and dust, but she slipped through the storm, weaving between fragments with gliding grace.

Not yet.

The shadow fell across her—the Chief himself, leaping high, macuahuitl raised overhead. His body blocking out the sun. He came down like a falling mountain. Her head snapped up, blade rising as she braced beneath him.

The world seemed to hold its breath. Dust floated, suspended. The soft wind skimmed her cheek, and she saw every line of him—his teeth bared, veins swollen, weapon poised to split her skull. She inhaled once, calm and sharp. His figure fell and their weapons eventually met.

The immediate impact rocked the entire street—a thunderclap of steel against obsidian. The stone under her boots fractured, cracks spiderwebbing outward as the weight bore down. Her knees buckled, teeth clenched, every muscle straining to resist. The Chief leaned in harder, cords standing out along his neck and arms, forcing her deeper into the breaking ground. The street groaned beneath their clash.

For an instant, it seemed she would snap under the pressure.

Then—she shifted. A subtle twist, precise and sharp. She slipped free. A blur, faster than the eye could follow—she slid out at an angle, boots skimming over shattered stone, leaving his weapon to crash into the earth with an explosion of rubble.

The Chief snarled, spinning to face her, only to find she was already standing a short distance away—deliberately so. She stood with her back close to the ruined wall, just a few paces between them. It was a strange choice, a fighter boxing themselves in, but her stance was calm, precise. She adjusted her glasses with one finger, eyes narrowing.

"Perfect."

The Chief's lips peeled into a grin. "The wall behind you won't catch what's left of your skull."

He charged, macuahuitl sweeping in a vicious arc. Izel leapt back, but the obsidian edge caught her satchel strap, ripping it clean from her shoulder. It fell, spilling parchment and charcoal across the dust.

At the same instant, her blade carved a crescent of pink light into the air. The shimmer snapped forward—fast, sharp—but the Chief dipped under it, feathered headdress nearly scraping the ground as he advanced.

Wrong angle.

The shimmer struck the wall behind him and bounced, deflecting in a gleam. He didn't notice. His attention was on her—on the way her feet shuffled sideways, now boxing herself even further, right shoulder pressed against the wall. To him, it looked like panic.

He loomed closer, blotting her out. His grin widened, veins bulging along his forearms as he lifted his macuahuitl high with both hands.

"Your clever tricks die here."

Not yet.

The weapon rose, obsidian teeth gleaming, a cleave that would crush her skull.

Then the shimmer came back.

It hissed across the ruins, ricocheting at the perfect angle. It struck his back in a searing arc, no cut, no blood—just a crawling heat that spread like fire under his skin. His muscles spasmed, grip faltering.

The swing froze midair.

His eyes widened in shock as the warmth crawled deeper, making his body betray him. He grunted, teeth clenching, and for the first time, his stance staggered.

Izel stood perfectly still, her blade leveled, glasses catching a glint of light.

Her voice was flat, unreadable.

"One."

She launched herself into the alley beside them, sprinting away. The Chief was oddly slow to react, but when he gave chase, she swung another pink wave down the narrow space. His teeth ground in frustration as he shattered it with a single sweep of his macuahuitl.

The alley's end opened to the jungle. When he emerged, she was gone—vanished. Her Nahualli, too.

A low chuckle rumbled out of him.

"So you're doing that trick again? You're not disappearing — you're only invisible." His smirk deepened. "Even if I can't see you, I can still break you."

He swung wildly, macuahuitl tearing the air with enough force to topple trees. His enchantment surged with each strike, power mounting, sending trunks cracking and falling like thunder. Birds screamed skyward. The jungle collapsed around him until nothing stood but stumps and ruin.

But when he turned his head, he saw her—four of her.

As he closed in, they held their ground, weapons lifted, their stillness sharpened into a silent challenge.

"Is this some kind of clone trick? Fine. I'll break the trick, then the trickster."

The Chief planted his stance, veins bulging, macuahuitl drawn back. The very air seemed to buckle around him. Loose stone, shattered branches, even dust from the ruined street dragged toward the weapon as though it carried its own gravity—like a black hole hungry to swallow the world.

With a roar, he unleashed it.

The swing detonated forward, releasing everything in a single cataclysmic arc. Trees ripped from their roots, stone burst apart, wreckage howled through the air. The line of Izels was struck dead-on—bodies scattering in the blast. Yet each dissolved on contact, bursting into shards of pink light that faded into nothing.

"Mere decoys."

Before the wreckage had even settled, he caught her at the edge of the clearing, framed in the corner of his eye.

A grin split his face.

That's her.

He turned and swung with everything he had. The strike swept through—clean. No resistance. The figure dissolved into pink light. His grin died in an instant.

Another fake?!

Then the pain came. Fire surged through his veins, seizing his muscles, locking him rigid.

"Damn—"


Slice.

Her glasses caught the fractured sunlight as her curved blade bit ruthlessly into his back, carving deep. He staggered forward, blood spraying, groaning as he clutched his macuahuitl with both trembling hands.

His eyes widened—true fear flashing for the first time.

Her voice was flat, unreadable.

"Two."

The Chief anchored his foot and twisted to face her.

She was standing meters away, blade raised—glowing pink around the edges.

His eyes narrowed. Another slash? He braced.

The sword swept down—

Nothing.

Or so he thought.

Pain bloomed across his chest, hot and deep. He staggered back, breath caught in his throat, and only then realized she was already in front of him, sword dripping crimson.

"Three."

His body locked. His mind reeled.

It wasn't teleportation. It wasn't speed.

It was distance itself—false, bent, betrayed.

Her enchantment clouded perception, skewed the gap between them. To his eyes she lingered far away, but in truth she was close enough to carve him open.

He snarled and threw himself upright, swinging a fist with all the force of his towering frame. The blow passed clean through her skull—

No impact. No resistance. Just an image, recoiling back into the void she left behind.

Rage cracked through his teeth. He pivoted, macuahuitl sweeping wide, but every strike split only illusions—slivers of light and distance bending around her form.

She's toying with me.

He lunged, fingers closing around her throat—only for his hand to snap shut on nothing but humid air. She wasn't there. She had never been there.

The jungle rang with his roars and futile blows. His power split stone and felled trees, yet none of it touched her. She moved between steps of false distance, real and unreal, each swing she took leaving another line of blood across his body.

By the time his knees dipped, chest heaving, he realized the truth.

It wasn't his strength failing.

It was that every measure of space around him belonged to her.

He shot up and lunged, fist a mountain of muscle and rage.

"Trevni."

His punch froze mid-arc, and his arm obeyed a stranger. The left curled when the right should have, his right leg stepped back when he tried to surge forward. The world lurched out of sync. His head jerked skyward, vision tipping, the jungle's canopy twisting as if the whole forest had been flipped upside down. Sweat streaked his temples, his pulse hammered wild, and every breath dragged raw through his chest.

"WHAT DID YOU DO!?" he bellowed, voice cracking.

Izel's tone was flat, clinical. "I inverted your movement. Every signal your brain sends is reversed. Until you can rewire your instincts, you're nothing but a puppet on the wrong strings."

His knees buckled. He clawed for roots, for anything to hold him upright, but his own limbs betrayed him. He collapsed forward, dragging himself through dirt and leaves until he was at her boots. Fingers dug trenches in the earth, nails splitting, face smeared with soil and sweat. A whimper escaped his throat before he could choke it back.

She watched him with eyes that gave nothing.

"How did you get here?" Her voice calm, unhurried.

He opened his mouth but only air rasped out. His lips trembled, his throat locked.

"Who sent you?" Her tone pressed colder.

He stayed silent.

Her sword point flashed down and drove through the back of his hand, piercing straight through palm to earth. Bone gave with a crack, tendons splitting. His scream tore through the jungle, high and ragged, more animal than man. Blood streamed down his wrist, pooling in the dirt. He writhed, but the steel pinned him in place. Tears streaked his face, cutting through grime.

He coughed the words out between sobs. "O... our... boss..."

"Who?"

"A noble!" His voice broke. "He gave us the powder—said he wanted the fruit."

She crouched until her shadow covered him, face lowering until her gaze fixed him in place. Every movement was precise, deliberate, as if she could unmake him with patience alone.

Her enchantment had rules, though he would never grasp them fully. Each strike she landed was not only flesh but psyche, cutting deeper than skin. The first blow cracked his certainty. The second severed his hesitation. By the third, his sense of self buckled. His body no longer obeyed him. His will no longer protected him. For him, three cuts were all it took—she owned the rhythm of his movements, and in turn, his mind.

"Tell your master," she whispered, each word pressed like a weight against his ear, "these islands are watched. Guarded. And they do not forgive thieves."

The tip of her blade rose and tapped against his forehead, just enough to draw a bead of blood. He flinched violently, gasping, a sob bursting free. His whole body shook as though the steel had already split him in two.

"Bring him back," she breathed, colder still, "and I'll carve him into nothing. No name. No shadow. Nothing to remember."

He nodded, body convulsing, unable to form sound.

She stood, stepping past his broken frame. In the corner of his eye he saw her boots glide by, clean against the dirt his face was buried in.

The blade hissed one last time—cutting across his shoulder, carving down his back. Blood sprayed hot against his skin. He whimpered, curling into himself, clutching at the ground as though the earth alone might hide him.

The jungle fell quiet, the echo of his scream fading into stillness. He stayed there, palms pressed to the mud, sweat dripping, blood flowing. His breath came in sobs, broken and childlike. Not for pain alone—but for the thing lost, the banner inside him that once held pride.

It lay trampled now, drowned in dirt and blood, while she walked away without looking back.

Izel strolled along as if nothing had happened, then suddenly stiffened, her eyes snapping wide.

"My satchel!" she gasped, only just realizing it was gone.