Chapter Two - Two Sides of The Coin Clashes

Dust still hung in the air like a choking veil.

Altai lay half-curled in the rubble, his chest heaving shallowly. His right arm throbbed with pain, every heartbeat sending fire through his ribs. The image of Leyla’s lifeless face burned behind his eyes, more vivid than the chaos around him.

Then—crunch.

Footsteps.

His stomach tightened. A long shadow stretched across the stones toward him, tall and jagged, not because anyone stood directly above him but because of the fractured lights flickering behind the smoke. Altai froze.

Voices drifted closer, steady and male. Not survivors.

“Why all this trouble for a book and an amulet?” one asked, his tone uneasy. “We could have just slipped in at night.”

Another answered, smooth and calm, carrying the weight of command.

“At night, Preservation would already be on alert. They would have traced the whispers and been waiting for us. By striking now, in the open, we buried ourselves in the crowd. Too many faces, too much chaos—the recordings will show nothing but confusion.”

The first voice faltered. “Still… all these lives. Did it have to be this way?”

The leader’s reply came sharp, decisive.

“Their lives were the veil. The distraction. That was their only value here. If hundreds moved inside, no camera could isolate us. Their panic gave us cover. And now they are gone. Nothing more than sheep scattered in the dark.”

Altai’s chest heaved harder. His nails scraped stone. Leyla. His friends. His professors. All erased because some man had decided their only purpose was to “cover” his steps.

And then, from deep inside him, another voice rose, harsher, rawer:

They took everything from us.

He clenched his teeth. His whole body shook, not just with pain but with rage that clawed its way up from his gut. His mind screamed to stay down, to keep still, to survive—but his heart, that wounded thing, beat only for vengeance.

“You…” The word rasped from his throat before he even realized he’d stood. His legs trembled, rubble shifting beneath his feet. He forced himself upright, clutching at the debris to hold steady. His voice cracked again: “You took everything from me!”

The figures turned. Through the smoke, their sunglasses gleamed like shards of midnight glass.

A ripple of laughter. “Pathetic,” one muttered.

Another lifted a hand. His voice cut through the night:

“Aeroias!”

Air twisted into a sphere, compacted and spinning, a howl born in the caster’s palm. Then it shot forward, shrieking through the smoke.

Altai had only a moment to raise his good arm before it slammed into his chest. The world whirled. His back struck rubble. The breath was torn from his lungs. He lay sprawled, coughing blood, ribs screaming.

The men laughed again.

“Not even worth the effort,” one said.

“Shall we finish him, Vlad?” another asked.

The leader—tall, broad-shouldered, his presence heavy even through the haze—lifted his chin. His voice carried like steel:

“Not important. Kill him.”

The henchmen began to advance, their steps deliberate, their shadows long over Altai’s broken form.

Then a new voice cut across the ruins, sharp and scornful:

“You really have fallen that far, Vlad? Attacking children?”

The men halted. Their heads snapped toward the sound. Even Vlad stiffened, surprise flashing across his features before it hardened into anger.

A figure stepped from the shadow of a collapsed wall. His green trench coat swayed against brown trousers, the first two buttons of his white shirt undone. His hair, dark brown, caught the broken light, and his eyes gleamed blue, calm and unyielding. A trace of beard shadowed his jaw.

Vlad’s lip curled. “Marco.”

The newcomer smirked faintly, stopping at the edge of the shattered courtyard. “Still hiding behind others, I see.”

“Kill him!” Vlad barked.

Five henchmen raised their hands in unison. Their chant rang like a ritual:

“Aeroias!”

Spheres of compressed wind howled into existence and shot forward, whirling toward Marco.

He didn’t flinch. His hand rose, palm steady, his voice resonant:

“Aegis!”

A shimmer rippled outward, curving into a translucent dome. The wind spheres slammed against it—one, two, three—detonating in bursts that shook the air. Dust and sparks flew, but when the smoke cleared Marco still stood, untouched within his shield.

He tilted his head, smirk curling. “Sunglasses. At night. Original.”

The henchmen stiffened.

Marco’s hand curled into a fist. His tone sharpened.

“Lithon.”

The ground rumbled. Shards of stone and rubble snapped upward like blades, darting through the air in a storm. They cracked against shins and ribs. Two henchmen fell with groans, their glasses skittering away.

Before the others could react, Marco swept his hand high.

“Luxis!”

A searing flash of white erupted, blinding in the smoky dark. The henchmen staggered, clawing at their eyes.

In that heartbeat, Marco surged forward. Coat whipping behind him, he seized two of the blinded men by their collars, jerked them forward, and smashed their skulls together with a dull crack. They crumpled unconscious to the ground.

Only Vlad remained standing untouched.

The leader raised his palm, his voice low:

“Umbrae.”

Shadows coiled from the rubble like serpents, lashing around Marco’s arms and legs. The Aegis flickered and collapsed. Darkness constricted, binding him tighter.

Altai’s chest knotted. Was it over already?

Marco clenched his teeth, exhaled sharply, and snapped:

“Hydros Flow!”

Water burst from the broken stone, torrents forcing between the shadow-weaves. Umbrae shredded apart, vanishing into steam as Marco staggered free, soaked but smirking again.

He spun his palm outward.

“Pyroclast!”

Flame roared, spiraling into a jet that seared across the courtyard. Vlad leapt backward, his coat singed, forced behind a crumbling wall.

Altai’s eyes widened. He had never seen anything like it. Not strength, not tricks—this was magic. Real, terrifying, impossible magic. And all of it flowed from one thing: the amulet Marco wore at his neck, glowing faintly with each incantation.

And somewhere near, half-buried in rubble, Altai knew—his own amulet waited.

Marco’s chest heaved. The steam from Hydros Flow still rose in curls from the stones, dampening his coat. Sweat glistened along his brow, his breath shallow, his fingers trembling despite the grin he forced.

Vlad stepped out from the haze, brushing dust from his sleeve as though nothing had happened. His smirk was measured, almost amused.

“You’ve overextended,” he said flatly. “One after another… Aeroias, Lithon, Luxis, Aegis, Hydros Flow, Pyroclast. A fine display, Marco. Truly. But you’ve wrung yourself dry.”

Marco straightened, rolling his shoulders though his legs swayed beneath him. “I’m not finished yet.”

Vlad chuckled, slow and cruel. “You Preservation agents never know when to admit defeat.”

Marco thrust his hand forward, voice ringing with iron will:

“Gungnir! Spear of Odin!”

Light exploded from his amulet, runes burning across the air. A shaft of radiant energy formed in his grasp, its tip gleaming like a falling star. The spear pulsed with ancient weight, each rune searing against the shadows.

With a cry, Marco hurled it.

The spear tore through the air like lightning. It struck Vlad square in the chest, detonating with a concussive blast. Vlad’s body was hurled across the hall, crashing into the stone wall with a thunderous crack. Dust and rock rained down as he slumped, coughing but alive.

Altai’s heart surged. For a moment, it looked as though the villain had been beaten.

But Vlad only laughed. Low, bitter, scraping. Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet, blood on his lip. His hand dipped into his pocket and emerged holding a small black device, a single button glinting at its center.

“Do you really think I’d gamble everything here?” His smile spread like a wound. “Another bomb waits. Second campus. Hundreds more ready to die. Unless…” He raised the device. “…you surrender that amulet to me.”

Marco froze. His jaw clenched, the weight of the choice pressing heavy across his shoulders.

Altai felt anger twist inside him. Even now, after slaughtering so many, Vlad clung to the lives of strangers as bargaining chips. His cruelty was endless.

Marco’s lips thinned. His voice, when it came, was measured, almost weary. “You win. I’ll give it to you. Just leave them.”

Vlad barked a laugh. “Pathetic. That weakness is why Preservation will fall. Always protecting sheep. Always bowing to the greater power.”

“Then tell me,” Marco said, his eyes narrowing, “how am I to trust you’ll stop once you have it?”

The words hung heavy in the air. The rubble, the smoke, the tension—all of it pressed in, suffocating. Altai’s pulse thundered in his ears. He watched the negotiation with wide, burning eyes.

And then something stirred inside him.

This is all because of the amulet. All this death, all this ruin. It must be the source. They want it… maybe it’s the only way to take anything back.

His breath came fast. His thoughts collided, fractured.

Run. You can escape now. He’s distracted. If you slip away, you’ll live.

But another voice rose, louder, harder.

No. This is the moment. Take it. Take the amulet. Revenge is yours for the first time. Don’t run. Stand.

He pressed his forehead to the stone, torn. His body screamed in pain, but his will ached even more. Finally, he dragged himself forward, crawling, each shift of rubble scraping against his wounds.

And there—there it was.

The amulet. Half-buried, separated from the fallen book, catching a glint of broken light. Not glowing, not pulsing with sorcery—just shining the way any simple trinket might, yet in that moment it shone only for him.

Altai reached with his left hand—his right useless, shattered. His fingers brushed the cool metal.

The world vanished.

Flashes seared his mind. A mountain splitting open, magma spilling like blood. Giants battling across fields torn by fire. The sky burning as a bird of flame, vast and terrible, circled high above.

The bird’s eyes locked to his. It dove, wings outstretched, each feather a burning torch. Terror gripped him. He wanted to scream, to turn away, but he could not.

Then a whisper, not from the bird but from himself:

You have nothing left to lose. Stand. Fight. Even if it’s your last breath—fight.

The terror crumbled. Fear became fire.

Altai roared, his voice raw, tearing his throat. Flames ignited along his shoulders, bursting outward. Green fire feathered into wings, great and terrible, wrapping the air in heat and light.

The hall froze.

Vlad’s eyes widened, the mocking smile slipping from his face. Marco, even through exhaustion, stared in disbelief.

Altai’s body lifted, carried by fire. For the first time, he felt no weight—no broken bone, no shattered rib, no grief pressing him into the dirt. Only flame, only flight.

The glow of his wings burned across the battlefield, casting the ruins into violent light.

Vlad cursed, momentarily distracted.

Marco seized the instant. He whispered through ragged breath:

“Zephyros Step.”

Wind surged beneath him, carrying him across the rubble in a blur. In a heartbeat, he was in front of Vlad, his hand snapping around the detonator. He tore it free, crushing it to pieces in his palm.

Vlad staggered back, teeth bared, shadow rising again to coil. But the distraction had cost him—the battle was lost.

The last of the henchmen stumbled to his side, face twisted in pain. With his other hand, Vlad tore open a swirling pool of darkness at his feet. A shadowed vortex yawned wide, sucking air and dust into its maw.

“Another day,” Vlad hissed, fury twisting his voice. “Another field.”

The henchman grabbed him, and together they fell into the dark pool. With a rush of black air, it sealed shut, leaving nothing behind but silence and the crackle of fire.

The fight was over.

Altai’s wings guttered. The fire dimmed, green embers fading to ash. His body fell, limp, striking the stone. His eyes rolled back, consciousness bleeding away.

Marco turned, chest heaving, staring at the boy collapsed upon the ground, the amulet still clutched in his hand.

For a long moment, only the broken silence of the ruins remained.

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