CHAPTER 132: MARC VS SILAS 1

The air quaked.

Marc’s wrist was still locked in Silas’s hand, the glow sputtering between their palms. The masked figure tilted his head faintly, as if curious. His other hand rose, palm open, space around it bending like stretched glass.

Silas didn’t wait.

His fist shot forward, a blur faster than thunder. It slammed into Marc’s chest, the impact detonating the air. The masked figure flew back through a ridge, the mountain behind him collapsing into dust.

The ground shook for miles.

Silas stood still, his chest heaving once. His eyes narrowed. "You picked the wrong fight."

The rubble shifted. Marc stepped out. Not stumbled—stepped. Dust fell from his shoulders, mask cracked further, but his body unshaken. He lifted his hand again. Reality twisted, streets folding like paper, gravity bending toward him.

Silas’s boots dug into the ground. The force pressed down, enough to flatten cities, but he didn’t yield. Instead, his skin glowed faint, veins pulsing with red and blue light. He inhaled—slow, deep. The crushing pressure bent toward him, flowing into his chest.

He absorbed it.

The glow across his body brightened. His fist clenched, energy sparking around his knuckles.

Marc tilted his head again, then blurred forward. His fist cut reality itself, a strike that split the ground into twin craters.

Silas met it head-on. Their fists collided.

The sky split.

A shockwave ripped through Sector Eight, flattening what little remained of towers, tearing stone into clouds of dust. Vyn’s weakened body skidded back across the rubble, chains flaring instinctively just to shield her from the force.

Marc was the first to move. His palm lashed out, space buckling around it. The blow hit Silas square in the chest—his body blasted back, slamming into the earth, carving a trench a mile long.

He groaned once, then pushed himself up. Dust fell from his shoulders. His eyes glowed faintly now, sparks bleeding out. "Good hit."

Marc raised his hands, twisting his fingers. The air itself shattered—reality breaking into jagged shards. The shards spun toward Silas like blades.

Silas blurred, his speed cracking the air, his body a comet through the storm. He smashed through the shards, fists a blur, every strike detonating with captured energy. The fragments of reality burst apart in fire and sparks.

He appeared in front of Marc, fist driving into his gut. The air boomed, Marc’s body folding slightly around the impact. Silas didn’t stop. He hammered a second blow into his jaw, then an uppercut that launched Marc skyward.

The masked figure twisted mid-air, regaining balance instantly. His hand snapped down. The sky inverted, a black dome swallowing the sector whole.

Vyn’s eyes widened, even from the ground. "A pocket... world?"

Silas looked up as the dome collapsed. Gravity shifted. The air thinned. The stars bent wrong.

Marc had rewritten the battlefield.

But Silas only cracked his neck. "Doesn’t matter where you drag me." His veins glowed brighter, power rolling off him in waves.

Marc appeared in front of him again. Their fists clashed once more. The dome screamed, craters forming with every impact, each blow tearing new fractures in the pocket dimension.

Marc’s hands moved faster, fingers weaving invisible commands. Space folded. Time staggered. Each strike he threw wasn’t just physical—it carried impossible weight, concepts unraveling with every movement.

Silas grunted, body shaking as blows rained on him. His jaw snapped sideways from one strike, his ribs cracked under another, but his aura didn’t dim. His body absorbed the pain, the force, the raw energy.

Every strike Marc landed made Silas stronger.

His chest swelled, his skin blazing like a furnace.

Then he exhaled.

The energy burst outward in a shockwave of pure light. Marc was thrown back, his body tearing through the warped dome. Silas blurred forward, fists raining down like meteors, each blow carrying stored power from every hit he’d taken.

Marc blocked, twisted, countered—yet for the first time, his movements faltered under the sheer force pressing down on him. His mask cracked further, lines of light splitting across it.

Silas’s roar shook the dome. "Try harder!"

Marc answered. His body flickered—then split. Dozens of him stepped forward from the same space, every copy perfect, fists glowing, palms open. They struck at once, a storm of Marc’s raining blows from every angle.

Silas gritted his teeth. His body blurred, fists meeting fists, every impact detonating in sparks and thunder. He was everywhere at once, his speed matching their storm, his power absorbing the waves of impossible force.

Still, they pressed him. His jaw split again, blood streaked his lip, his breath came harsh.

But he smiled.

His body flared, brighter than ever. He slammed his fists together, the sound like a star collapsing. The shockwave ripped through the dome, disintegrating every clone at once, leaving only the real Marc standing, mask cracked open to one calm, empty eye.

Silas blurred forward. His fist drove into Marc’s chest again, the ground breaking beneath them. He followed with a second strike, then a third, each one glowing brighter as stored energy roared through him.

Marc staggered.

For the first time, he staggered.

But his empty eye didn’t blink. He raised his palm, pressed it to Silas’s chest, and whispered a word that bent the dome itself.

The world inverted.

Silas screamed as his body was dragged sideways, pulled through collapsing layers of reality, bones tearing, skin cracking. His body smashed into the ground, blood bursting from his mouth.

He gasped, vision spinning.

Marc walked toward him, slow, relentless. His voice was quiet, muffled behind the mask. "You cannot endure forever."

Silas spat blood. His eyes glowed brighter. "Wanna bet?"

He inhaled.

The broken dome around them glowed faint. The energy Marc had torn into it—the fractured pieces of time, space, and force—pulled into Silas’s chest, his body drinking it all. His veins burned white, his aura roaring alive.

Marc stopped.

Silas roared. His body blurred forward, faster than before. His fist slammed into Marc’s mask. The mask shattered, fragments scattering into sparks. For the first time, Marc’s face was revealed—young, too young, his features calm and cold, his eyes empty of light.

The strike launched him back, through the dome’s edge. The black shell shattered into shards, collapsing back into the ruined sector.

They fell together, slamming into the rubble, dust rising in storms.

Silas stood tall amidst it, his chest glowing, fists trembling with power. Marc rose from the crater opposite, mask gone, blood streaking from the corner of his mouth—but his expression unchanged.

They locked eyes.

Vyn, broken and bloodied, looked on from the rubble. Her breath caught.

This wasn’t just a battle anymore.

It was war.