At some point, Max had known that his luck would have to end. Luck was a finite resource, a flickering candle in a dark room, and he had been burning it at both ends since he first realized the power of his Vow. He had made desperate bets before, each time gambling with his life as the collateral. Every previous win had felt like divine intervention, pulling him out of situations that should have buried him. But as he stood on the trembling deck of the ship, the cold silence from his phone felt like a death sentence.
He had always known that in the most desperate moment, the coin would eventually land on the wrong side. He just didn’t expect it to happen now, against a man who could hit him with ghosts.
Why did I have to bet it on red? Max’s thoughts were a frantic loop of self-reproach. I keep thinking it’s going to be my lucky color, some kind of karmic sign, but it just keeps coming back to bite me again and again.
The physical sensation was almost immediate. It wasn’t a sudden collapse of his muscles, but rather a subtle, sickening drain on his strength. It felt as though his bones had become slightly more porous, his muscles a fraction less elastic. But the real damage was to his psyche. The Vow wasn’t just a physical contract; it was a mental one. Knowing he was "worth" ten million dollars less made every strike feel sluggish. In his mind, his fists felt like they were moving through waist-deep water.
Damn it, is there really nothing else I can do? Max’s eyes darted around the chaos of the ballroom. He was a cornered animal now, and cornered animals didn’t fight fair. He pivoted away from Darius, charging toward a terrified waiter who was frozen in place near a catering station. Without a word of apology, Max drove a boot into the man’s stomach, sending him doubling over in a heave of breath. Before the waiter hit the floor, Max snatched the heavy metallic serving tray and a full bottle of expensive champagne.
He didn’t hesitate. He smashed the bottle against the edge of a table, glass shattering in a diamond-spray of shards. He was left with a jagged, lethal neck of glass, a poor man’s dagger.
He stood his ground, holding the metallic tray awkwardly by its rim. It wasn’t designed as a shield; there was no handle, no strap to secure it to his forearm. He had to grip the cold metal edge so tightly his knuckles turned white, shielding his vitals while the broken glass glinted in his other hand.
"Well, I know you’re in a desperate situation, but do you really think scrap metal and broken glass are going to turn the tide?" Darius asked. He didn’t look threatened; he looked disappointed, like a teacher watching a star pupil fail a basic test. "Do you think I haven’t handled someone with weapons before? In my line of work, blades are the first thing we learn to break."
Max didn’t answer with words. He charged.
He swung the metallic plate in a horizontal arc, aiming for Darius’s throat. The edge wasn’t sharp, but at Max’s speed, it would act like a guillotine. Darius simply drifted backward, the tray whistling past his chin by a mere inch.
Max used the momentum to step in closer, lunging with the broken bottle. He swung the tray as a distraction while the glass jaggedly sought an opening in Darius’s guard. To Max’s surprise, the "phantom punches" seemed to have stopped.
He’s being cautious, Max realized. The range of the weapons forces him to focus on the reality of the steel and glass. He can’t afford to project an illusion if it means a real piece of glass ends up in his jugular.
"I have to admit, I didn’t expect you to be so skilled with a blade," Darius commented, his eyes tracking the glass shards with predatory focus. "I thought you were just lashing out at random. The more I learn about you, the more you intrigue me, Max. It’s a shame I have to kill a talent like yours."
Max didn’t tell him he was merely imitating Aron. He had spent months watching Aron turn everyday objects into lethal instruments of war. He was channeling every scrap of training he had ever absorbed, trying to best an opponent who felt like an unbreakable wall.
Right as Max stepped in for another strike, he saw Darius’s leg blur. A heavy boot seemed to be driving straight for his solar plexus. Max reacted instinctively, jumping back to avoid the crushing blow.
But as he moved, he felt a sharp, very real pain explode against the side of his head.
A phantom kick! Darius hadn’t thrown the front kick; he had projected it to force Max into a retreat, only to follow through with a roundhouse that Max had never seen coming. Max managed to jerk the metallic serving tray up in time to catch the brunt of the impact, but the force was staggering. The tray dented inward with a deafening clang , the metal nearly wrapping around his arm.
The vibration rattled his teeth and sent a wave of dizziness through his skull. He stumbled, the world tilting on its axis.
He can do phantom kicks too, Max thought grimly. The weapons are useless if I’m still reacting to ghosts.
The tray was now a mangled piece of junk, and the broken bottle was starting to nick his own palm. He was running out of options, and he was running out of time.
That was when a thunderous crash echoed from the center of the room. Max glanced to the side and felt his heart sink. Rubble and shards of marble dance flooring were spreading across the room like shrapnel. In the center of the dust cloud, Darno was on the ground.
One of Jett’s massive floor tiles had finally landed a direct hit.
Darno scrambled to his feet, blood masking the left side of his face where the stone had grazed his temple. He was breathing in heavy, ragged gulps, his defensive posture finally starting to crack under Jett’s overwhelming siege.
Max saw the look in Darno’s eyes. It was the look of a man who knew the end was coming.
That’s it, Max thought, his mind finally snapping into a new kind of clarity, not the clarity of a winner, but the clarity of a survivor. We can’t win this fight. Not like this. There’s only one thing left to do!