Kieran sat in the preparation tent, elbows resting on his restless knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him.
Tanaka and Brock were just kicking around wasting time until the match starts.
His heartbeat was steady, neither calm nor agitated. Just ready.
He wasn't really a religious man; if he were given two options of believing that there is a god or not, he would choose to believe God exists.
Since he thinks that for the universe to exist, it must have a creator. The big bang theory, a good theory mind you, just doesn't make sense that something came from nothing, as nothing is the absence of something.
The thing is for Kieran that there are a lot of religions in this world: one where they believe gods are one and one is god, and another where reality is god and we can pray to the many manifestations of them.
It can get confusing at times, so he kind of made his own version.
He only prayed in times when he really wanted something to happen, so he didn't pray often. Rarely, in fact. But this time, he closed his eyes and whispered something that wasn't quite a prayer and wasn't quite a wish.
"Please let it be someone strong."
A hollow victory would mean nothing to Kieran if he didn't feel like he earned it. A challenge. That is where people grow. Where something inside of you sharpened.
He exhaled, then stood up and turned around to reach for his blazer's pocket. "Where the hell is Roy at?"
"Probably already bought popcorn and sat down," Brock muttered from the bench.
"Or on his way," Tanaka added with a shrug.
Kieran looked at his sword that he wrapped up in his bag and decided that he will try fighting with his hands today, not because he is confident; he just wanted to.
Kieran grunted, not agreeing but not denying it either, and started walking towards the stage.
The tunnel to the arena was narrow, with hanging lanterns flickering along the walls. Further ahead, noise grew louder, the crowd chanting, laughing, buzzing with anticipation.
And just as he reached the arena.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen!" The announcer's voice cracked through the air like a whip.
"Our next match a contender, a new one at that this year… Kieran Nazaroff…!"
The crowd erupted.
Kieran stepped forward, sunlight spilling across his shoulders. But he didn't smile.
He just simply walked forward, calm and focused with one thing in mind, toward the centre of the arena.
Please make me try.
What he didn't know was that if he could save time in a bottle, the first thing he'd like to do is save every minute to savour for the rest of eternity.
Because, even if they are rare, some opponents don't just fight you. They can change you.
"And standing in the opposite corner," the announcer continued, "a transfer contestant from the northern provinces, no current recorded losses in certified duels: the man known as The Hourcarver… Cyrus Valen!"
Silence.
'That was weird; even I got a cheer when he called out my name,' thought Kieran.
Then whispers. Confusion.
This was an international contest, where people from all countries can come and compete; however, something was wrong here.
Not in the sense that he has a bad feeling, but something words can't say.
Pity? No, that doesn't fit it.
The name wasn't famous, but apparently that title was.
A figure stepped out of the opposite tunnel, tall and lean, wearing a similar type of slim, lightweight black coat that Roy wears to school. He had pale silver hair, almost as if dyed. Calm gold eyes. No weapons in his hands… But around his neck hung a single antique pocket watch.
Cyrus stopped just past the boundary line and snapped the pocket watch open with his thumb
The second hand inside wasn't moving.
Kieran's brows drew together. Interest sparking in his chest.
Cyrus looked up and met his gaze, with a little smile. Not one that looked smug or arrogant. Just someone who was happy to be here, even if his presence wasn't liked here.
As if he had already seen everything that was about to happen.
Kieran rolled his shoulders.
Could his Soul Art be tied to time…?
The announcer finished the introductions, the arena hushed… and the bell rang.
Kieran readied himself for any attack, as he could have the ability to stop or speed time up.
Cyrus didn't move. He simply raised the pocket watch and clicked the crown.
Tick.
Kieran stepped forward and immediately felt it. The air thickened around him. The sounds of the crowd dulled, as if someone had stuffed the entire world in cotton.
His own heartbeat slowed.
Could his Soul Art be slowing time for others except himself?
Cyrus's Soul Art activated with his little smile.
"Chrono Fold".
Kieran could understand everything that was happening around him, but he didn't know what was happening to him.
His speed became heavy. His movements stretched and dragged.
Kieran's eyes narrowed.
Damn.
He lunged at Cyrus.
Cyrus flicked his fingers. Tick.
Kieran's punch cut through the air, but Cyrus wasn't there. He had already shifted; he was shifting around Kieran as he sidestepped in a blur. His coat rippled as if underwater.
The next moment, Cyrus's fist was already at Kieran's ribs.
Impact.
It felt like being hit with two punches at once, one in the present… another arriving a heartbeat after it should have.
Could this be similar to the one Tanaka fought? But this guy has time abilities, though?
To Kieran it was as if time had stuttered and delivered the blow twice.
Kieran slid back, boots carving a harsh line in the dirt.
The crowd gasped.
He steadied himself, teeth baring into a grin.
He was excited for once.
"Alright," Kieran breathed. "That's more like it."
Cyrus didn't reply as he looked at the ground still with the small smile. He just closed the watch again with a soft click… and the second hand moved.
The real fight had started now.
Kieran's hand moved to the hilt at his hip, then he realised that he left his sword back at the tent.
Cyrus looked up as he watched Kieran, without a word, as he stood in a stance.
Kieran moved first.
He surged forward, holding his arms in a horizontal arc toward Cyrus's ribs. Sand kicked up in his wake as momentum drove the strike with full intention.
Tick.
Cyrus blurred to the side, the edge of his fingers penetrating through only a ripple of displaced air. The folded pocket slowed Kieran's swing at Cyrus by half a second, just enough for Cyrus to slip outside Kieran's range and deliver a counterpunch before his hand could finish its motion.
A flick of the pocket watch's crown.
Tick.
What the hell was that?
The punch arrived twice, overlapping in a disorienting warp of pressure. Kieran's chest jolted as if struck with twin blows in rapid succession.
Pain. Immediate… real.
But Kieran didn't back away. Instead, he forced his forward foot to drag against the sand, using the recoil of the blow to twist his body into a grab.
Cyrus raised his arm. Kieran saw the motion in real time and watched the fabric of the coat catch his fingers once again, but the moment it made contact, it was as if time… compressed.
The impact slowed to a nothing-blur… and the blade cut only through a phantom afterimage.
Cyrus had already stepped behind him.
Kieran didn't waste a single moment; he spun around with his fist held tight, swinging upwards. Cyrus leaned back, Keiran's hand just grazing just shy of his nose, silver hair fluttering from its passage.
And through it all, he still had the small smile.
It was getting on Kieran's nerves.
The pocket watch's second hand kept moving with an unnatural rhythm. Sometimes smoothly and then sometimes skipping backward a fraction of a second, then jumping forward.
Kieran understood that Cyrus's ability is something related to time, but how is the watch related to him? It doesn't make any sense.
Soul Arts come from within the person, not from objects.
He had no time to think.
Kieran lunged again. Cyrus kicked off the ground, time folding once more. The space between them bent; Cyrus moved farther than should've been possible with a single step, reappearing on Kieran's flank and sending a sweeping strike of what seemed like compressed air.
That doesn't make sense; if he is controlling time, how did he do that then?
An invisible force slammed into Kieran's side, throwing him across the arena like someone had swung a hammer of wind at him.
He hit the ground, rolled and came into a crouch position right in front of the boundary line; if he had crossed that line, he would have been disqualified.
The crowd howled while dust swirled around Kieran.
His ribs ached. His breath was sharp and thin.
But his eyes… his eyes were alive.
Kieran saw something – something that can't really be put into words.
Kieran slowly analysed everything he saw, his thumb running against his finger.
It was as if time around Cyrus was warping, but not the pocket of space that he was in.
If Kieran were to describe it, it would be like him 'folding' time in pockets rather than controlling time itself entirely for everyone.
Cyrus's Soul Art's name gave away its ability.
He took a step forward, deliberately slow.
Cyrus's eyes tracked every single movement.
Then Kieran switched up and hastened his pace.
Three steps. Raised his arm.
Feinted to the collarbone and switched it into a kick.
The moment Cyrus flicked the watch.
Kieran stopped mid-motion.
He pivoted mid-thrust, dissolving the kick halfway and converting it into a punch that landed square against Cyrus's cheek. The time fold tried to catch it, but Kieran's sudden stall threw the fold off course; the impact landed, and Cyrus's leg buckled.
He was still smiling after all that.
The smile was getting on Kieran's nerves for some reason, as if it were mocking him.
In the same breath, Kieran raised the arm and brought it down.
Cyrus folded time again, but this time… it lagged.
Kieran missed his punch.
Grazing a thin line across his coat, with a little blood trailed on it as it removed Kieran's skin from his knuckle.
The crowd roared in surprise; they were standing in awe of such an amazing fight.
This time, Cyrus didn't retreat.
His eyes narrowed and his smile disappeared, as if silently disappointed.
This opened a flurry of questions within him: why did it annoy him when he was smiling? But now that he isn't, does it feel worthless to fight?
Cyrus snapped the watch open with two fingers, and everything in the arena jerked.
Sound collapsed. The roar of the crowd became distant, stretched even. Even the sunlight seemed dimmer. Sand hung in the air in slow motion.
Cyrus said out loud. "Full Fold".
Cyrus moved. Not once, not twice, but three overlapping impacts in a single motion.
Kieran brought both his arms together into a cross to block the first; the second slipped through, catching his shoulder.
The third nailed right between his ribs.
He staggered back, knees dipping. Blood in his throat.
Cyrus followed up with a heel kick.
Kieran barely managed to raise his guard. Even then, the tethered time made it feel like the kick happened simultaneously in three different directions.
He was launched back across the sand, boots carving trenches as he tried to steady himself so he didn't touch the boundary line.
His lungs felt burnt from all the deep breaths we were taking, but he didn't fall.
He exhaled slowly.
Alright then, the next action he took came not from logic but from instinct.
Instinct determines a warrior from a man; that was one thing he remembered from his dad. The one that would beat him up just for looking at him.
Kieran lowered his stance. A stance meant for closing distance between you and your enemy, which was meant for weathering impacts rather than avoiding them.
This is what he learnt from Roy.
Come.
Cyrus's smile came back again.
Time folded again.
But this time, Kieran moved into the fold, not against it.
He stepped forward as the pressure increased, his arm raised across his chest to block the incoming strike from Cyrus.
The arena rippled.
The only reason Kieran is not using his Soul Art is because he vowed that he will only use it in the final. If he gets to it. To himself.
A test for himself.
Flesh met fist first, twice and then thrice. Kieran's forward motion shaved away the double impact. His vibration buzzed in his arms from the force.
His momentum carried him straight into Cyrus's guard.
Blood flicked into the air.
A clean strike onto Cyrus's chest.
For the first time in this fight, Cyrus actually stepped back.
The crowd erupted.
Kieran didn't stop. He pressed with a flurry. A jab, cross, hook, and low kick. Each strike blended with footwork designed to force Cyrus to be unable to use his ability. Rather than trying to keep up, Cyrus began folding smaller pockets of time around his body, localised distortions to deflect the hand at the last millisecond rather than trying to reposition entirely.
Kieran realised this from the small distortion of space around Cyrus; all of them had small radii now.
He was conserving energy.
Cyrus's watch ticked again and Kieran shifted to full offence.
Knee to the clinch, an elbow strike, and tighter hooks. This denied Cyrus the window to fold larger pockets.
Cyrus flicked the watch again, bending time.
Kieran wasn't afraid anymore; he stepped into the bent time, letting the fold tug his body forward just enough for him to throw a cross.
Each punch that landed caused Cyrus's smile to flinch ever so slightly, but that never-ending smile seemed to get slightly bigger than before.
For a heartbeat, their eyes actually met, and in that instant, no one needed to speak to understand the thought passing between them.
You're mine.
Cyrus stepped back, breathing steadily but heavier now.
He rolled his shoulders once and flicked the watch shut.
And then drew out a small dagger from his coat.
Kieran blinked. Why didn't he use the dagger from the beginning?
What Kieran thought Cyrus was going to do was use his time-folding ability at close range with his black dagger.
He was right.
A thunderous cheer shook the arena; nearby watchers accumulated greatly, with this whole arena surrounded.
Cyrus rushed in; time folded in a narrow tunnel around him, a direct line of accelerated space.
Kieran met him head-on.
If he miscalculates or mistimes his next motion, he will be done for.
The fold space accelerated Cyrus's stab three times over, but Kieran parried all three replicas with a tap of his hand, ripples of force radiating off the blade.
The dagger flicked forward.
Kieran ducked. He felt the blade whisper past his ear. His foot snapped back in a heel kick. The strike landed, a partial hit against Cyrus's shoulder. Cyrus rolled with it, coming in a crouch and slashing with the dagger across Kieran's thigh, but the blade caught only the fabric of his trouser as Kieran pulled his leg back in time.
They separated. Breathing hard now. Sand and dust swirling between them like storm clouds.
For a long moment, neither moved.
Then Cyrus slowly lifted the watch and closed his eyes.
'One last fold.'
The second hand spun backwards one, two, three seconds. Then snapped forward.
"Final Acceleration," he said out loud.
Cyrus vanished from Keiran's line of sight.
There was no blur. No trail. Just pure absence.
Kieran looked around him to see anything, a pocket of distorted space or anything that caught his eye.
Kieran tightened his hand; Cyrus appeared directly in front of him.
The dagger thrust out.
Kieran didn't block.
He sidestepped; it was less than an inch, but it was enough. The dagger missed.
Kieran spun around Cyrus, driving his shoulder into Cyrus's sternum to unbalance him, then stepped aside. The acceleration collapsed instantly, and time slammed back to normal, causing Cyrus to stumble forward.
Silence.
Kieran stood behind Cyrus, his chest heaving with every breath. Sweat dripped from his brow. His ribs screamed with every pulse of his heart.
The crowd stared, stunned.
Time folded once again.
Cyrus put some distance between him and Kieran.
Cyrus rose, slowly, and turned. For a moment, Kieran thought he might continue.
Instead… Cyrus lifted the watch of his chest…
… and bowed. With a smile that looked satisfied.
Similar to the one at the beginning, but very different.
Kieran exhaled and returned the bow with equal respect.
The bell rang.
The arena exploded with cheers.
Kieran closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the cold wind to engulf him. This was not to savour the victory but to hold the feeling of it.
The pain. The pressure. The way time itself had bent and cracked under the weight of their fight.