The deep satisfaction of landing the punch, of winning that exchange, was instantly eclipsed by a sensation so overwhelming it almost buckled my knees again. It wasn't pain, not exactly. It was a rush, an explosive torrent pouring into my mind and body, hot and electric and utterly alien.
Right of Conquest triggered.
The thought wasn't mine; it felt like a system notification flashing behind my eyes. The perk I'd barely skimmed in the CYOA – declare a wager, win a battle, take everything. I hadn't declared anything, but apparently breaking Kan's nose and taking him out of the fight counted as 'victory' in this impromptu street brawl.
The feeling? It was like being hit by a truck loaded with pure, uncut adrenaline, mainlining raw data, and mainlining decades worth of angsty teenage vitamins all at once. My muscles twitched, spasmed, then settled, feeling subtly denser, stronger. My perception of the alley sharpened, the remaining two thugs snapping into hyper-focus.
Information flooded my brain – not abstract knowledge, but ingrained, instinctive knowing. Kan's knife skills – clumsy, brutish, favouring quick, shallow stabs – overlaid themselves onto my theoretical understanding. His footwork – shuffling, reactive, designed for close-quarters brawling – merged with the nascent patterns the Idle Trainer was simulating. It wasn't elegant, mostly garbage tier compared to any real martial artist, but it was there, usable, integrated.
And more. His raw physical strength, meager as it might be compared to my potential, was still more than my baseline. It surged into my limbs, a tangible boost. His movement speed, his reaction time – honed by countless petty street fights – sharpened my own lagging senses. Even his thought processes – quick, calculating in a low cunning sort of way, constantly assessing angles and weaknesses – layered onto mine, adding a predatory edge to my panicked state.
The world seemed to slow down fractionally. The shocked expressions on Ton and Chin's faces became crystal clear. I could almost feel their next movements telegraphing themselves. My stance adjusted instinctively, incorporating Kan's brawling habits, making me feel lower, more grounded, ready to react.
The influx was jarring, overwhelming, a violation almost – someone else's grit and grime and malice poured directly into my soul – but undeniably powerful. This wasn't just potential anymore. This was stolen, integrated, usable power. And facing the remaining two thugs, it felt like the playing field had just tilted, violently, in my favour.
The raw, gritty power thrumming through my veins was intoxicating, addictive. Kan's street-fighting instincts screamed at me, analyzing the remaining two thugs – Big Guy (Chin) looking stunned, Small Guy (Ton) looking scared but reaching for something. My own anger surged, fueled by the violation of the attack and the sheer unfairness of it all.
"YEW DONNAE MESS WAE ME NOW, YE PRICK'N'PRATT!" The brogue was thick enough to spread on toast, fueled by adrenaline and the echoes of Kan's own gutter mentality now swirling in my head.
No more hesitation. No more analysis paralysis. Kan's instincts screamed: target the big one first, break their foundation. My newly enhanced muscles coiled. From a low, almost kneeling position where I'd finished my punch, I exploded forward. It wasn't a clumsy stumble; it was a launch. Like a cannonball fired from floor level.
I slammed into the Big Guy – still hadn't caught his name, didn't care – with the force of a linebacker possessed. The air whooshed out of his lungs in a startled grunt. My shoulder connected solidly with his midsection. Leveraging Kan's brute strength layered onto my own frame, I drove upwards and forwards, lifting him bodily off his feet. He flailed uselessly for a moment before we crashed into the alley wall with a sickening thud that echoed between the buildings. Plaster dust rained down. He slumped to the ground, groaning, conscious but definitely out of the fight.
One down, one to go. I spun, Kan's added predatory focus zeroing in on the last remaining threat – the Small Guy, the mini-me. Fear widened his eyes, but desperation made him dangerous. He fumbled inside his tunic and produced a knife, the blade glinting nervously in the alley's gloom. He wasn't skilled like Kan, but a knife was a knife, especially aimed at someone who'd already nearly been gutted once today.
He took a shaky step forward, blade held low. My body tensed, ready to dodge, ready to counter, the ten-second rewind already spooling up in the back of my mind just in case…
"HOLD IT!"
The voice was sharp, clear, and undeniably female, echoing unexpectedly from the mouth of the alley leading to the main street. It carried an innate authority that froze Small Guy (Ton) in his tracks, his knife hand trembling, caught mid-threat. He looked as surprised as I felt.
Before I could even process who had shouted, a second, smaller voice chimed in, seemingly from nowhere near the speaker, yet clear as a bell in the sudden silence. It was light, almost playful, but held an undercurrent of gentle correction. "Lia, I don't think jumping to conclusions is wise here. Look closer."
My eyes snapped towards the alley entrance. Standing there, framed by the brighter light of the main street, was a figure that made my breath catch, not from surprise at her existence – the lack of city-wide frostbite after my 4 AM rewind had already confirmed Puck hadn't gone nuclear yet – but from the sheer, sudden reality of her presence. Flowing silver hair catching the light, amethyst eyes wide with concern (currently misdirected), pointed ears peeking through… Emilia. Right here. Right now. Maybe… maybe some part of the timeline wasn't completely shattered after all. Floating near her shoulder, the small, grey cat-spirit, Puck, observed the scene with unnervingly intelligent eyes.
Emilia was focused intently on Ton's knife, her expression hardening with protective indignation seemingly aimed at defending me. Puck, however, was clearly processing the whole picture – the two downed thugs in their shoddy attire, the terrified but still armed Ton, and me, standing defensively in my simple-but-clean tunic.
Puck's voice continued, soft but carrying, cutting through Emilia's rising determination to intervene. "Yes, the little one has a knife now, Lia, but notice the context? Three individuals, dressed like that, cornering one person who seems... rather out of place?" Puck's gaze flickered between the incapacitated thugs and me. "Even if he defended himself effectively – perhaps surprisingly so – it seems quite clear who initiated this trouble. The group is the suspicious element here, not necessarily the one left standing after they attacked him."
Okay. Puck sees it clearly. Identified the aggressors, saving me from Emilia's potentially disastrous 'help'. Relief washed over me – not that she was alive, but that this encounter, this moment, seemed to be playing out somewhat recognizably. But he'd also clocked my defense as 'surprising'. Attention. Still bad. But better than being branded the villain by the half-elf heroine five minutes after meeting her. Now… how to leverage this without looking like I knew exactly who they were?
Caught off guard by the sudden appearance of Emilia and Puck, my temper cooled fractionally, replaced by a surge of calculating urgency. Right, they're here. Felt should be nearby. Need to force the confrontation now, away from the damn Loot House. The memory of absolute zero was still chillingly fresh.
"Oi, yeah!" I called back, letting the brogue soften just enough to sound less like a raving lunatic and more like an aggrieved victim. "Waddaya wan' me tew dew? Jus' let 'em gut me like a fish?" I gestured towards the downed thugs.
Puck's correction landed, prompting Emilia's profuse apologies. "No! Oh my goodness, certainly not! I am so sorry... Please, please accept my deepest apologies!"
I waved it off, buying time, scanning the rooftops. "...It's... it's fine. No harm done, yeah?" Liar. "Look, how 'bout we jus' focus on gettin' these lads t' the guards? Nae use in lettin' 'em continue their... sh-" Keep it clean for the nice lady. "-er... sad behavior around the place."
There. A flash of blonde, high up. Right on cue. Felt, leaping across the rooftops, heading straight for this alley. Perfect. This was my chance to divert the disaster I knew was brewing back at Felt's hideout.
My enhanced reactions tracked her trajectory. As she launched herself off the final roof edge, aiming for a smooth landing just inside the alley, I focused my will. The ten-second rewind was crude, but maybe I could apply it more subtly? I didn't pull back time itself, but targeted the air just below her landing spot, pushing a flicker of temporal resistance into it – a localized bubble of 'nope'.
Felt sailed downwards, confident, agile... and then hit the invisible patch of time-stutter. Her forward momentum abruptly vanished, like hitting unseen treacle. The graceful landing became an undignified tumble. With a surprised yelp, she pitched forward, crashing onto the cobblestones near Emilia's feet, the stolen insignia pouch at her hip clearly visible as she scrambled.
Gotcha. Now, lock her down. I immediately pointed, injecting feigned recognition and accusation into my voice. "EH! Wait a tick, I knoe ye!" I exclaimed, deliberately making it loud, drawing everyone's attention. "Yer the one runnin' these street toughs, aren't ye? Heard 'em whisperin' yer name!" I snapped my fingers, feigning memory. "Felt, was it? Right! Makes sense now! Get yer goonies outta here an' scram!" I waved dismissively at Kan and Chin, deliberately linking her to them, painting her as their boss. The intent was clear: make her stop, make Emilia notice the insignia here, not back at the Loot House. Keep Puck calm. Keep the city from freezing.
It worked exactly as intended. Emilia's eyes widened, flicking from the sprawled Felt to the insignia, then back to me, then locking onto Felt with dawning, furious recognition.
"HOLD IT!" Emilia's voice cracked like a whip, no longer apologetic but filled with righteous anger directed squarely at the blonde thief. "You're the one who stole it!"
Yes. Stage one: confrontation relocated. Now, hopefully, things wouldn't escalate to apocalyptic levels.