Malik's body reformed piece by piece, molten sinew pulling taut over smoldering bone. His limbs quivered, breath coming in heaves, every gasp sounding like a furnace fighting to stay lit. His heart pounded in his ears—not from exertion, but from something far worse.
Doubt.
Across from him, Alex stood with arms folded and gaze impassive, studying him not as a rival—but as a subject. Like Malik was just another step in an equation he'd already solved. There was no battle-lust in his expression, no thrill of the fight. Just cold calculation. Detached superiority.
That, more than any injury, stung.
Malik clenched his jaw. His pride shrieked in silence.
The clones Alex had used earlier—they hadn't just danced around for misdirection. While Malik had been too busy breathing fire and swinging dominance, those clones had placed Abyss Flare marks all across his body. Every point Alex had just detonated had been planted deliberately during the chaos.
It hadn't been just a distraction.
