Arcane-Shattering time

Four seconds. I turned back time by four seconds. The only thing that changed was me—I was the anomaly.

The man with the iron jaw, one of Silco's old lackeys, approached me. His heavy footsteps pounded the ground. I had to think fast. The body I now occupied—Ekko's body—felt frail. Its muscles, barely visible, lacked the strength I was accustomed to.

I moved and pivoted to the side. My thoughts were scattered. I was tired. Hungry. Confused. But I did what I knew best—fight and keep fighting. Fighting was never something I liked. Killing, even less so. But I had chosen this life. I was a freedom fighter. A Firelight. I'd made that decision long ago when I decided to fight for a better future—for Zaun, for my people, for Pow… for Jinx.

The iron-jawed man threw a punch aimed straight at my head.

I ducked and weaved, his fist barely missing me. He was a good fighter—there was no doubt about that. If he wasn't, he wouldn't be standing in this ring. But he wasn't better than Vi. She had taught Claggor, Mlyo, and me how to fight when we were kids. Back then, she was just a teenage girl, yet she was a better fighter than most adult men.

Smaller didn't mean weaker. Her fists were hard, her moves were precise. Dirty when they needed to be. Vander had taught her well, and she passed it on to us.

Barehanded, I deflected the man's right hook and countered with a punch aimed at his ribcage to his right. My fist connected, and he staggered back, looking both surprised and angry.

"You brat! I'll rip your heart out and eat it!" he snarled.

I stayed silent, refusing to react to his taunts. He was enraged by my lack of response and rushed at me, swinging wildly from left to right. I ducked and dodged, my focus razor-sharp. One hit could mean the end of this fight, and I couldn't afford to lose.

For seven years, I'd refined my own fighting style. As a Firelight, I learned to adapt, to survive. Vi had taught me the value of speed and precision, and I built on that foundation. I trained to avoid getting hit. I trained to outlast my opponent. And right now, I relied on those skills entirely.

As his fist bypassed my face, everything slowed. My reaction time was sharper than his—faster. Using the opening, I threw another punch, this time aiming for his liver on his left side. My fist connected solidly.

But something felt off.

Instead of the soft give of flesh, my knuckles met something hard. Beneath his skin was a layer of metal, an iron slab protecting his liver.

In the Undercity, mechanical surgery was common. Replacing limbs, reinforcing organs—it wasn't unusual. Some did it for function, others for aesthetics. This man, with his iron jaw and reinforced body, was no exception. His modifications weren't just for show.

That brief moment of realization cost me. The man did not hesitate and delivered a hard punch to my jaw. I couldn't react in time. His fist connected, vibrations radiating through my skull and down my spine.

The impact lifted me off the ground.

As I hung in the air, time seemed to slow again. This was it? In another timeline, would this have been my end? Would this be the legacy I left behind?

No.

No!

The crowd's screams and cheers blurred into the background as I focused on one thought—I wasn't going to let it end like this. My hand reached behind my back, gripping the ripcord of the Z-Drive. I pulled it.

Time rippled.

Four seconds rewound.

I was no longer airborne, no longer falling toward defeat. I was back in position, about to throw the liver punch. But this time, I didn't make the same mistake. Instead, I feinted, drawing his attention to my lowered stance. He braced for a punch that never came.

His surprise was evident, but I didn't give him time to recover. I leapt from the ground, twisting my body mid-air. My leg arced high above his head, and I brought it down in performing a 1080-degree kick. The force of the blow knocked him to the ground, his iron jaw clattering onto the floor beside him.

Silence.

The crowd, which had been deafening moments ago, was now eerily quiet. Most of their bets had been on the iron-jawed man. None of them had expected a skinny street rat like me to win.

No one cheered. No one shouted. Even the rain seemed to hesitate, its drops cold but quiet as they hit my skin.

But then, through the silence, a single clap echoed. It was soft, but in the absence of other noise, it carried. Another clap followed. And another. Like a chain reaction, the applause grew louder and louder, until the crowd erupted into cheers and shouts. Arms rose into the air, their voices no longer jeering but celebrating.

A good fight was a good fight, no matter the outcome.

I raised my arms toward the sky, and the crowd's energy surged even higher. For a brief moment, I let myself feel their excitement.

But I was too caught up to notice the cage door behind me opening.

Before I could react, a sharp pain exploded at the back of my head. My vision blurred, the cheers of the crowd fading into nothingness as I crumpled to the ground.