Legacy's Wake

Temoshí barely had time to react before Desmond was upon him, closing the gap in an instant. There was no hesitation, no wasted movement—just pure, calculated speed. The moment Desmond's feet touched the charred stone, he lunged forward, his body moving with effortless grace, his strikes flowing like a raging current.

Temoshí lifted his guard, bracing himself, but it wasn't enough. A sharp jab shot toward his ribs, nearly imperceptible, and although he twisted to avoid a direct hit, the sheer speed left him no room to fully evade. The impact grazed his side, sending a dull shock through his core. Before he could fully register it, another attack came—a rapid elbow strike cutting through the air, aimed with surgical precision toward his temple.

Instinct saved him. Ducking low, he barely managed to avoid the blow, but Desmond's movements were relentless. No sooner had Temoshí dodged than a knee came surging toward his gut, carrying the force of a hammer. With no time to think, he reacted on pure reflex, twisting his torso just enough to avoid a direct hit. Even so, the air around the strike burned with compressed energy, the proximity alone enough to make his stomach churn.

Temoshí knew he couldn't afford to stay on the defensive. He had to fight back.

Using the momentum of his dodge, he pivoted sharply, his body shifting like a coiled spring before he snapped his knee forward in a counterattack, aiming to slam it into Desmond's abdomen. It was a well-timed move—precise, strong, and fast—but Desmond was faster.

Effortlessly, he shifted his weight to the side, allowing the knee to brush past him by mere inches. Then, capitalizing on the overextension, he retaliated in a blur of motion. A sharp front kick cracked against Temoshí's thigh, disrupting his balance. The momentary stagger was all Desmond needed.

In an instant, he launched into a spinning back fist, the momentum carrying enough force to shatter stone. Temoshí barely managed to raise his forearm in defense, but the impact sent a violent shock through his bones. He gritted his teeth, feeling his boots scrape against the ground as he was forced backward.

Desmond pressed forward without pause. There was no hesitation in his movements—only precision and ruthless efficiency. A sharp right hook targeted Temoshí's ribs, followed by a feint that disguised an incoming sweep at his legs. Even as Temoshí reacted, stepping back to avoid the sweep, Desmond was already transitioning into his next strike—a brutal knee aimed straight at his chest.

Temoshí recognized the pattern. Desmond wasn't just fighting with speed; he was controlling the pace, dictating the flow of battle. Every strike forced a reaction, every feint created an opening, and every counter kept him on the back foot. If he allowed this to continue, he would be overwhelmed before he even had the chance to strike back.

Gritting his teeth, he made a split-second decision. Instead of dodging the knee outright, he braced for impact, allowing the strike to connect—but only partially. Twisting his body, he absorbed the hit in a way that minimized the damage, the pain rippling through his core but not enough to break his stance. And then, he countered.

Before Desmond could retract his leg, Temoshí snapped his arms forward, clamping onto it with an iron grip. With a sharp twist, he pulled, attempting to unbalance his opponent and create an opening for a devastating counterattack.

For the first time in the fight, Desmond faltered.

It wasn't much, just a slight shift in his footing, but it was enough. Seizing the opportunity, Temoshí surged forward, his right fist igniting with brilliant flames as he swung a full-powered hook aimed directly at Desmond's jaw. This was it—his chance to turn the fight around.

But just as quickly as he had gained the upper hand, it was stolen away.

Desmond recovered in an instant. The moment his foot touched the ground, he used the force of the twist to propel himself into a backflip, effortlessly escaping the grip. As he flipped, he twisted mid-air, his legs scything through the air like golden blades. The movement was flawless—graceful yet deadly.

Desmond landed with the ease of a predator, his expression unreadable as he straightened his posture. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the fire-lit battlefield, the remnants of his previous attack dissipating into shimmering motes of light.

"You fight with power," he remarked, his tone regal yet unwavering. "Strength alone is an admirable trait, but it is also a weakness. A wild flame without direction burns uncontrollably, wasting its own energy. You rely on brute force, on overwhelming your opponent with raw aggression—but power means nothing if you cannot land a decisive blow."

Temoshí's breathing was heavy as he rolled his shoulders, shaking the numbness from his arms after blocking Desmond's latest strike. The heat from the flames surrounding them painted the battlefield in flickering shades of red and gold, but the inferno was nothing compared to the tension between them. Every moment, every movement felt like the tightening of a noose, both fighters assessing, adapting, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Temoshí exhaled sharply, straightening his stance. "And what, you think your light is different? That you've got everything under control?" He scoffed, flexing his fingers as he felt his own flames pulse in his fists. "Funny thing about light—it burns just as much as fire when it's too close."

Desmond tilted his head slightly, regarding him with a faint smirk. "You misunderstand me. The difference is not in the element, but in the wielder. You are a fighter who relies on instinct, who swings with force and expects results. But force alone is predictable. It is a pattern that can be read, countered, dismantled. That is why you cannot touch me."

Temoshí's fists tightened. He hated to admit it, but Desmond was right—he hadn't landed a single meaningful hit. The man's speed, precision, and technique made it nearly impossible to land a direct blow. Every attack had been met with either a perfect dodge or a ruthless counter. It was frustrating, and it wasn't just because of the fight itself—there was something deeper nagging at him.

Something about Desmond felt off.

"That's some real noble talk," Temoshí muttered, his gaze narrowing. "You act like you're some high-class aristocrat, but there's something about you that doesn't add up." He took a slow step forward, watching Desmond's posture, the way he carried himself. "You fight too clean. Too efficiently. Nobles don't fight like that. They hire people to fight for them."

Desmond's expression remained unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes.

"You talk like a man raised in wealth, but you move like someone who's been trained for war," Temoshí continued, his voice steady. "Your stance, your strikes—hell, even your reactions… they're not just skilled, they're disciplined. And then there's the way you talk to us. The way you called us 'trespassers' and 'criminals'."

Desmond didn't respond, but the silence itself was an answer.

A realization clicked into place in Temoshí's mind. His body tensed. "You're not just some royal warrior, are you?" His voice grew sharper, more accusatory. "You're a spy, aren't you? No—more than that. You're working for Hollow."

A small chuckle escaped Desmond's lips, slow and deliberate. "Very perceptive," he admitted, his golden eyes gleaming. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd figure it out before the fight was over."

Temoshí's jaw tightened. "So, what, you're some high-ranking assassin for Hollow? Another one of their killers?"

Desmond shook his head. "No. My mission is far more delicate than simple assassinations." He took a step forward, his presence imposing despite his calm demeanor. "I am not just an agent of Hollow." His voice lowered slightly, almost like he was testing how much information he could safely reveal. "I am also a marine."

Temoshí felt a chill crawl up his spine despite the fire raging around them. A marine and an operative of Hollow? That changed everything. "The marines and Hollow… are they working together?"

Desmond's smirk returned, though it was colder this time. "Now that is a question beyond your reach, pirate. Even if I wished to tell you, it would not change the outcome of this battle."

Temoshí exhaled through his nose, his mind racing. A marine embedded within Hollow? That could mean anything. Was Hollow controlling the marines? Were the marines infiltrating Hollow? Or worse… were they allies? If that was true, then the situation was worse than he had imagined.

"You're not denying it," Temoshí muttered, watching Desmond carefully. "That tells me all I need to know."

Desmond let out a quiet chuckle. "You assume too much. But that's expected. Pirates, after all, only see the world in simple terms—enemies and allies, prey and predator. But the reality is far more complex." He lifted a hand, and a shimmering blade of golden light formed in his palm. "What matters now is not what I am. It is that you will not leave this town alive."

Temoshí gritted his teeth, his body tensing. He was up against not just a warrior, but a trained operative, someone who had been molded for battle in ways he couldn't yet understand. But he couldn't afford to hesitate. If Desmond was truly connected to both the marines and Hollow, that meant he knew something. Something important.

And that meant he couldn't die here.

Desmond's body blurred as he moved, appearing mid-air above Temoshí, his heel descending like a meteor. Temoshí barely had time to react before the attack came crashing down.

Desmond's heel came crashing down from above, but Temoshí reacted just in time. With a swift roll to the side, he narrowly avoided the attack, feeling the heat of Desmond's descending kick whiz past his face. The force behind it kicked up a gust of wind, but he was already on his feet, facing Desmond again.

"I wonder how many more of people like you there are." Temoshí growled, wiping the sweat from his brow. The battle was taking its toll, but he couldn't afford to lose focus now. Desmond's speed was a constant challenge, but the more he dodged, the more he learned about his opponent's movements.

Desmond, however, remained as calm as ever, stepping back to assess his foe. "You needn't know that." he said, his golden eyes glinting with amusement.

Temoshí clenched his fists, the heat from the surrounding flames intensifying around him. He could feel the pressure mounting, but now he knew one thing for certain—he couldn't let this man walk away alive. He had to end it, and fast.

To be continued...