Arson had expected none of what had just occurred. His foresight in combat was impeccable, however his social awareness was lacking. The sensitivity of reading not only between the lines when speaking to others casually was normally missed by Arson, as well as the ability to de-escalate rising tensions.

  Almarine said that her concern with Cultivator societies was that they are never forced to deal with the personalities of individuals that struggled to communicate. The people of Cultivation always being more blissful within the might is right mentality.

  Arson didn’t believe this was entirely true, until he began to look back on his life. The majority of his disputes were solved by oppression of will through the simple use of a furious aura, or direct violence.

  That won’t work this time, thought Arson with an inward sigh.

  Waiting for his friends, he paced within a gymnasium found in the hotel. Arson hadn’t meant to start an all out argument with his closest friends, and hadn’t yelled or snapped out in anger at how he was spoken to when frustrations were at their highest.

  He’d honestly been confused as to why everyone was so angry. Only to figure out that they were all angry for various reasons. The biggest and most common being, they felt left out.

  They were forced to watch a young woman who’d been nothing but a untrained gang leader be transformed in a fortnight. Arson left, and returned with a team of what felt to his friends to be that of a league of assassins that he carried around in his pocket.

  In the stealth event, they watched Micro beat the rest of the people with such ease, that she made the large point values that they’d all gained individually since arriving at RaidCorp Coliseum feel trivial and inconsequential.

  Not only was she trained in combat, her interview with Lane had allowed her to share details that weren’t substantial outside of the Builders of Godhood, but now that they knew there were matters that they couldn’t unlearn.

  Arson had taught her a breathing technique that increased not only her mana pool, but also interacted with her mana in ways that had allowed her skills with her own affinities to grow drastically, and in a short amount of time. As Micro’s own training in the technique had only begun a few short fortnights prior with how time had moved within the pocket apartment.

  This was the same breathing technique that Promethia taught him. An ancient technique worth more than entire kingdoms in some realms; another detail that Arson was completely unaware of, assuming that the mighty woman would have been far more selective than to teach something of such importance to the prepubescent Arson.

  Arson may have been able to pick apart the desires of his friends by his use of his now refined discernment. As many of the nobles he’d been forced to interact with while in trials were either simple in desire, or could only be managed by a wealth of knowledge in the realms of intrigue and or manipulation and deception.

  Yet none of his training helped him understand Troy. Of all those he’d discussed matters with, all had settled their disagreements of how Arson wanted to handle their movements as individuals to achieve their mutual goals with the exception of Troy.

  He’d been unable to break through the wall she’d put up. Her silence like that of a dagger in his chest. Only Arson had been stabbed in the chest more than once, and for whatever reason, the glare of his best friend still bothered him more than even the torture at Dare Omen’s hands.

  He summoned his scythe to his hands, and began to work through a series of movements that felt as natural to him as the breathing technique that had replaced his body’s own calm need to respirate.

  He breathed in deep, his lungs pulling in air and mana. Rather than exhaling however, mana sealed all exits out of his body in an instant. Mouth closed, his lungs compressed, pushing both the oxygen and mana throughout his entire body in a burst of motion.

  His eyes began to glow even more intensely than they normally did. The swirl found within his irises made of a vortex of stars increased in velocity, and air exited his body through his very pores.

  His lungs extended to their maximum, but never expelled everything within, starting a process of endless breathing. Once the first step was taken, Arson became able to take a never ending breath inhaling perpetually.

  The movements his body took were connected to a string of memories now unclear to him. The film like quality of his past changed and shifted in a jumble for a period of time within the trials that left him changed forever.

  He knew how his body moved currently wasn’t something that he could have learned overnight. Yet that is how his memories portrayed each technique in his mind. His only recollection being that of an all white room with flashes of various techniques being displayed on the walls as he fought countless foes that seemed to appear from absolutely nowhere.

  Still doesn’t make any sense, I’m never holding a scythe in that room…

  Unknowingly Arson combined movements from masters he’d been forced to forget completely. The forgotten art known as Genocide taught by Rebellion, seemingly linked into the looping slashes of Master Breaker’s unnamed art.

  As he moved, avatars of the scythe arts formed from thin air. Each struck out in his direction, and Arson defended himself from enemies that he now believed were opponents summoned from the depths of his mind, nothing more than figments of his imagination. Powerful opponents built to crush him by the strength of his need to shadow box enemies far more skilled than himself.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The weapon in his hands moved so quickly that one strike became three. Six slashes appeared to the naked eye as two; the deceptive motions so fast that his very weapon began to flicker as he defended himself from the illusory avatars attacking him.

  Arson had read of legacies as a child. He knew that talent and skill could progress far enough to tap into past, present and even future, solidifying raw knowledge into physical ability. The energy of all whom practiced any one task literally becoming an energy source for all those who lived and breathed to access.

  Some were better than others at achieving this state of mind. Yet as Arson fought literal subjects created from the will of the scythe’s own legacy, a will of all who wished to master the seemingly simple weapon manifesting a test of his worthiness to join a fellowship of mighty users of the scythe, he simply battled for his life as if he was experiencing nothing more than mischief conjured from his nightmares.

  His dreams were filled with times he felt he’d never lived through. Sequences where he’d been forced to fight or sneak past an untold number of golems. There were even times where he’d fought alongside Almarine, though he knew the encounters must be nothing more than night terrors.

  He still couldn’t ignore how he felt as if those terrifying moments he experienced in his sleep, felt even more real than the jumbled memories that made up a large portion of his time in Endless.

  The times felt more like looking through a picture book of someone else’s life, rather than remembering his own experiences.

  He pushed everything holding him back out of his mind, and swept through a crowd of enemies. The clashes of each exchange between him and the Scythe wielders legacies manifested opponents becoming more real and more weighted with every slash.

  Though every move was swift and precise, the memories of how he came to be able to complete the near perfected style of combat felt to be witnessed through eyes covered in gauze. Yet this same film was pulled back, layer by layer as Arson fought.

  He lost himself in the combat, flashes of a black eyed man wielding a scythe made from pure electricity forming the framework of his deadly mixture of styles, as Arson’s love of dead arts pushed his skill to a whole new plateau.

  Arson swept his weapon wide in an arc, knocking one opponents legs out from them, In the same strike he entangled the blade of the weapon between his targets legs, dragging them through the air, before flinging their body into another enemies charging form.

  He then swung, as another avatar of the scythe tried to cleave through his midsection with their own blade, linking the weapons edges and disarming the opponent with a single yank; all before using the pole of his own weapon to vault through the air, slamming the weapon down and launching himself toward the now weaponless figure, kicking the foe in the chest.

  What the sparks… thought Arson as he felt his foot make contact with a body that was supposed to be nothing more than a shadow of his mind’s focus. He froze in that moment, much of the training surging through his mind, irregularities thrumming to the surface of his mind as wrong.

  Details that his subconscious suppressed no longer able to be ignored. The sound of weapons clanging as they made contact. The feeling of the wind as he was forced to dodge the blades of enemy scythes. Even the physical weight of the scythe he’d ripped from the hands of his previous foe.

  Then a particularly devastating maneuver was sent in his direction, and Arson knew instinctually that not only could he not dodge or defend himself properly, he knew the intricacy of the technique being used, wasn’t something he felt his mind could have come up with without a external infusion of inspiration.

  He jerked backward sensing the danger of what was being sent whistling toward him at lethal velocities. The cold of the weapon as it sliced through his arm was far less intimidating than the smile that crept across the face of the enemy that was supposed to be nothing more than a training tool constructed by his imagination.

  The conjuration winked at Arson and disappeared, leaving golden blood dripping down the slice it’d left in his arm.

  Is this a manifestation of my Gestalt ability?

  Arson prodded the slice, as it slowly closed. Staring at the very real wound, questions raced through his mind in an avalanche of building pressure.

  He felt himself smile, knowing deep down that he’d stumbled on a source of power. His mind far too scattered to connect what he’d just witnessed to the fathomless vault he seemed to be cultivating inside his mind, yet still he grew excited at the mere potential of it all.

  Step by step, I will rise…

  “What the sparks are you in here smiling about,” asked Khalif as he walked into the gymnasium. Arson swiped his sneaker across the blood on the floor, hiding the injury as it finished closing behind his back, smiling toward Khalif as he rolled his eyes.

  “Where is everyone? Thought you’d all be here by now with how ready to go you all were yesterday?”

  “They’re coming, don’t worry about that, you’re not going to get out of this,” said Khalif.

  “Noted,” said Arson with a sigh.

  “What, not looking forward to this?”

  “I am, to a degree. On the other hand, kinda wanted to hunt for sharks with you if I’m being honest with myself, nothing like busting open a few piggy banks,” said Arson with a chuckle, swinging the scythe in his hands through the air; simply twirling the weapon through his fingertips as if the long tool was as small as a balanced dagger in the hands of an assassin.

  “Here we go again, you and this never ending dream of robbing a bank, glad to know you haven’t changed no matter how tall, smart and deadly you are.”

  Arson rose an eyebrow at Khalif as his friend laughed.

  “Ignore me, just something the girls said.”

  “They were talking about robbing a bank too?” asked Arson, incapable of letting his excitement show.

  “No! Seriously… is that where your mind went? You are definitely Arson.”

  “What, did you doubt it?”

  “Yeah a bit, but my friend has always wanted to rob a bank, glad to know you didn’t experience everything without us while you were gone.”

  Arson nodded, looking away from Khalif, his friend’s words somehow making him both angry and sorrowful. His rage at what he was beginning to feel was no simple coincidence of being in the wrong place at the wrong time while in the dump. No longer feeling as if he ended up in Endless as a mistake after speaking with Promethia before he left.

  “I didn’t want to live a day without you brother,” mumbled Arson underneath his breath, growing more frustrated at the memories of how long it had taken him to return home.

  “What,” asked Khalif. Arson looked back at his friend and smiled, shaking his head as he waved a dismissive hand through the air.

  “Hmm,” said Khalif thinking for a moment.

  “”What’s up?”

  It was Khalif’s turn to smile.

  “Why don’t we do it together then, you want to team build so badly, let’s just do it as a unit.”

  “Do what,” asked Troy, walking into the room flanked by Micro, and Xani. Khalif looked between the new arrivals and back at Arson, speaking with a narrowed gaze as he thought for a moment before shrugging.

  “Rob a bank.”

  Arson froze, and the girls all chuckled, assuming that Khalif was joking. It wasn’t until Troy and the others realized the their male counterparts weren’t laughing in the slightest.

  “Wait, you two are serious, aren’t you?” asked Xani, her brows crawling up her forehead slowly in disbelief.

  “You two, why is it being assumed that I’m involved with this idea,” asked Arson, his own brow furrowing.

  “Didn’t you say we were going to rob the royal vault one night in the dump,” said Troy thinking aloud.

  “We built banks with Almarine’s APK for like half a season cycle when you were real little buddy, thought it was weird, asked you about it, and you said, how can I take all the credits out if I don’t know how to get in,” said Xani nodding slowly.

  “Every bank in the trials we came across, you scoped out, some you even had us sneak through like bloody museum tours, only for us to find out they had absolutely nothing to do with the trials objectives…”

  Everyone looked at Micro with various gazes of humor, shock and even slight betrayal, before they all looked back at Arson.

  “I’m not that bad, am I?”

  They all began to nod before Khalif laughed.

  “I ever tell you guys about the time he wore a Ski mask for like a fortnight, he even woke me up out of my sleep and tried to hand me one, when I asked him what he was doing, he said, I need you to watch my back and be my getaway driver, if we hadn’t watched that old movie about the bank robbers in the orphanage just a season earlier, I wouldn’t have had a clue what the sparks the kid was even talking about.”

  They all began to laugh, and Arson rolled his eyes, glaring at Khalif before Khalif spoke up once more.

  “So little buddy, I know you’re not a kid anymore, but how about living out your dream, what do you say…?”

  Arson looked around at his friends, shocked to see the girls all nodding their heads in seeming approval. It wasn’t until Troy smiled that Arson had his answer however, somehow wanting her approval above all else.

  “Spark it…”