Back at the nexus arena, Commander Owen pushed through a debris-littered corridor, ears ringing from the explosions that had torn through the arena. Twisted metal beams jutted from shattered concrete walls. Emergency lights flickered, casting erratic shadows across the devastation. The stench of smoke, blood, and ozone hung thick in the air.
His uniform—torn and blood-spattered—clung to his massive frame. Each step left behind footprints in the dust and ash that coated the floor. The once-pristine Academy uniform now bore battle scars that matched his own—a split lip, a gash across his forehead that trickled blood into his right eye, and bruises blooming across his exposed forearms.
One would wonder who could have been so formidable to even lay a scratch on him. Well, the answer was right in front of him.
