Then Zyon walked over to Celia, as casual as if he'd just finished a morning jog rather than beating the collective crap out of us innocent fellows.
"I'm going to get my wounds treated. Can I?"
Celia blinked—just a little too long. For a moment, even she was stunned. But she caught herself fast, her voice crisp and composed.
"Yeah, sure. You can go."
Zyon gave her a small nod and turned, walking off like nothing had happened. No swagger. No dramatics. Just that eerie calm he always had.
Meanwhile, Art pushed himself up from the wreckage of the training ground and looked straight at me with blood crusting his temple and his coat half burned.
"Why did we gang up on him again?"
I shrugged, dragging myself up with the elegance of a dying old man. "Maybe because our shared braincells decided that was a smart idea. Or maybe it was pure delusion."
Art nodded like he was analyzing some great philosophical truth. "Yeah. Both it is."
