the angel who lost his power but not his Will

The field was quiet.

Beyond the Academy walls, where the ruined forest met with the rising mists of the highlands, Aevion stood in the center of an open clearing. The soft hum of Nexis bled from his fingertips and whispered across the grass, bending the world in slight pulses. The sky above was a pale, cloudless canvas. Aevion exhaled slowly, purple eyes half-lidded.

And then, he spoke.

"Come."

In an instant, six figures appeared in a circle around him. Each identical in form, face, and power. They were his clones—not illusions, not weakened fragments, but perfect replications of himself. As strong. As fast. As precise.

And all were quiet.

The first clone moved.

A sharp, rising axe kick swept upward, cutting the air with sonic precision. Aevion ducked beneath it, rotating low into a sweeping back kick that cracked the ground. A second clone dashed in, intercepting him with a spinning hook kick that Aevion blocked with the edge of his forearm, his Nexis flaring to shield against the force.

"Again," he muttered.

The clones complied.

One came with a double roundhouse. Another flipped into a butterfly twist kick. Aevion flowed between them, deflecting some, taking others, learning from each strike. Every kick was sharp, perfect. His own body fighting against him.

Every movement he blocked, he understood. Every mistake, he internalized. And every strike he absorbed, he remembered.

He countered with a jumping back kick, breaking one clone's nose. It regenerated immediately, not even staggering. Another sent a side kick toward his ribs—Aevion parried it, spinning inside the motion and landing a twisting crescent kick into the clone's chin.

They adapted.

They always adapted.

"Faster."

He created more. Twelve now. All circling. His breathing sharpened, feet pivoting in perfect balance. Then he leapt, launching into a triple aerial kick that knocked back three of them in a single motion. The clones responded with simultaneous hook kicks from different angles. He vanished briefly, reappearing beneath one, slamming an upward knee into its abdomen, then turning to counter another with a turning side kick to the jaw.

Sweat built. His limbs grew heavy. But he didn't stop.

Taekwondo.

Raw, fluid, sharpened by Nexis.

Each motion was now more than muscle memory—it was reality manipulation. Each kick cracked not only the air but the ground itself. Trees trembled from the shockwaves. The grass scorched. The world reacted.

And still, he fought.

Spinning heel kicks. Outside-inside crescent kicks. Jumping roundhouse. Skipping side kick. Tornado round.

He was not just practicing.

He was perfecting.

Every second, every motion, he transcended his past self. He wasn't just fighting his clones. He was fighting everything he used to be. Every failure. Every weakness. Every memory of that library—where Mira fell, where Liora was lost.

He kicked until his bones ached.

He struck until his vision blurred.

And even when he staggered, barely able to stand, he created more clones.

Twenty now.

They all charged at once.

He raised his head, eyes blazing with unspoken grief—and will. And then he moved again. Taekwondo was no longer a discipline. It was war.

He ducked under a jumping side kick, flipped backward into a butterfly twist, landed mid-air with a spin that defied physics, and launched into a five-kick aerial combo that sent five clones flying at once. One grabbed his arm—he twisted out with a scissor kick. Two more tried to box him in—he bent backwards into a sweep, backflipped into the air, and slammed down with a falling axe kick.

Silence returned.

All twenty lay scattered. They dissolved in a ripple of fading light. Aevion stood, panting, sweat dripping down his brow, shirt torn.

The wind passed.

He raised a trembling fist and clenched it.

He was stronger.

And then, as he sat on the edge of the cracked stone beneath him, watching the clouds, a faint whisper drifted from the trees.

Voices.

Two students walked past, speaking to each other in hurried excitement.

"Did you hear? The Grandmaster's hosting the annual martial arts tournament again. They say this time even outside fighters will come."

"For real? I thought it was postponed."

"Nah, it's back. Tomorrow's the signup."

Aevion didn't turn. His eyes narrowed slightly.

A tournament?

The arena was alive with energy, a massive coliseum that held tens of thousands of spectators. Flags bearing the academy's emblem fluttered in the warm breeze, while magical spotlights danced over the sand-covered ground below. The Martial Arts Tournament, a tradition spanning centuries, was finally underway.

Aevion stood quietly by the registration desk, his silver hair brushing lightly against his shoulders, his purple-and-white Nexis aura faintly shimmering like a veil of calm before the storm. He had arrived early, letting the murmurs and excitement wash over him, unshaken.

A young official scanned his details swiftly and handed him a sleek metal badge engraved with the number 107.

"Contestant 107, Aevion. Welcome," she said, her voice neutral but respectful.

Without a word, Aevion pinned the badge to his chest and moved toward the entrance of the arena. The air was thick with anticipation and the scent of dust and sweat.

First Round: Testing the Waters

The announcer's voice echoed throughout the coliseum:

"Contestant 107, Aevion, please take your place!"

Aevion stepped into the center circle, his posture relaxed yet alert. His opponent, a wiry young fighter named Kalen, cracked his knuckles with a confident grin.

The bell rang.

Kalen lunged forward with a flurry of rapid punches and kicks, attempting to overwhelm Aevion early. But Aevion was ready. His body flowed seamlessly through the motions of Taekwondo — every kick crisp, every block precise:

Front Kick: A sharp strike that stopped Kalen's advance dead in its tracks.

Roundhouse Kick: Spinning with fluid grace, it grazed Kalen's ribs.

Side Kick: Delivered with bone-shaking force, pushing Kalen back.

Almost instantly, two identical copies of Aevion appeared at his sides. His clones, as formidable as the original, mirrored his moves flawlessly, surrounding Kalen and cutting off his escape.

Kalen swung wildly but found himself outmatched by the sheer precision and adaptability of the three opponents. With every strike he dodged or blocked, Aevion's clones recalibrated. They learned, adapted, and improved—each clone becoming sharper, faster, smarter. Aevion, connected to his copies by Nexis, absorbed all this new knowledge in real time.

After a powerful spinning Hook Kick, Kalen stumbled and fell, defeated but breathing.

Second Round: Magic and Might

The next opponent was a seasoned fighter named Orin, known for his control over elemental magic. Flames flickered at his fingertips as he entered the arena.

Orin's strategy was clear: keep Aevion at bay with fire attacks.

But Aevion's footwork was impeccable, shifting and weaving to avoid bursts of heat. His clones closed in, attacking in waves with Taekwondo strikes that combined speed and power. They disrupted Orin's concentration, forcing him to focus on defense.

Each clone adapted to Orin's magic in seconds, discovering openings and weaknesses. Aevion felt the surge of knowledge flow back to him, allowing him to anticipate and counter even before Orin cast spells.

The final blow was a perfectly timed Back Kick that sent Orin crashing to the ground, extinguishing his fiery assault.

Third Round: The Brute Force

In the third match, Aevion faced a mountain of a man, Grak, whose fighting style relied purely on overwhelming strength and crushing blows.

Grak charged, fists like wrecking balls swinging wide. Aevion and his clones danced around the attacks with a fluid rhythm born of years of silent training. Every kick, every block was Taekwondo perfected:

Axe Kick crashing down to intercept a heavy swing.

Spinning Heel Kick that caught Grak's head as he overextended.

Cut Kick slicing through the air to keep Grak at a distance.

The clones continuously adapted, learning Grak's patterns and relaying the information back to Aevion. Together, they wore the brute down, until a final series of synchronized Tornado Kicks forced Grak to yield.

A Moment of Calm

Between fights, Aevion remained silent and withdrawn. He did not mingle or exchange words with others. The tournament was a proving ground—a battlefield where distractions could cost everything.

He used the time to hone his focus, visualizing each move, refining the flow of his Taekwondo kicks, and preparing for the challenges ahead.

Final Match of the Day: Surprising Agility

The last fight before the quarterfinals was against a nimble assassin named Vael. Vael was fast, unpredictable, and deadly with a blade.

As the match began, Vael darted forward, slashing and feinting. Aevion's clones multiplied, mirroring his every move, converging on Vael to box him in.

Despite Vael's speed, he couldn't break through the swarm. Each time he attacked, Aevion and his clones adapted and countered instantly. A sharp Roundhouse Kick from a clone disarmed Vael, and a swift Back Kick sent him sprawling.

The crowd roared as the bell sounded.

Looking Ahead

As the sun dipped toward the horizon, signaling the end of the day's matches, Aevion stood alone in the center of the arena, the cheers of the crowd washing over him like a distant tide.

He had cleared the initial rounds with relative ease—but he knew the true challenge was still ahead.

No more clones. No more distractions.

The quarterfinals and semifinals would demand everything he had.