“Niran?” Her voice was a whisper, a sound Tawan hadn’t heard from her in years. It was filled with a fragile confusion, not the usual biting scorn. “What… what is this?” She held up the portrait. The charcoal lines depicted her with a joy alien to her present life, beneath a date set seasons ahead. Tawan’s throat tightened. His carefully constructed facade of the bumbling, cowardly Niran threatened to crack. He opened his mouth, but only a dry click emerged. He *had* to lie, to deflect, to keep his secret safe, but the sight of her scrutinizing his future self's art, *his* art, twisted a knot in his chest. The yearning was a physical ache. “Th-that’s…” he stammered, scrambling for an explanation. “Uh, th-that’s not… it’s a practice sketch! Yes! I was, uh, trying to draw… someone. Y-you look like her, though. A little. Coincidence, r-right?” He tried for a sheepish grin, but it felt more like a grimace. He felt his face flush hot with the effort of the deception. Mali narrowed her eyes, the fragile softness hardening just a fraction. “You were practicing drawing *me*? Five years in the future? Niran, you can barely draw a straight line, let alone… this.” She gestured to the loving detail, the way the light played in the curls of the hair near the cheek. “And you’ve never drawn before. Not once.” Her voice, though still quiet, was laced with suspicion. She was so close to seeing through him. “It’s… a new hobby!” Tawan squeaked, forcing a cough. “Inspired by… the Naga-Spire scenery! I thought, if I drew a familiar face, it would be… easier. Y-you’re always around, so…” He trailed off, feeling the absolute idiocy of his words. He was truly terrible at lying under pressure. Just as Mali was about to press him further, a frantic pounding echoed through the archives. Krit burst in, his normally jovial face contorted with panic, his hands tearing at his mop of dark hair. “Niran! Mali! You won’t believe it! Arthit! That blasted, smarmy-faced *worm*!” Krit shrieked, his voice cracking with outrage. “He… he entered Pipsqueak into the Mid-Term Beast Brawl! He’s going to… he’s going to *kill* him! The qualifying rounds are happening right now, in the Sunken Arena!” Tawan felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. The brawl allowed lethal force, measuring raw invocations against wild beasts. The scaled beastling, despite recent chronal infusions, remained a sleepy critter ill-suited for the pit. Arthit had engineered this purely to humiliate Krit and bait Niran. Mali’s attention immediately snapped from the sketch to Krit’s distress. Her face tightened with a familiar anger. “He what? That’s utterly despicable! The little fellow can't fight!” She crumpled the sheet in her hand, forgetting it entirely, and surged towards the door. “We have to go!” Tawan followed, his mind racing. He had planned to train Pipsqueak in secret, to have a gradual reveal. This was not gradual. This was immediate, public, and potentially deadly. He had to act. He didn’t know how much time he had before Arthit began his assault. They raced through the bustling corridors of the Naga-Spire Institute, the sounds of chanting and distant magical explosions growing louder as they neared the Sunken Arena. When they burst through the grand archway, the roar of the crowd assaulted them. The arena was a vast, circular pit carved into the living rock, surrounded by tiered seating packed with students, faculty, and even some local dignitaries. In the center, a translucent mana barrier enclosed a smaller combat ring. In the pit, the singed beastling curled into a shuddering knot of scales. Over him stood Arthit, pristine robes unstained, golden light rippling along his knuckles. Krit turned pale. “You coward, Arthit!” Krit screamed, trying to push past the security mantrists. “Leave him alone!” Arthit merely chuckled, a sound that grated on Tawan’s ears. “Ah, Krit. Still defending your useless mascot? It’s a beast brawl, little tamer. Only the strong survive. And Pipsqueak here… well, he’s proving himself to be quite the snooze-fest.” He kicked gently at the pangolin, rolling it over. Pipsqueak let out another pained whimper. Mali balled her fists. Viridian sparks crackled across her knuckles. “Arthit, stop this! He’s already defeated!” Arthit turned, his smirk widening as he caught sight of Mali. “Ah, Mali. Come to witness the inevitable? Or perhaps to see just how truly pathetic Niran’s best friend is? And Niran himself, I presume, is cowering somewhere in the archives, polishing his participation trophies?” He glanced dismissively toward Tawan, who remained still, cloaked in Niran's accustomed terror. “That’s enough, Arthit!” Mali’s voice cut through the arena, but it was lost in the jeers and shouts. “You win! Just let Krit withdraw him!” Arthit ignored her, gathering a sphere of pressurized heat above his palm. “A lesson, then. This is the price of associating with vermin.” He angled the blast toward the flagstones inches from the scaly ball, intending a concussion wave violent enough to crush its ribs. Tawan set his heels into the sand. He had swallowed insults, stammered through cowardly excuses, and masked his arts to shield the coming dawn. But watching this pompous peacock grind Krit's helpless pet into gravel stripped away every shred of timid reserve, leaving only hard, primordial wrath. He let out a heavy sigh, a sound barely audible above the din, yet it felt like the turning of a rusted gear. His hand moved, with a quiet, practiced precision, to his finger. He slid off the chronal seal ring. Time halted. The stadium's roar locked into dead silence. The burst of flame hung motionless, a burning bead hovering inches over the curled beast. Dust motes turned to static specks of brass in the sunlight. Mali stood mid-plea, viridian sparks locked in mid-burst. Krit was an immobile statue of panic. Tawan stepped over the barrier line, old power singing beneath his ribs. He crossed the pit with steady boots, stopping an arm's length from Arthit's sneering profile. He could unravel the rival regressor's spiritual meridians, drop him into the cesspits, or splinter his collarbones without leaving a bruise. But that would be too quick. Too clean. This needed to be personal. An overdue payment for every taunt, every sneer, every piece of misery Arthit had inflicted. He raised his hand. Not an invocation, not a closed fist. An open hand, layered with concentrated velocity, condensing centuries of kinetic momentum into one unforgiving point of impact. *WHUMP!* The slap cracked across motionless air. Arthit’s skull snapped sideways with violent inertia. Tawan stepped back, sliding the silver band back over his knuckle. Motion resumed. The roar slammed back into the amphitheater. The spark sputtered out as Arthit rocketed sideways, clearing twenty paces of sand before pulverizing a carved stone column. Plaster and masonry caved inward with a dry thud, burying the regressor under broken granite. The arena went utterly silent. Not a whisper. Not a gasp. Just the low, confused rumble of the crowd, staring from the demolished column to the quiet boy in runner's sandals. The scaly creature uncurled on the sand, blinking sleepily. [Karma Update: +10. Retribution Delivered. Well-played, O’ Serpent-Slayer.] Mali’s jaw hung slack. Krit gaped, glancing between the crushed masonry and Tawan. Overseers started forward with shouts, but the flagstones dropped an inch beneath their boots. The ground beneath the Naga-Spire Institute shuddered, a deep, resonant tremor that made the carved bedrock groan. Then, from the very top of the stepped pyramid, where the jungle waterfall usually cascaded in a shimmering curtain of white, a horrifying transformation began. The water, the lifeblood of the academy, turned pitch black, thick and viscous as crude oil, churning with unseen energies. It poured down the tiers, tainting everything it touched. A collective scream rose from the crowd as the air grew heavy, thick with a nauseating scent of decay and something anciently divine. Panic erupted, students scrambling over each other, faculty members shouting orders that dissolved into chaos. Mali, still staring at Tawan, felt a sudden, searing pain on her hand. She gasped, pulling it up. The crumpled sketch, forgotten, fell from her fingers. Her skin, where she had been clutching the paper, was no longer soft and warm. A sickly, creeping gray had begun to marble her fingers, spreading with terrifying speed, hardening them into stone. Her green irises locked onto her petrifying forearm, and an agonized shriek cut through the dust as solid granite crept toward her elbow.

The Overdue Slap