Chapter 14 #2
Joseph doesn't waste time. He circles to my left, his stance fluid, different from his usual heavy-footed approach. There's a new grace to his movements, something borrowed from his Ide.
“Don't let him get comfortable with the rhythm.” Dad can’t help himself. “Disrupt his pattern.”
I lunge forward, feinting right before driving a hard left toward Joseph's solar plexus.
He reads the move like it's telegraphed, sliding just out of reach and countering with a strike that catches me in the ribs.
It's not particularly hard, but it's precisely placed—right where my guard was weakest.
“That's not Vargas,” my father observes. “That's the Ide's muscle memory. Centuries of combat experience flowing through young flesh.”
Yeah.
“Watch his center of gravity,” Dad continues, so close it feels like the vibration originates in my own mouth. “He’s overextending on the follow-through. Punish the lean.”
I blink hard, trying to focus on Joseph's movements, but suddenly I'm not seeing him anymore.
The gym, the mats, everything fades into background noise as my father's voice wraps around me, coaching from inside my own head.
It's so intimate, so personal—his voice literally resonating through my skull.
It’s the most surreal thing I’ve ever known.
A thick lump forms in my throat as memory washes over me.
I’m six years old again, struggling with a wooden training blade on the practice mats, and Dad is standing on the sidelines.
He’s leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed, his storm-gray eyes tracking my every stumble with that exact same mixture of tactical calculation and quiet, fierce pride.
The coaching, the cadence, the feeling of being watched over—it feels exactly like then. For a heartbeat, the years of grief vanish. I’m not a soldier in a war; I’m just a kid trying to make his father proud.
“Jax,” Dad warns, his tone sharpening as Joseph lunges again, his fist glowing with a faint, borrowed heat. “Focus.”
I blink back the sudden sting in my eyes and pivot.
I’m not using Dad’s power—not yet—but I use the knowledge he’s giving me.
I drop low, sweeping Joseph’s lead leg just as his weight shifts forward.
He stumbles, his Ide-induced grace momentarily failing him as his physical form struggles to catch up to the maneuver.
“Better,” Dad murmurs, and I can almost feel his hand on my shoulder. “Now, close the distance before he stabilizes.”
I try to focus and adjust, throwing a combination that would have landed on the old Joseph. This new version slips through my defense and lands a palm strike to my sternum that sends me staggering back.
“Salem!” Burr barks. “Where's your focus? Center yourself!”
I grit my teeth and reset my stance. Joseph's eyes are now darker, more calculating. He's letting the Ide guide his movements, and it's working.
I press forward again, trying to overwhelm him with speed, but he counters each attack with infuriating precision. A kick to my thigh numbs my leg. A glancing blow to my shoulder sends pins and needles down my arm.
“He's targeting nerve clusters,” Dad says. “Ancient hemomancy technique. The blood carries the impact deeper than the point of contact.”
Joseph's expression shifts subtly—his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing. He's enjoying this. His next strike comes faster than the others, catching me under the chin and snapping my head back. Stars explode across my vision.
“Enough holding back,” my father growls.
“I can handle this,” I manage through clenched teeth, loud enough for Joseph to hear.
Joseph smirks. “Can you?” His voice sounds different—layered, almost as if someone else's voice is woven through his own. He steps forward, his movements suddenly liquid, and his hand blurs toward my throat.
I barely block it, but the force behind it drives me to one knee. Before I can recover, his other hand catches me in the stomach, and I feel something more than just physical impact—it's like he's punched straight through to my spine. Shit.
I try to stand, but my legs won't cooperate. Joseph looms over me, his expression almost apologetic.
“Sorry, man,” he says, though the gleam in his eyes tells a different story. “Guess this is what evolution looks like.”
He draws back for another strike.
“Okay, three minutes is up,” my father growls.
I’m not sure if it is, but I stop trying to keep my father's presence contained in that back corner of my mind. I don’t resist his pressure. I open myself up, letting his consciousness flow through me like water breaking through a dam.
The change is immediate and overwhelming. My body feels different—lighter, more responsive. Muscle memory that isn't mine floods my limbs. I catch Joseph's strike mid-air, my hand moving with a precision I've never possessed.
“Wait, three minutes isn’t—” Joseph starts, but I'm already moving, and Burr doesn’t protest.
My father's combat knowledge flows through me like an electric current.
I see openings I never would have noticed before, weaknesses in Joseph's stance that are invisible to an untrained eye.
My counter-attack is a blur of calculated strikes—not powerful, but precise, targeting pressure points that disrupt his own blood flow.
Joseph staggers back, his expression shifting from confidence to caution. He tries to rally, drawing deeper on his Ide's power. I see the moment it happens—his eyes darken completely, and his movements become sharper, more aggressive.
“He's surrendering too much control,” my father observes. “His Ide is taking over.”
Joseph's right shoulder twitches slightly before he moves, and I'm already sliding to the side as his attack misses by a centimeter. I counter with a palm strike to his sternum, followed by two rapid jabs to nerve clusters in his neck and shoulder.
Joseph goes down hard, his body suddenly unresponsive. He lies there, gasping, his eyes wide with shock.
“Enough!” Burr calls, stepping forward.
I stand over Joseph, my breathing controlled despite the exertion. The gymnasium is silent, every student staring at what just happened.
Burr approaches slowly, his eyes narrowed in assessment.
“Impressive, Salem. That was a textbook integration—seamless, controlled.” He frowns as he kneels beside Joseph, checking his pulse.
“Vargas, you’ll live. But I want you to go for a check-up at the infirmary.
Have them analyze your vitals. We’ll see what, if any, impact your interaction with your Ide has had on your body so far. ”
Professor Ellison comes over and helps Joseph up, then escorts him out of the hall.
“Sorry,” I murmur after him, though the word feels strange in my mouth. It's like my voice resonates somewhere deep inside myself, while my father shares the driver's seat.
“Everyone, observe what happened here,” Burr announces to the class.
“Salem didn't fight his Ide; he collaborated with it.
Vargas, on the other hand—in my view—surrendered too much control too quickly.
The Ide's knowledge is valuable, but you must learn to remain the primary consciousness. That is a skill that will only come with practice. Trial and error.”
As Burr begins to lecture about the art and science of maintaining mental barriers, I feel my father slowly receding, giving me back full control of my body. It's a strange sensation, like watching someone step out of a room but still feeling their presence nearby.
“Thanks,” I mutter internally.
“Anytime,” my father replies, though his voice is strangely tense. “Jax, listen to me… Something's not right.”
“Huh?”
“When I took over, went face to face with Vargas’ Ide… I felt something. Like a lingering sensation from the veil. The older Ides, the ancient ones... something’s not right with them.”
“Yeah, well they’re literally dead. What do you mean?”
Another pause. “I’m not sure I can put it into words yet. I need to… continue observing.”
As the rest of the class pairs off to practice, I stand there, something cold and unsettled sitting under my ribs.