Through half-lidded eyes, I gaze across an endless desert that stretches like a frozen ocean beneath a star-strewn sky. The air carries the metallic tang of discharged energy, thick with tension and the remnants of battle. In the distance, jagged mountains tear at the horizon like obsidian teeth, their peaks silhouetted against a blood-red moon.

  All around me, the night erupts in a symphony of chaos. Aurons clash in mid-air, their auras painting the darkness in a dazzling array of colors. Each collision sends shockwaves rippling through the sand beneath my prone form, the vibrations thrumming through my bones. Explosions bloom like deadly flowers, their light casting writhing shadows across the dunes.

  I try to push myself up, the cool desert air raising goosebumps along my arms. My hands catch my attention - they're encased in unfamiliar gauntlets, their surface drinking in what little light reaches them. Something feels wrong, out of place. My aura flares to life, but instead of its usual orange, it blazes with golden radiance. The sight triggers something in my mind, a memory just out of reach. Ah, yes. Now I remember.

  My body moves with liquid grace as I surge to my feet. In the space between heartbeats, I close the distance to my opponent - the one who had knocked me down. Our exchange of blows defies human limits, each strike generating concussive force that makes the very air shudder. I can feel the impacts reverberating through my entire being, raw power threatening to tear reality apart.

  Time slips through my fingers like desert sand. An unspoken understanding passes between us, and we leap apart in perfect synchronization. I bring my palms together, feeling multiple streams of energy coalesce between them. The power compresses, warps, forming a sphere of such intense darkness that it seems to devour the starlight. The gravitational force is immense - I can feel it trying to pull my hands together, to crush everything into its infinite depths.

  Through the corner of my eye, I see their attack approaching. The words tear from my throat, resonating with power that makes the mountains tremble:

  "THEORY OF POWER!"

  The black orb detonates, reality itself seeming to bend as blinding light consumes everything...

  Sleeser's eyes snap open, a gasp of pain escaping his lips as consciousness crashes back. The harsh white ceiling of the hospital room spins above him before slowly steadying into focus. Every inch of his body pulses with agony beneath the sweat-soaked bandages that wrap his torso and limbs. The desert dream clings to his thoughts like fine sand, refusing to be brushed away despite his return to waking.

  "Just a dream..." he mutters, his voice rough as sandpaper. The words leave a coppery taste in his mouth, making him grimace.

  Through the half-open door drift fragments of urgent voices and hurried footsteps, the unmistakable rhythm of a hospital in crisis. Gritting his teeth, Sleeser forces himself to sit up. Pain lances through him like lightning, drawing a sharp hiss as his muscles scream in protest. Cold sweat beads on his forehead from the effort.

  He leans forward, peering into the fluorescent-lit hallway. The harsh overhead lights cast deep shadows across his face, making the lines of exhaustion more prominent. A stretcher rushes past in a blur of motion, and Sleeser's heart seems to stop mid-beat. That hair splayed across the pillow – though disheveled and matted with dark blood – is achingly familiar. The same shade he's watched grow from boyhood to youth, the same color as his student Angelo's.

  A staff member stands nearby, worry carving deep lines around his eyes as he watches the urgent movements of the medical team. Sleeser reaches out instinctively, his hand trembling not just from his injuries but from rising fear.

  "What happened?" The question comes out as barely more than a whisper, his throat too tight to manage more.

  The worker startles at the unexpected voice, spinning around. Recognition dawns in his eyes as he takes in Sleeser's bandaged form propped in the doorway. "What? Oh – it's the Angel of Death." He shakes his head, disbelief evident in his expression. "Took on an Evolved Auron, if you can believe it."

  The bottom drops out of Sleeser's world. "What—" A violent cough tears through him before he can finish, feeling like shards of glass in his lungs. His eyes remain locked on the distant stretcher as it disappears around a corner, dread clawing at his chest.

  "What's his condition?" The words carry unmistakable urgency despite his weakened state, his knuckles white where they grip the doorframe.

  The worker's eyes narrow slightly, catching the personal undertone in Sleeser's voice. "He'll make it," he assures, though his guarded expression suggests he's choosing his words carefully. "Got a nasty gash across his torso. Passed out from blood loss, but he's stable."

  Relief floods through Sleeser with such force that his knees nearly buckle. He takes an unsteady step toward the operating room's waiting area, but the worker's hand shoots out to block his path.

  "Where do you think you're going?" The worker's tone leaves no room for argument, firm as a hospital regulation. "In your condition, the only place you're headed is back to bed."

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  Exhaustion settles over Sleeser like a weighted blanket, his body trembling visibly from just these few moments of standing. After a brief internal struggle that shows in his clenched jaw, he allows himself to be guided back to his room. But as he lies there in the darkness, sleep dances just out of reach. His mind spins between the dream's vivid images and worried thoughts about Angelo, weaving an anxious tapestry that refuses to let him rest.

  The night stretches endlessly before him, marked only by the steady electronic beeping of monitors and the distant symphony of a hospital working to save lives. Somewhere in this sterile maze of corridors lies the young man he had trained, now paying the price for walking the path Sleeser had helped set him upon. The thought weighs heavier than any physical pain, keeping him company through the long hours until dawn.

  The morning sun crept through the hospital window like a shy visitor, casting long fingers of golden light across the room's sterile white walls. The air held that distinct hospital smell - a mix of disinfectant and stale coffee that made Sleeser's nose wrinkle. Down the corridor, nurses' shoes squeaked against polished floors and breakfast carts rattled past, their wheels catching on tile seams. Medical equipment created a steady symphony of beeps and hums, the heartbeat of the hospital itself.

  Sleeser gripped the metal railing of his bed, muscles trembling as he forced himself upright. Every injury screamed in protest - the cracked ribs from that devastating blow, the deep bruises that painted his torso in shades of purple and black, the dozen smaller wounds that together felt like being hit by a truck. But he had to move. Had to check.

  A rough laugh cut through his concentration. "Well, look who thinks they're ready for a marathon."

  In the next bed over, Axel watched him with knowing eyes, his signature cocky grin somehow intact despite everything. The man was a study in contrasts - spiky black hair with those rebellious blue-dyed tips that no amount of battle seemed to mess up, face marked with fresh cuts, bandages wrapping his muscular frame like a fighter's hand wraps. Even beaten half to hell, Axel managed to look more amused than injured.

  "What's got you moving like your pants are on fire?" Axel asked, shifting to get a better look and immediately wincing as the movement pulled at his wounds.

  Sleeser tried for his usual confident smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Every facial expression tugged at the cuts scattered across his features. "Just need to handle something, Axel. Won't take long."

  Axel's eyebrow shot up skeptically, reopening a fresh cut above his eye. A drop of blood beaded at the edge. "Must be pretty damn important if you're willing to crawl there."

  "Give it a rest, Axel." The gentle rebuke came from across the room, where Force sat propped against a mountain of pillows. His long emerald hair cascaded around his face in tangled waves. Despite his shorter stature, Force's compact frame radiated barely contained power - like a compressed spring or a coiled snake. Those gentle lime-green eyes and perpetual soft smile seemed at odds with his warrior's build as he added, "Though he's not wrong, Sleeser. You're pushing awful hard for someone who could barely move yesterday."

  Sleeser turned to face them both, carefully controlling his expression as fire raced along his nerve endings. He could feel sweat beading on his forehead just from standing. "Since when did you two join the worry-warts club?" He tried to inject some humor into his voice, but the underlying tension made it shake. "I'll survive. There's just... someone I need to see."

  Before they could protest further, he slipped out into the hallway like a ghost escaping its grave. Each step felt like walking on broken glass, but he forced himself forward. The information desk nurse took one look at his battered face and pointed him in the right direction with sympathetic eyes. He followed the room numbers like breadcrumbs, each one bringing him closer to his goal.

  When he finally reached the right door, the sight beyond it stole his breath more effectively than any punch to the gut. Angelo lay motionless on pristine white sheets, looking impossibly young and vulnerable. Cuts and bruises mapped constellations across his face, while stark white bandages peeked out from beneath the thin hospital gown. His skin had taken on the pale, waxy look of someone who'd lost too much blood. Only the steady drip of the IV and the shallow rise and fall of his chest proved he still lived.

  The plastic chair by the bed protested loudly as Sleeser lowered himself into it, but he barely noticed the discomfort. All his attention was fixed on his former student's still form.

  "Someone's here," Red's voice echoed through their shared consciousness, alert even in sleep.

  "A visitor perhaps?" Blue's tone carried measured curiosity.

  "Angelo..." The name escaped Sleeser's lips like a prayer, heavy with guilt and relief.

  "Hold on..." Red's mental voice sharpened with recognition. "Sleeser? Is that really him?"

  "The timbre matches," Blue confirmed, ever the analyst.

  "Hey! Wake up! Our boring old teacher's here!" Red's voice rose to a mental shout that seemed to bounce off the walls of their shared mind. "ANGELO!"

  "Have you lost what little sense you possess?" Blue's usually calm voice cracked with irritation. "He needs rest to heal!"

  Sleeser watched Angelo's face contort, clearly caught in some internal struggle even while unconscious. It hurt to see him like this - so different from the determined young man he'd trained. "Even unconscious, you can't catch a break, can you?" he murmured, guilt settling on his shoulders like a lead weight. "The universe really does have it out for you, kid..."

  "RISE AND SHINE, SLEEPING BEAUTY!" Red's mental voice reached a crescendo.

  "I swear by all that's logical—" Blue's protest was cut short.

  "WAAAAAKE UUUUUP!" Red's mental scream reverberated through their shared consciousness like a thunderclap.

  Angelo's eyes snapped open, body jerking upright on instinct. "WHAT THE—ARGH!" The sudden movement pulled at his wounds, sending visible waves of agony across his face. He doubled over, one hand clutching at his bandaged chest as if trying to hold himself together. "RED! What the hell is wrong with you?!"

  "You have a guest," Red replied with infuriating casualness. "Just trying to be helpful."

  Angelo's head whipped to the side, eyes widening as they landed on his former master. Sleeser sat frozen, his own considerable injuries temporarily forgotten in the face of this explosive awakening.

  "Sleeser?" Angelo's voice cracked like thin ice, fingers unconsciously twisting in the cheap hospital sheets. Morning light carved deep shadows under his eyes, highlighting both old scars and fresh cuts across his features.

  Characters concept art