The battlefield blurred around us.
Gunfire, arrows, explosions—all became background noise.
Because now, it was only me and him.
Quaritch.
The man who had died once already. The ghost in a borrowed Na'vi shell, standing in a suit built to kill gods.
And me.The Storm.
He moved first.
His mech's thrusters flared, propelling him forward faster than any machine his size should move. The massive blade whistled through the air, cutting toward my head.
I caught it in my bare hand.
Sparks screamed where steel met flesh—but my skin didn't break.
Quaritch sneered inside the cockpit, twisting the blade, trying to force it down. "What are you, boy? A freak? An experiment?"
I shoved back, sending him skidding through the dirt, tearing trenches in Pandora's soil.
"I'm the storm that ends you."
He recovered quick, thrusters igniting as he lunged again. This time, cannons unfolded from the mech's shoulders, unleashing a barrage of plasma fire.
The blasts slammed into me, each one strong enough to obliterate a tree. They staggered me, pushed me back, but they couldn't break me.
I gritted my teeth, eyes burning red. "My turn."
Heat vision lanced out, slicing through his cannons like paper. He roared in fury, ejecting the ruined weapons and charging barehanded.
His blade clashed with my fists again and again, the shockwaves rattling the ground, sending Na'vi and humans alike stumbling.
Tsireya's voice rang out from somewhere in the chaos."Storm!"
For a split second, I glanced her way—saw her pulling a wounded warrior to safety, her eyes wide with both faith and fear.
That moment of distraction cost me.
Quaritch's blade slammed across my chest, the force enough to hurl me back through two burning trees.
He stalked forward, mech servos whining."You bleed yet, boy? Huh? Or are you just another monster pretending to be a man?"
I rose from the wreckage, brushing ash off my skin. My chest was unmarked.
"No." My eyes glowed crimson. "But you will."
I blurred forward, faster than sound, my fist crashing into his mech's chestplate. Metal caved, alarms blaring inside his cockpit.
He swung wildly, blade carving the air, but I ducked low, seized his arm, and ripped it off in a spray of sparks.
The Na'vi around us gasped. Quaritch howled.
But even maimed, he grinned. "You think this ends with me? You think they won't send more? You're a weapon, Storm. And weapons always get used."
I hesitated. Just for a breath.
And he tried to drive the broken blade through my throat.
I caught it—then snapped it in half.
"You're right," I said coldly. "Weapons get used. But storms? Storms can't be controlled."
And with that, I drove my fist through the mech's chest, tearing the cockpit open.
Quaritch stared at me, panting, blood running down his avatar's face.
"This ain't over," he spat.
"It is for you."
One final punch, and the mech crumpled like tin.
The battlefield fell silent.
The Na'vi stared, not cheering, not celebrating—just watching.
Because they had seen something more terrifying than the Sky People's machines.
They had seen me.
The Storm.
And for the first time, I wondered if their fear of me was greater than their fear of the humans.