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Ness tightened his grip. The psychic pulse of this strange, elemental world was a chaotic drumbeat compared to the steady hum of Eagleland. His PSI felt… muffled. Sluggish. Like trying to shout through a pillow. But the fire in Zetterburn’s eyes was real. The heat on his cheek was real. And the quiet, desperate courage that had made him face Giygas was still real, too.
"You—!" he rasped, ice crystals falling from his singed whiskers.
The lion’s roar choked into a wet, hissing gurgle. Frost spiderwebbed across his fangs, his tongue, the roof of his scorching maw. Steam exploded from his nostrils. He staggered back, clawing at his face, his mane flickering and sputtering. For the first time, the Prince of Fire looked afraid.
Zetterburn stumbled forward, off-balance for a heartbeat. It was all Ness needed. He didn’t think. He acted . A lifetime of batting practice and fighting possessed moles took over. He swung the Louisville Slugger not at Zetterburn’s head, but at his front paws. rivals of aether ness
The lion prince of the Fire Armada wasn't just a rival. He was a cataclysm. His fur was a cascade of dying embers, his mane a roaring inferno that warped the air around his scarred muzzle. Every time he exhaled, a puff of superheated ash and contempt billowed towards Ness.
It wasn't a pounce; it was a detonation. Zetterburn vanished in a blur of orange and red, leaving a smoking trench in the ground. Ness had a single microsecond to react. He threw up a PSI Magnet, a shimmering green shield of mental energy.
It caught Zetterburn in the open mouth.
He was right. The PSI Magnet was cracking. Ness felt the psychic feedback lancing behind his eyes. He couldn’t hold. He dropped the shield.
A rival.
Ness lowered his hand. He was trembling, his nose bleeding from the strain of focusing PSI in this alien place. He held the broken remains of his bat like a spear. Ness tightened his grip
"Fragile!" Zetterburn snarled, raking his claws across the shield. Green sparks flew. "Just like all your kind!"
Ness didn't run. He stepped in . Close. Too close. He could smell the sulfur on the lion's breath, feel the individual points of heat radiating from his mane. He pressed two fingers to his own temple.
Zetterburn lowered his head, a gesture that was not submission, but respect. He spat a single, frozen tooth onto the black mud. Sluggish
"PK... Freeze."