The tension in the basent gym crystallized into perfect silence. Every pair of eyes locked on our mat as Braxton ambled toward the center with the casual indifference of a man heading to his couch for a nap, not preparing to spar with the top-ranked prospect at NVA. His unlit cigarette bobbed between his lips as he rolled his neck.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling a flicker of arrogance spark in my chest. After tearing apart that gorilla construct in the simulation, this disheveled, half-asleep instructor shouldn’t pose much of a threat. The mory of that raw power flowing through my veins fueled my confidence. A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth.
"You sure about this, Miller?" I wiggled my fingers suggestively, letting a hint of thermal energy dance between them. "These aren’t exactly for show. I wouldn’t want to accidentally take an arm off. Students probably need to fill out paperwork for that kind of thing."
Braxton didn’t even look at . He stretched his neck, producing a loud crack that echoed through the now-silent gym. Several students winced.
"Kid, you’ll be lucky to land a scratch." He suppressed a yawn, scratching his stubbled chin. "Now get over here before I get bored and decide to take a nap instead."
As I stepped onto the mat, feeling the slight give beneath my feet, a golden notification exploded across my vision, more vibrant than any I’d seen before:
[SECRET NARRATIVE QUEST ISSUED: PUNCH THE TEACHER]
[Objective: In this spar, you must knock your instructor, Braxton Miller, onto his ass. A single, clean knockdown. That’s it.]
[Reward: 500 SP]
[Failure Penalty: None.]
My eyes widened involuntarily. Five hundred Schema Points AND no penalty for failure? The System—Nel, Apollo, whoever was running this sick ga—was basically telling this quest was impossible. A joke. A dare. Sothing to laugh at while I got my ass handed to .
’So they think I can’t do it, huh?’ A slow, predatory grin spread across my face. ’Challenge accepted.’
The exhaustion from morning training vanished, replaced by cold, calculating focus. I settled into a fighting stance, every muscle coiled, every sense hyper-alert. Across from , Braxton stood with his hands in his pockets, that unlit cigarette still dangling from his lips, his posture so relaxed he might as well have been waiting for a bus.
"Begin whenever you’re—"
I didn’t let him finish. I lunged forward, my B-rank Agility transforming into a blur. My fingers traced the activation pattern for [SEVER], unleashing an invisible blade of pure thermal energy aid right at his midsection—not to maim, but to force him back.
FWOOSH!
Braxton didn’t even seem to move. He just... wasn’t there. He’d swayed half an inch to the left, the invisible blade passing harmlessly by his ear, disturbing nothing but a few strands of his ssy hair. The bored expression never left his face.
"Too slow." He tapped his shoulder with two fingers. "And you telegraph from here. Your whole body tenses before you attack."
Before I could process his words, his foot swept out in a casual arc. My legs vanished from under , and I hit the mat with a solid whump that sent vibrations through my skull. The impact drove the air from my lungs in an embarrassing whoosh.
"YEAH, NAKANO! EAT IT!" Raphael’s voice cut through the ringing in my ears, his laughter grating. "HE DIDN’T EVEN TRY! LOOK AT MR. NUMBER ONE NOW!"
I sprang back to my feet, face burning with humiliation, cursing under my breath. This ti, I’d be more cautious. I circled Braxton, who remained motionless in the center of the mat, watching through half-lidded eyes that sohow missed nothing.
’Let’s see how he handles this.’
I triggered [EMBER], sending a gout of fla to force him to move—not to burn him, just to create an opening—then followed with a rapid series of [SEVER] slashes from multiple angles, creating a cage of invisible blades that would force him into a corner.
FWOOM! SHING! SHING! SHING!
He moved like smoke through my attacks. Not fast—not like —just efficient. Every movent was minimal, perfect, without a single wasted motion. He weaved between my slashes as if they were coming in slow motion, his worn-out tracksuit bottoms whispering against the mat. Not a drop of sweat appeared on his forehead.
While I was still in mid-cast, he closed the distance. His palm struck my chest—not a punch, just a firm, open-handed shove. But the impact felt like being hit by a wrecking ball. I flew backward, my stomach lurching at the sudden acceleration, crashing into the padded wall ten feet away with enough force to knock a grunt from my throat.
"You’re all flash, kid." Braxton tapped his temple with one finger. "A real fight happens here. Those fancy moves? Might impress the caras, but they won’t keep you alive."
The other spars had stopped. Everyone was watching us now—Raphael with cruel delight, Isabelle with cool analysis, Jacob with open-mouthed terror. The twins stood side by side, whispering to each other as they studied my humiliation. I could feel Marco’s sympathetic wince from across the room.
The next few minutes beca a brutal lesson in humility.
I tried a feint—a low slash followed by a high one, mixing my timing to throw him off. Braxton ducked under the first and caught my wrist before I could even begin the second. He twisted.
CRACK!
Pain exploded in my elbow as he hyperextended it, just enough to send a warning shock through my nervous system without causing real damage. I dropped to one knee, gasping, my arm hanging uselessly at my side for several seconds.
"That’s your sword arm," he comnted dispassionately. "In a real fight, you’d be dead now."
When I recovered, I kicked up a mat to obscure his vision and moved behind him, tapping into my [Interdiate Pressure Points] knowledge for a strike at his neck. His elbow ca back without him even looking, catching perfectly in the solar plexus. I collapsed, gagging, the world spinning as my diaphragm spasd.
"Look at Mr. Number One!" Raphael cackled from the sidelines, slapping his thigh. "Can’t even touch him! What a joke! Fifteen seconds, tops, before he’s crying!"
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