The atmosphere in the main Combat Arena was electric. Word of Michael's audacious challenge had spread not just among the first-years, but throughout the entire academy. The spectator stands, usually sparse for routine duels, were packed to capacity. Students from every year, and even a few curious instructors, had gathered to witness the spectacle. The prevailing sentiment was a mix of morbid curiosity and anticipated schadenfreude; most were here to see the arrogant "trash" get put in his place.
In the center of the vast arena, under the glare of the holographic projectors, stood Gideon Croft. He was a mountain of a man, his muscles bulging under his combat suit, his face a mask of furious indignation. Being publicly challenged by Michael, a student he considered to be beneath his notice, was a monumental insult.
"You've got some nerve, Azazel," Gideon boomed, his voice amplified by the arena's speakers. "Did your little fluke of a victory against Caleb go to your head? I'm going to enjoy breaking you."
Opposite him, Michael stood calmly, his posture relaxed. He was unarmed, his High-Frequency Resonance Blade conspicuously absent. This detail did not go unnoticed by the crowd, and a fresh wave of derisive laughter echoed through the stands.
"He's not even using a weapon!"
"Is he insane? Gideon will tear him apart!"
"This is going to be a massacre."
Even Isabelle Sterling, watching from a private viewing box with her teammates, couldn't help but feel a knot of apprehension in her stomach. "What is he thinking?" she muttered, her brow furrowed.
In the instructors' booth, Mr. Davies watched with a venomous smirk. "See? The boy is a fool. His arrogance will be his undoing. This will be over in seconds."
The duel officially began. Gideon didn't waste a moment. With a roar, he activated his primary genetic skill, [Boulderfist], his hands and forearms encasing themselves in thick, jagged rock. He was a Rank 3 Super Soldier, and his strength was his greatest asset. He charged forward, his stone-clad fists ready to pulverize his opponent.
Michael remained still, his breathing even. He watched Gideon's reckless charge, his mind a sea of calm. The 10,000x multiplier hadn't just boosted his power and comprehension; it had honed his senses and reaction time to a razor's edge. To him, Gideon's charge, while powerful, was a clumsy, telegraphed movement, full of openings.
Just as the stone fist was about to connect, Michael moved. He didn't phase, he didn't dodge. He simply took a half-step back, shifting his weight with an impossible grace. It was a simple, fundamental movement from Standard Combat Art, Form 1, executed with such perfection that it seemed to bend the very laws of physics.
Gideon's punch, meant to shatter bone, met only empty air. Thrown off balance by the unexpected miss, he stumbled forward, his momentum carrying him past Michael.
In that instant of vulnerability, Michael struck. It was a basic palm-heel strike, another fundamental move from Form 1. But delivered with his newfound strength and flawless technique, it was devastating. His palm connected with the back of Gideon's knee, precisely targeting a weak point in the rock armor.
CRACK.
The sound was sickeningly loud. The stone encasing Gideon's leg shattered, and his knee buckled under the force of the blow. He cried out in pain, stumbling to the ground.
The entire arena fell into a stunned silence. The laughter died, replaced by a wave of collective disbelief.
"What... what just happened?" someone whispered.
Gideon, enraged and humiliated, roared as he tried to get back up. He swung his other fist wildly from his position on the ground, a desperate, clumsy attack.
Michael simply flowed around it. His movements were a study in perfect efficiency. He used a basic block, redirecting the force of the blow with minimal effort. Then, with another precise strike, he brought his hand down on Gideon's other knee.
Another sharp crack, another scream of pain. Gideon was now completely incapacitated, his powerful genetic skill rendered useless.
Michael stood over him, his expression unchanged. He hadn't used a single flashy skill, not a single advanced technique. He had used nothing but the most basic, most fundamental combat art, the one every student learned and then dismissed. And he had used it to completely, utterly dominate a higher-ranked opponent.
"His movements... they're perfect," Isabelle whispered from her viewing box, her eyes wide with a dawning realization. "Every step, every strike... there's no wasted energy. It's... it's like watching a recording of the theoretical ideal."
In the instructors' booth, Mr. Davies's smirk had vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, slack-jawed astonishment. He couldn't comprehend what he was seeing. This wasn't a fluke. This wasn't cheating. This was a level of mastery he had only ever read about in historical texts.
"It's... impossible," he breathed.
The duel was over. Michael hadn't just won; he had delivered a lesson. He had shown the entire academy that power wasn't just about rank or rare talents. It was about fundamentals, about mastery, about perfection.
He turned to the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the thousands of stunned faces. Then, his eyes found the instructors' booth, and he looked directly at Mr. Davies. He didn't say a word. He didn't have to. His victory, his flawless execution, had said it all.