The referee's voice echoed across Stage 14, amplified by the barrier's acoustics.
"FIGHT!"
Jade's opponent moved first—predictably. The large man launched forward with the kind of confidence that came from a physical enhancement talent, muscles bulging beneath his combat gear as he closed the distance. His footsteps thundered against the stage floor, each one a declaration of intent.
Jade didn't move.
His opponent's eyes gleamed with anticipated victory. Twenty meters. Fifteen. Ten. The man's fist began to glow with golden energy, gathering power for a devastating strike that would end this quickly against the smaller, hooded fighter who seemed frozen in place.
Five meters.
Jade's eyes tracked the approach with perfect clarity. Some kind of Enhanced strength, C-rank at best. Straightforward technique, no feints. Committed fully to the charge.
Slow.
Three meters.
The fighter drew back his glowing fist, victory already written across his face.
Jade moved.
No, not teleportation—just speed. Pure, overwhelming speed that made the larger man's charge look like he was moving through water.
One moment Jade stood in the fighter's path. The next, he was simply inside the man's guard, palm pressed against his opponent's stomach before the glowing fist could even begin its descent.
Boom!.
The impact was a sound like thunder compressed into a single point.
The fighter's eyes bulged. His mouth opened in a soundless gasp as all the air exploded from his lungs. The golden energy around his fist flickered and died, technique disrupted before it could form.
Then he flew.
Jade's palm strike launched the two-meter-tall man backward like he weighed nothing. He sailed through the air, limbs flailing uselessly, and crashed into the barrier wall with enough force to shake the translucent surface. The barrier held—designed for far greater impacts—but the message was brutally clear.
The fighter slid down the wall and crumpled onto the stage floor, unconscious before he finished falling.
Complete silence.
The referee blinked, his professional composure cracking for just a moment as he stared at the unconscious fighter, then at Jade standing calmly in the center of the stage with his hand still extended from the strike.
"MATCH!" The referee's voice cracked slightly on the word before he cleared his throat and continued with forced professionalism. "Winner: Participant 847,392!"
The silence stretched for another heartbeat.
Then Section 14 erupted.
"WHAT THE—"
"Did that just—did he just—"
"ONE HIT! IT WAS ONE HIT!"
"That guy's enhancement specialist! C-rank! He went down in one hit!"
"Did you SEE how fast he moved?!"
"I didn't see ANYTHING! He was just suddenly there!"
"Look at him! He's half that guy's size!"
"How is someone that small hitting that HARD?!"
Jade lowered his hand, breathing unchanged, posture relaxed. The punch had required essentially zero effort, his opponent had been moving in a straight line, completely committed to a telegraphed attack. The kind of opening even academy children learned to punish in their first year.
He turned toward the exit and vanished without acknowledging the noise, hood still concealing most of his features. His opponent would wake up in a few minutes with bruised organs and shattered pride, but alive.
Behind him on stage, medical personnel rushed to check the unconscious fighter.
Around him, the arena churned with shocked reactions.
....
Commentary booth - Central Arena
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence from the commentary booth—a rarity during tournament matches.
Then: "I—" The enthusiastic commentator's voice faltered. "Did everyone just see—"
"One hit." The analytical commentator's voice was stunned." I mean , one hit battles aren't rare , but..."
"Wait." The critical commentator was pulling up data. "Wait, I'm checking—that opponent. Participant 45,281. Elimination rank 987."
Silence again, heavier this time.
"And participant 847,392?"
"Elimination rank... 1,404."
"That's a gap of over four hundred places."
"I know right !?" The enthusiastic commentator stopped, started again. "That shouldn't have resulted in a one-hit knockout. The elimination rankings are based on actual combat performance. A gap that size shouldn't—"
"It shouldn't," the analytical commentator agreed, voice tight. "But we all just watched it happen."
The replay showed again. One strike. Complete knockout.
"Either the rankings are completely wrong—" the critical commentator began.
"Or participant 847,392 was holding back. Significantly." The analytical voice had dropped low. "In the elimination round, they accumulated 109,847 points. Enough for rank 1,404. But if they'd wanted to—if they'd fought like this, then—"
"Top thousand easily," the enthusiastic commentator finished. "Possibly top five hundred. Maybe higher."
"Why would someone suppress their capabilities during elimination round?"
"Maybe they don't like the attention ?," the critical commentator said slowly. "To stay off the priority feeds. To keep their actual strength hidden until battle rounds when matchups are random and opponents can't prepare."
Another pause as that sank in.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the enthusiastic commentator addressed the viewers, voice shaking slightly, "I think we just witnessed someone announce that the elimination rankings mean absolutely nothing when it comes to their real capabilities."
....
Back in section 14,
It was absolute chaos.
"That doesn't make any sense! How does someone ranked six thousand one-shot someone ranked under a thousand?!"
"I don't know! Maybe the rankings are wrong? Maybe—"
"The rankings aren't wrong! We all watched the elimination round! That guy earned his spot!"
"Then how the fuck did—"
"I don't know!"
The confusion rippled through Section 14 like a shockwave. People pulling up elimination data, comparing rankings, trying to make sense of what should have been impossible.
"Maybe it's a talent thing? Like—maybe participant 847,392 has some kind of ability that only works in one-on-one combat?"
"But he didn't USE any talent! There was no activation, no glow, nothing!"
"Then I don't—I don't understand!"
A lean woman with Dryad tattoos sat frozen, staring at her datapad. "Elimination rank 987 versus elimination rank 1,404. That's a gap of over four hundred places.
"Unless participant 847,392 was hiding their real capabilities during elimination round," her companion suggested, voice tight with growing dread.
Silence.
"Oh fuck."
"Yeah."
"We're on the same stage as someone who sandbagged the elimination round and is now—" He gestured helplessly at the stage.
"Pray we don't get matched," she whispered.
Around them, similar realizations were dawning. The excited chatter was giving way to nervous calculation. People checking their own elimination rankings, comparing them to participant 847,392's, trying to figure out if they'd stand a chance.
Most came to the same conclusion: they wouldn't.
"I'm forfeiting if I get matched against them," someone declared.
"Same."
"Not worth it. Not worth getting knocked out in one hit and having my ranking destroyed."
"Smart."
Near the front, the silver-haired academy scout was revising her notes frantically. "Elimination performance clearly not representative of actual capabilities. Possible intentional suppression of power during first round. If true, current combat ceiling unknown and potentially exceptional."
She flagged it as high priority.
.....
.....
Lio had exploded out of his seat when Jade's match ended.
"YES! YES! DID YOU SEE THAT?!" He was jumping, both fists punching the air. "ONE HIT! ONE FUCKING HIT!"
He grabbed Niamh's shoulders and shook her vigorously, grin splitting his face.
"THAT'S MY BROTHER!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "THAT'S MY BROTHER RIGHT THERE! DID YOU ALL SEE THAT?!"
Niamh was laughing, eyes bright with tears of mirth and pride. She grabbed Lio's wrists to stop the shaking.
"Lio—Lio, breathe—"
"I CAN'T BREATHE! DID YOU SEE HIM?!" Lio whirled back to the screen. "Look at that! LOOK! One punch! That guy's twice his size and Jade just—" Explosive gestures. "—LAUNCHED him!"
"I saw," Niamh managed between laughs. "I was sitting right here."
"That's my brother," Lio said again, quieter but no less intense. He pulled out his datapad with shaking hands, checking the odds. "Four hundred to one! Still! They still don't know!"
He clutched the datapad to his chest. "Oh, this is going to be beautiful."
.....
Back on Nexarion, Nexus city, the governor's mansion.
Selene 'screamed', literally.
Then she was up, running in circles around the viewing room with her arms above her head.
"THAT'S MY BABY BOY! MY BABY! DID YOU SEE THAT?!"
She grabbed Mira and shook her. "DID YOU SEE?! ONE PUNCH!"
"Selene—" Kael was chasing after her, trying to catch her arm.
"ONE PUNCH, KAEL!" She spun away, making explosive gestures, laughing and crying at the same time.
She grabbed Gorvoth's arm, shaking him. "DID YOU SEE?!"
"Kael—KAEL!" She spun back. "He just went up there , so calm, and then —WHAM!"
Kael finally caught her around the waist. "Love. Breathe. You're going to faint."
The apprentices were screaming, reenacting the punch. The room was pure chaos.
Gorvoth, leaning against the back wall, had a small smile on his face.
-------------------------------------------------------
Herculio Prime - Aurelien's private quarters
Aurelien's eyes had been drawn to Stage 14 the moment the hooded figure teleported onto the platform.
He didn't know why and he couldn't explain it.
There was just—something. Some pull that bypassed conscious thought and dragged his attention like a hooked fish.
He found himself leaning forward in his chair, shoulders tense, as if leaning closer to the holoscreen might let him see through that hood. See what lay beneath.
What is this?
The fighter stood perfectly still while their opponent charged. And Aurelien's chest tightened with something he couldn't name. Anticipation? No. Something deeper. Something that made his heart beat faster.
Then they moved.
That impossible speed. That devastating strike. The opponent flying across the stage.
But Aurelien barely registered the technique.
His eyes were fixed on 'them'.
The way that slender frame moved—fluid and graceful like water, like shadow, like something fundamentally beautiful. The way they stood afterward with their hand still extended, completely unbothered.
Beautiful.
The word came unbidden and Aurelien couldn't strangle it back.
That figure. That presence. That inexplicable pull that made his chest feel too tight and his breathing quicken and his hands clench on the chair arms without permission.
'Want.'
The want to see them again. The want to see them move. The want to see what's under that hood. Want—just—want.
"My lord?" Rowan's voice was careful.
Aurelien realized he was still leaning forward and staring.
He forced himself to sit back and breathe normally. But failed at both.
"I'm Fine," he managed. Voice rough.
"You're staring," Rowan observed quietly.
Aurelien said nothing. Because he was staring and couldn't seem to stop and didn't particularly want to even if he could.
On screen, the fighter had vanished—teleported back to their seat. And something in Aurelien's chest lurched at losing sight of them.
His eyes searched the feed until he found them again. Sitting. Hood low. Perfectly still.
The tightness in his chest eased fractionally.
"My lord?" Octavia from the doorway. "Shall I flag participant 847,392 for priority tracking?"
"Yes." The word came too fast, too sharp. "All matches. Priority feed status."
Octavia's lips twitched. She withdrew with a knowing glance at Rowan.
Aurelien didn't care.
The butterflies in his stomach—when had those started?—were fluttering insistently every time that hooded figure shifted slightly on screen.
"Keep Stage 14 as primary feed."
"Already done, my lord," Rowan replied, very quietly.
Good.
Because Aurelien was going to watch every single second of participant 847,392's matches.
He didn't understand this. This pull. This overwhelming want that had nothing to do with battle analysis and everything to do with that hooded figure who'd walked onto a stage and shattered his control without even knowing he existed.
But he was going to watch anyway.
...
...
The Gambling Hall was going crazy.
"What the actual fuck was that."
"Physical specialist? Has to be. No talent activation." The bookmaker was pulling up data frantically.
"But they're not built like one. They look—"
"Like someone you'd overlook completely."
On displays, the replay showed. One strike. Complete knockout.
"Odds dropping to 400-to-1. Flag as potential money horse."
Across the hall, bets were being placed. The smart money was shifting.
...
...
Jade had no idea what was going on or the commotion his first Battle has caused. But to be honest, even if knew, he would simply give no fucks. He sat perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing even.
His watch sat silent. Could be hours before the next call.
The tournament had barely begun.
And this was going to be a very long competition.
....