Four figures materialized across the arena.
Sophia's heart sank.
She knew them.
Not personally—but by reputation, by whispered reports, by battle footage studied and discarded because no one fought them directly unless forced.
A tall, broad-shouldered man stepped forward first, power rolling off him like heat.
Lysander Mooncrest.
His fists glowed with contained lightning, arcs snapping between his knuckles as energy condensed into lethal density. Close-range devastation. Long-range annihilation. A hybrid nightmare.
Beside him—almost deceptively—
A short woman with long purple hair and lilac eyes tilted her head, smiling faintly.
Luna Mooncrest.
Cute. Calm.
And utterly lethal.
Bare-hand combat master. Long-range weapon savant. Healing protocols woven seamlessly into her movements.
Sophia felt a chill.
The smiling ones are always the worst.
To their right stood an elegant woman, posture flawless, curves accentuated by DNA combat attire that looked almost ceremonial.
Liviana Strombreaker.
The air shimmered faintly in front of her—an invisible barrier forming and dissolving with effortless control. Defense. Healing. Counter-combat. A living fortress.
And finally—
A muscular man of medium height, dragging something massive behind him.
Lucian Strombreaker.
The axe materialized fully in his grip—a weapon so large it distorted gravity around its edge. Destructive close-range specialist. One swing territory denial.
Sophia exhaled slowly.
Mooncrests and Strombreakers…
Of course.
Dr. F's voice cut through the tension.
"All veteran Mk-4 units are equipped with a purple invincibility shield," he said. "It activates automatically every twenty seconds."
Sophia clenched her jaw.
"You cannot break it," Dr. F continued. "You must act between its cycles."
Lysander cracked his neck, lightning flaring brighter.
Luna's smile widened just a fraction.
Liviana moved—placing herself directly in front of the datapad box, barrier blooming invisibly around her like a promise.
Lucian rested the axe against his shoulder, eyes locking onto Sophia.
Dr. F concluded, voice absolute.
"Secure the datapad."
Silence.
Then—
Luna stepped forward lightly, hands clasped behind her back.
"Try not to die too fast," she said cheerfully.
Sophia raised her weapon, breath steady, heart pounding.
Perfect timing. Perfect precision. Protect an ally. Secure an objective.
She glanced at her Mk-3 partner, who had already taken stance beside her, daggers angled outward.
"This isn't about killing them," she murmured. "It's about stealing something they think is untouchable."
Above them, the purple shields flickered into existence—four perfect halos of invulnerability.
The countdown began.
20… 19… 18…
Sophia's eyes sharpened.
Alright, she thought.
Let's see how perfect you really are.
And she moved.
The battle did not unfold.
It ended.
Five seconds.
That was all the arena was given.
The moment the purple shields flickered—just a fraction too late—Lucian Strombreaker moved.
There was no roar, no dramatic charge. He simply stepped forward and brought the axe down.
The weapon did not cut.
It rewrote gravity.
The impact point bloomed outward in a silent shockwave, reality folding like brittle metal. The arena split cleanly down the center, a continental fracture tearing through layered defense fields, structural lattices, and simulated ground alike. Entire sections of the battlefield peeled away, falling into a glowing abyss beneath.
Sophia felt the world tilt.
Too fast.
Her Mk-3 ally didn't even have time to scream.
The yellow observer barrier—designed to withstand megaton-level output—flickered once… twice… and then collapsed like glass under a hammer.
Gasps erupted from the upper rails.
Mk-2 units staggered back.
Mk-3 veterans froze mid-analysis.
Even the Terminator-class destroyers shifted stance instinctively.
For the first time since the evaluation began, the battlefield exceeded its projected outcome.
And for the first time—
Dr. F moved instantly.
His hand rose.
The world stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Lucian's axe hung mid-air, fractures frozen like crystallized lightning. Debris suspended in perfect stillness. Energy waves locked in place, glowing like trapped suns. Sophia herself was caught mid-motion, one knee bent, weapon half-materialized, heart pounding against an unmoving second.
Time obeyed.
The arena fell into absolute silence.
Dr. F's voice carried—not loud, not angry—but edged with something sharper.
"Enough."
The battlefield rewound—not backward, but sealed. Fractures stitched together by force beyond physics. Collapsing matter stabilized. The abyss closed like it had never existed.
Time resumed.
Sophia staggered, barely keeping her balance as the ground solidified beneath her boots.
Lucian straightened, axe dissolving into particles.
Lysander exhaled slowly, lightning fading from his fists.
Luna blinked once, her smile gone.
Liviana's barrier shimmered uncertainly before stabilizing.
No one spoke.
Dr. F stepped forward into open air, standing above the battlefield as if gravity were optional.
His gaze swept across the arena—calculating, precise, unreadable.
"Five seconds," he said quietly.
The displays recalibrated themselves in panic, numbers scrolling too fast to register.
Sophia's breath came shallow.
That wasn't a test, she realized.
That was a warning.
Dr. F's eyes finally settled on her.
Not with disappointment.
Not with anger.
With something far more unsettling.
Interest.
"You survived the opening," he said. "That alone places you above expectation."
Sophia clenched her fists.
"My ally didn't."
A pause.
Dr. F nodded once. "Noted."
Lucian spoke then, voice low, almost respectful.
"She reacted correctly. Anyone else would have died before thinking."
Luna tilted her head, studying Sophia anew. "She didn't hesitate. She calculated."
Liviana's gaze sharpened. "And she aimed for the objective, not us."
Sophia looked up at Dr. F, chest tight.
"So what?" she demanded. "I fail because the arena broke?"
Dr. F descended slowly, boots touching solid ground without sound.
"No," he said. "You pass."
Her breath caught.
"But," he continued calmly, "you now understand something essential."
He met her eyes.
"There are battles that cannot be won by perfection."
The screens around them faded, leaving only one line glowing softly in the air.
EVALUATION RESULT: INCOMPLETE — SUBJECT EXCEEDS SAFE PARAMETERS
Dr. F turned away.
"Return to quarters," he said. "Phase Four ends here."