The hexagonal arena is a cold, blue-lit vacuum of tension. Both squads stand in a frozen stalemate, thirty meters of synthetic floor between them.
"○This is new, Darjan thinks, his eyes narrowing as he scans the perimeter. The arena floor... the sensor density... it's never been like this. They've overhauled the whole system."
Beside him, Zlatko's fingers twitch. "○They made adjustments. This has never happened before. When did they make it this serious?"
Luka, standing between the two titans, feels like a rabbit caught between two wolves and a hurricane. He's still trying to process how he ended up in a death-match. His knees are shaking so hard he's worried the 'static' might just be his bones rattling.
"○I was thinking it's fine if the new kid is here, but this is way too extreme. I mean this is new even for us." Darjan a little worried.
"Listen," Darjan says, not taking his eyes off Kaelros. "Try to survive. Act as our shadow. You can't face them head-on, Luka. Just stay in my—"
BZZZT—
To Luka's right, the air screams. A jagged arc of blue lightning snaps into existence around Zlatko's shoulder. He doesn't wait for a plan, he charges, a streak of raw electricity aimed straight for the heart of the opposing team.
K-THOOM—
The sound isn't an explosion; it's the sound of gravity becoming a physical fist.
Before Zlatko can take his second step, he is slammed into the floor with such violence that the synthetic plating cracks beneath him. He's pinned flat, his face mashed against the cold metal, the lightning snuffed out instantly.
Luka and Darjan freeze in sheer confusion. "○What the hell just—?"
But faster than them both was Kaelros. Seeing Zlatko down, he launches himself toward him seizing the advantage, his hands emanating a visible, bone-chilling frost. As the air begins to crystallize around his fingers, he reaches out to end the match before it even begins.
K-THOOM—
The floor claims a second victim. Kaelros is hammered into the ground next to Zlatko, the ice on his hands shattering as the crushing force pins him like an insect under a boot.
A heavy silence falls over the arena. Everyone—those standing and those pinned—realizes something is very, very wrong.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry," the Old Man's voice crackles over the intercom, sounding bored and utterly unimpressed. "I forgot to mention. Test Number One—Assessment of team synergy and individual strengths through Squad-versus-Squad combat. No Abilities allowed."
Everyone gets a little stunned.
The recruits stare up at the observation platforms in disbelief. Zlatko lets out a muffled growl into the floor, while Kaelros manages a thin, pained smile.
"Below you are AI sensors that can detect the specific frequency of an Ability," the Old Man continues. "If the sensors trip, under you, you will be pulled down with 350× the force of Earth's gravity. You won't move, and you won't breathe until you let go of your power. Now, let's go back to the basics and see what you would do if this happened in a real setting, shall we?"
The gravity suddenly releases. Zlatko and Kaelros spring back, gasping for air, their eyes darting to the floor.
Zlatko is up before the sound finishes. Without his lightning, he is not different at all, his cold gaze and confidence looming.
"Now start!" the old man calls out.
The word hasn't even finished echoing before the arena turns into a blurred meat-grinder. Zlatko is a spear, launching himself across the gap toward Kaelros.
Luka stands frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. To his left, a shadow looms. Virek is already there, his smirk replaced by a mask of cold intent. He swings a heavy, wide hook aimed directly at Luka's temple.
CLANG—
Darjan's forearm intercepts the strike.
"Focus," Darjan grunts, his eyes locked on Virek.
Luka snaps out of his trance. He stumbles back, his bare feet slipping on the synthetic floor. He tries to break to the right, desperate to find an inch of safety, but the air in front of him suddenly displaces.
Ikaro is there. The brown-haired boy isn't flashy like Zlatko or heavy like Darjan; he's a ghost. He rushes forth with a surgical precision that makes Luka's blood run cold.
"I've got him!" Darjan yells, pivoting his massive frame to cut Ikaro off. He grabs Ikaro's shoulder, trying to pin him down, but Darjan is overextended. He's trying to guard two directions at once.
"○Damn, Darjan thinks, his teeth gritted. They know the kid is a deadbeat. They aren't even trying to hide it—they're trying to eliminate him quickly so they can turn this into a 3-versus-2. We're in trouble."
Ikaro sees the opening. He doesn't waste energy on a big swing. Instead, he drops low and fires two piston-like punches into Darjan's guard.
THUD - CRACK—
The first is a savage liver shot that makes Darjan's breath hitch. The second is a crisp straight to the jaw that snaps Darjan's head back. It's enough. The "Immovable Object" wavers for a fraction of a second, and Ikaro slips through the gap like water.
Ikaro's eyes are locked on Luka. He lunges, his fist cocked back, a clear path to the "Newbie's" unprotected face.
"○This is bad," Luka thinks, his eyes wide. "○I'm dead. Shit shit shit shit–"
CRASHH—
Before Ikaro can make contact, a massive weight slams into him from the side. The collision is brutal. Both Ikaro and another body are sent tumbling across the arena floor in a tangle of limbs, skidding ten meters before hitting the far wall.
Luka blinks, gasping for air. He looks to his left, where ikaro was hit and flew.
Kaelros was the one who hit Ikaro—not because he wanted to, but because he had been thrown.
Luka turns his head from where Kaelros flew. Zlatko flashes right past Luka, his movement so fast it creates a vacuum that nearly knocks Luka over again. Zlatko isn't even looking at his teammate. His eyes are fixed on Kaelros as the man scrambles to untangle himself from Ikaro.
Zlatko's eyes are glowing with a manic heat. He's closing the distance before the other team can even find their feet.
He doesn't give them a heartbeat to recover, on them before the dust from their collision can even settle.
Ikaro, scrambling to his knees, missread Lukas intentions since his eyes were locked on Kaelros. He sees the blur of Zlatko's approach and reflexively braces his arms in a high, tight guard. He expects a head-on collision, a test of pure strength.
He's wrong.
Zlatko's boots hiss against the floor as he kills his forward momentum and instantly Flickers his weight to the left. He vanishes from Ikaro's center line and reappears on his flank.
THUD—
A heavy punch catches Ikaro's exposed ribs. Before Ikaro can adjust, Zlatko rips an uppercut hook from below the guard, snapping Ikaro's head back and forcing his arms to drop.
With the guard shattered, Zlatko finishes the sequence with a clinical straight right to the bridge of Ikaro's nose.
CRANK—
Ikaro stumbles, his vision swimming, and throws a blind, desperate counter-punch. Zlatko doesn't just dodge it; he ducks under the arm, grabs Ikaro's back, and uses the boy's shoulders to vault himself into the air.
With his hands planted on Ikaro's spine, Zlatko lifts his entire body, legs snapping forward in a powerful two-legged strike aimed directly at Kaelros, who had just managed to stand up.
Kaelros reacts with the veteran speed Darjan warned about. He crosses his forearms, catching Zlatko's boots with a heavy Potential block. The impact rings out like a gong.
But Zlatko's objective wasn't to hurt Kaelros—it was to borrow his force.
Using the massive push-back from Kaelros's block as momentum, Zlatko performs a mid-air twist. He swoops back toward the reeling Ikaro like a hawk. His legs wrap around Ikaro's neck with a whip-like snap, and he executes a perfect hurricanrana, the centrifugal force sending Ikaro spiraling across the arena floor until he hits the far hexagonal wall with a sickening metallic bang.
Zlatko flips off, his boots hitting the floor with a rhythmic click-click. He stands up slowly, his chest heaving.
He is now face-to-face with Kaelros.
They both lunge.
The air in the hexagon turns into a blur of raw friction. Kaelros and Zlatko collide in the center, their hands and feet moving faster than the eye can follow. It's a rhythmic, brutal exchange: straight, hook, kick, knee. Each strike is met with a crisp block or a desperate dodge, the sound of their impacts echoing like gunshots through the arena.
But Zlatko's dominance is short-lived.
From the periphery, Virek sees his opening. He doesn't go for Darjan; he lunges toward the wall where Zlatko and the stunned Luka are positioned. With a sudden burst of energy, Virek slams his shoulder into Zlatko, pinning him against the cold, metallic wall.
The impact is heavy—Zlatko gasps, his ribs taking the brunt of the force.
Virek doesn't give him a second. He follows up instantly–
A 1-2 combo cracks across Zlatko's jaw, snapping his head back.
A heavy hook to the stomach follows. Zlatko manages to drop his elbow just in time to block the worst of it, but he's trapped.
As Zlatko tries to slip away from the corner, Virek grabs his collar and yanks him back, launching another hook to the face. Zlatko ducks the hook, but it was a setup. From below, Virek drives a knee straight into Zlatko's face, snapping his head upward.
Before Zlatko can reset his feet, Virek unleashes a barrage: a straight to the nose, an uppercut, and a series of hammering blows to the stomach.
Zlatko's flow—that cocky, high-speed rhythm—is completely shattered. He's coughing, his guard dropping as his body struggles to process the sheer amount of energy Virek is putting into every hit.
BOOM—
Suddenly, a heavy boot enters the frame from the side. A massive kick catches Virek in the chest, sending him tumbling across the floor like a skipped stone.
It's Darjan. He stands over the reeling Zlatko, his breathing finally regulated after those earlier hits.
Both teams instinctively back off, retreating to their original starting points to catch their breath and assess the damage. Luka is still on the ground, his head spinning as he tries to make sense of the violence he just witnessed.
Darjan glances down at Zlatko, a trail of blood from his mouth. "You good?"
"Shut up," Zlatko spits, wiping a smear of red from his mouth. "I didn't need your help. I had him right where I wanted him."
Darjan just shrugs, his voice dry. "Sure you did." Now looking at the other squad."He was just tenderizing your ribs for you, I guess."
Darjan rolls his eyes so hard it looks painful. He ignores Zlatko and turns his full attention to Luka, who is slowly scrambling to his feet.
"Luka," Darjan says, his voice low and serious. "Ignore the brat. Listen to me: just follow my lead. Do what I do, move when I move. If you stay on my hip, we'll be able to win this. I'll tell you the plan when we go?"
Luka still kind of looking around just lightly agrees with him.
He turns his gaze back to Zlatko. "Hey, listen. I have a plan. If we coordinate our Qzi—"
"I don't care," Zlatko interjects, his eyes narrowing. "I have my own plan."
Darjan sighs, the sound of a man who is too tired for jokes. "Oh, really? Enlighten me, oh great strategist. What's your plan?"
Zlatko stands tall, his knuckles white as he balls his fists. He doesn't look at Darjan. He just stares at the opposing squad with pure, unadulterated arrogance.
"I have a plan," Zlatko says. "Attack."
He doesn't wait for a reply.
Zlatko rushes forth, his boots thudding against the synthetic floor. Darjan follows a step behind, with Luka scrambling to keep pace. They move like a spearhead toward the center of the hexagon.