Simon moved faster.
In the instant Mirel lunged forward with her claws aimed for his chest, Simon twisted at the waist—fluid, precise, sharp.
Her claws missed him by a hair's breadth.
Before her feet even fully landed, his hand struck—a palm to her shoulder joint with such perfect angle and force that her entire frame rotated midair.
She crashed into the floor with a heavy thud, clawing up dust and coughing from the impact.
No wasted motion. No dramatic flair. Just clean execution.
Elunai's hair surged forward in an elegant wave, trying to wrap around Simon's limbs, his throat, his ankles.
But Simon—already mid-spin—flipped low, landing on one palm and sweeping his leg in a wide arc.
Thwip!
The strike was so fast it snapped several hair tendrils mid-formation.
Elunai's eyes widened. Before she could retract her hair—
Simon vanished.
Not literally, but his movement blurred—like his body refused to obey traditional rhythm. One second he was on ground. The next, he was directly in front of her.
A jab—not to injure, but to knock the wind out of her.
Straight to the gut.
Elunai stumbled backward, gasping, her hair snapping back to protect her.
Simon was already gone.
Dren released his first arrow. Then another. Then another.
Each shot was surgically accurate—enough to pierce a man's heart at twenty meters.
But not Simon.
The young man moved through them like water through reeds. Arcing, bending, flowing—every muscle perfectly timed, every dodge almost lazy in its effortlessness.
The fourth arrow whistled in.
Simon caught it. Barehanded.
Snapped it clean in two.
Then came the advance.
Simon darted forward like a missile. Dren tried to pull another arrow—but Simon's hand reached out and smashed the bow with a flat palm strike before the string could draw.
Wood splintered. Metal cracked. Dren's arm went limp from the shock.
Then Simon's foot slammed into Dren's chest, sending him flying backward, where he landed flat on his back, wheezing for breath.
Mirel returned with a roar, claws out again.
But now her style was reckless—more beast than soldier. Rage clouded precision.
Simon pivoted around her strike, hooked one arm, and dropped low, flipping her using her own momentum.
She landed hard again, and this time, Simon didn't let up.
One hand gripped the back of her collar and slammed her knee-first into the padded floor with controlled, brutal strength. Not enough to break anything—but enough to remind her who she was fighting.
Elunai's hair reached again, but slower this time. Defensive, hesitant.
Too late.
Simon slipped past it, moving inside her guard again. She raised her arms, preparing to block.
Instead, he stepped behind her in one seamless sidestep, placed a single hand on her lower back, and pushed.
She fell to her knees.
No strike. Just calculated movement—leaving her powerless.
Within minutes…
It was over.
Mirel lay breathing heavily, body and arms trembling.
Elunai sat on her knees, her hair limp on the floor like withered vines.
Dren coughed, still clutching his chest, struggling to even get back to one knee.
Simon stood at the center of the training hall, untouched.
Unbothered.
Unmatched.
His breath hadn't even changed. Not once.
Fifteen team members stood on the sidelines, silent and frozen, watching their leaders get crushed like beginners by one man. The air was thick with disbelief and awe.
Simon slowly turned his head to the rest of the group, his voice calm—cold.
"This is how weak your leaders are."
He let it settle.
Then:
"And from today onward… I am your Commander. Anyone who disagrees—"
He pointed to the open floor behind him.
"—can step forward now."
Not a single soul moved.
"Thought so," Simon muttered as he stepped forward.
He reached into his pocket and dropped healing potions near every injured team member. The clinks echoed through the silent hall as the bottles rolled to a stop beside each of them.
Then, without waiting, he pointed toward the row of treadmills lining the far wall.
"Run," he commanded. "Don't stop until I say so."
No one hesitated.
Not even the team leaders.
Fear overrode pride. Fatigue was ignored. One by one, the entire group—bruised, battered, and barely standing—moved toward the treadmills.
Fifteen team members.
Three team leaders.
And Simon.
He didn't remain idle. He stepped onto a treadmill alongside them and began running himself—smooth, steady, effortless.
But while his body moved, his mind worked.
Assessment time.
He began with the team leaders.
Dren Malrick.
His ability and Simon ability was awfully similar at the same time different where Simon had the ability to copy others ability, Dren had the ability to duplicate things he touched but like Simon he to had a serious restriction he could only duplicate things under 250 grams which was not limitless as the more duplicates he create the more Astral energy he needed, but Dren had found clever ways to make it deadly in combat. Arrows, throwing knives, and there similar weapon. He was a strategist more than a brawler. fought from distance.
Mirel Virelle.
Two abilities: Dragon Bone and Bone Manipulation. One a transformation type, the other a control type.
Dragon Bone was the real deal. Simon had felt its power firsthand when copied it and tried it out in combination with his Reinforced muscles. near-unbreakable bone—granting a terrifying foundation the body. On the other hand, Bone Manipulation was limited to her own skeleton, her skeleton that was made out of dragon bone, with which help he created the claw in her hand, using it for combat. its a good example of how two similar named abilities could have drastically different applications from person to person.
Elunai Maris.
Like Mirel, she had a control-type ability: Hair Manipulation. But hers was refined, versatile—limited only by range. Still, it was bound strictly to her hair. A constraint, but one she handled with finesse and precision. She preferred control over chaos. Bind, restrict, disorient.
Simon filed it all away.
Then his mind shifted from individuals to teams.
Thief's Son—a team built for reconnaissance, infiltration, and fast-paced skirmishes. Scouts.
Wolf Breed—frontline combatants. Heavy DPS. Meant to hit fast, hit hard, and break formations.
Falling Feather—support and defense. Crowd control. Tactical assistance. Sustain over burst.
It was a well-balanced triangle—each team covering the others' weaknesses.
The groundwork was there.
Simon just need to integrate them together seamlessly.
Time passed.
The sound of dozens of synchronized footsteps filled the hall, mixing with labored breaths and quiet pain.
By 3 PM, Simon's thoughts were interrupted by the loud growl of his stomach.
He glanced to the side.
All three teams were still running.
Barely.
Some team members were swaying, eyelids fluttering from exhaustion. A few stared ahead blankly, like their souls had already left their bodies. Their feet kept moving, but their minds were long gone.
They had been running for nearly six hours.
No breaks. No slowing down. No water. No rest.
Just fear.
The fear Simon had instilled in them held them upright. Not loyalty. Not willpower.
Fear.
He took a deep breath, then finally stepped off his treadmill.
"Stop."
The command echoed through the room.
Instantly, everyone stopped—some staggering, others collapsing where they stood. Even the leaders fell to the floor, breathless and trembling.
But none of them moved again—not because they didn't want to…
Because they couldn't.
Their strength was gone.
Completely drained.
Simon stood in silence for a moment, watching them with unreadable eyes.
Then he spoke, quiet and final:
"Tomorrow. 5 p.m."
There was no warning.
No threat.
None was needed.
They had already learned what came from underestimating him.