By the end of the week, Simon's unyielding training regimen had hammered the once-proud and fragmented units into a single, disciplined force. Through relentless drills, tactical war games, and unforgiving physical conditioning, the teams learned to move as one—each member executing orders with the urgency of survival. Simon was uncompromising, but never cruel. His fairness was absolute, and in return, they gave him something rarer than loyalty—trust.
Even as he shaped them, Simon didn't neglect his own edge. Every day, after the teams collapsed from exhaustion, he stayed behind alone, pushing his limits further.
Tonight, he stood before a newly installed punching machine—an advanced military-grade model calibrated to register over forty thousand kilograms of force, and reinforced to survive fifty before breaking. The previous machine hadn't survived his growth. This one might not either.
He didn't posture. He didn't roar. He simply inhaled, clenched his fist, and struck.
The air cracked like thunder, the sound echoing through the underground training hall.
The counter shot upward.
30,000 kg.
Simon lowered his hand. No bruises. No swelling. No tremors in the joints. Just calm stillness.Controlled destruction.
A faint, private smile tugged at his lips before he turned away.
The next day, the hangar roared with life.
Simon stood at the forefront of his fully assembled force—Falling Feather, Wolf-Breed, Thief's Son—three of the company's proudest units now forged under his command. Behind him, soldiers checked weapons and tightened armor straps. Around them, engineers shouted over the metallic din, technicians calibrated sensors, and pilots ran final diagnostics on a fleet of aircraft—sleek interceptors, transport cruisers, and hulking Helicarriers capable of moving entire companies at once.
Simon wore his black combat suit, standing calm and still as the tip of a spear.
The steady rhythm of boots on steel cut through the hangar's noise, followed by a voice that dripped with arrogance.
"Well, if it isn't Dren the Delayed. Tell me—did your squad get lost chasing tails again?"
Heads turned. A man sauntered toward them, trailed by a few subordinates. His face was a patchwork of bad angles—crooked nose, beady eyes, a permanent sneer. Oily hair slicked back in a style that tried too hard, and a uniform worn like a costume rather than armor.
Simon's gaze narrowed slightly.Dren stiffened beside him.
"Levik," Dren muttered.
Levik's grin widened. "Still trying to lead with that one brain cell of yours, Dren?"
They squared off, hurling barbed words like old rivals who'd fought this same duel too many times.
Then Levik's gaze slid past Dren… and landed on Simon.
"And who's this little pretty boy?" he jeered, jabbing a finger. "Don't tell me he's part of your team. No—wait… don't tell me he's the leader?"
Simon didn't answer. Didn't blink. His presence was heavier than his silence.
Dren hesitated, then spoke. "…Yes. He is. He's our leader."
Levik blinked, then burst into mocking laughter. "What, seriously? Has the Beetle God Company fallen so far they're letting kids run units now? What's next—orphans piloting jets?"
Still, Simon said nothing. His expression didn't change. He regarded Levik the way a predator regards a yapping dog—curious if it's worth the effort.
Levik eventually scoffed, irritated by the lack of reaction, and turned away.
Simon spoke at last, his voice low. "Who was that?"
Dren exhaled. "Levik. Team leader from Heavenly Waterfall Company, Riverstone Branch. He's heading the unit assigned to assist in the Sunstone Base cleanup."
Simon filed the name away without emotion. Heavenly Waterfall—the second-strongest company in the world, just behind Beetle God in resources and power.
Minutes later, the hangar's atmosphere shifted as more forces arrived—elite units from other branches, specialist squads, and military detachments. The air thrummed with tension.
At the center of it all stood Commander Kael. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in a dark military coat, his voice carried the weight of steel.
When his eyes swept the assembly, they lingered on Simon for a heartbeat before Kael gave a single, respectful nod. Simon returned it in silence.
Kael's voice cut through the noise.
"Sunstone Base reclamation is a high-priority mission. Satellite scans confirm escalating Dreadbeast activity—clusters near Sector Nine and the southern breach. You will drop into a volatile zone with minimal aerial support. Your objectives: containment, elimination, and reconnaissance of any unusual phenomena. Do not underestimate the environment. Minimize casualties at all costs."
Orders given, the assembly dissolved into motion. Teams boarded their assigned Helicarriers. Engines roared. Ramp lights flashed green.
Simon's team boarded without a word.
Far below, in the blackened ruins of a city swallowed by jungle, something ancient stirred.
In a dim underground hall lit by sickly lanterns, a man in a black-and-white oni mask knelt before a shadowed throne. The figure seated there wore a massive mask crowned with a single horn like a twisted spire.
"Cult Master," the kneeling man rasped, "Riverstone Base has deployed a cleanup force to Sunstone. Do we intercept? Or fall back?"
The Cult Master's voice was quiet, yet carried like a blade."The wilderness is full of… accidents. Even strong forces can vanish without leaving bones. Let the wild work for us."
The kneeling man bowed. "I will ready the Shadow Hunt team."
Then he melted into the darkness.
Unaware of the storm waiting for them, Simon's combined force took to the skies—not just toward a nest of Dreadbeasts, but into the hunting ground of something far more human, and far more deliberate.
Not all enemies had claws. Some wore masks.Some wore smiles.
The Helicarrier's ramp yawned open, and wind howled through the cabin.
Below lay the ruins of Sunstone Base—a city-stronghold once alive with industry, now strangled by the jungle. Skyscrapers crumbled under the weight of vines. Roads split apart under roots as thick as a man's torso. The jungle had not merely reclaimed the city—it had devoured it.
Simon stood at the edge, looking down.
The first time he had set foot in the wilderness was during the Astral Lord Trials, back when he'd been an examinee. That had been a reclamation op, too—but then, the real dangers had already been cleared by veterans. He'd only been there to clean up what was left.
This time, he was the point of the spear.
"Beetle God Company—your drop zone is up!" a soldier called over the engine roar.
Simon turned to see his squad assembled—Dren, Falling Feather, Wolf-Breed, Thief's Son—all double-checking their gear.
He pointed to a collapsed tower far in the distance."Rendezvous there. Regroup after landing."
Then—without parachute, without hesitation—Simon stepped off the ramp.
"Wait—WHAT THE HELL?!" a soldier at the ramp shouted.
He rushed to the edge. Simon was plummeting—arms crossed over his chest, body straight, slicing through the sky like a living missile.
"Did he just—jump without a chute?!" someone yelled.
"He's suicidal!"
"He's insane!"
"He's… falling like a damn warhead!"
His squad flinched—but not from surprise. They simply checked their straps and leapt after him, one after another.
Within seconds, the ramp was empty except for stunned personnel staring at the clouds.
"Wasn't the drop zone 3,000 feet up?!" a soldier gasped."Even a five-star Astral Lord specializing in body enhancement would break bones from that height!"
No one had an answer.
Below, the wind screamed around Simon as the ruined city rushed up to meet him. His eyes didn't water. His heart didn't race.
He didn't panic.He didn't brace.
He simply smiled.