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Facing Adam Smasher's incoming punch, Karl had almost no room to react. He was already operating at his limits—having barely shifted his mov
Facing Adam Smasher's incoming punch, Karl had almost no room to react.
He was already operating at his limits—having barely shifted his movement path with his Reinforced Tendons, and not even a full second had passed since the maneuver. His body hadn't fully stabilized. Under these conditions, executing another conscious dodge was nearly impossible.
Should he try bringing his hands together to block the blow? Or perhaps attempt a quick netrun hack—see if there was anything he could do?
Karl had already calculated the trajectory of Smasher's fist. It would strike his skull at a brutally precise angle, with enough force to tear his entire head—spine included—clean off and send it flying skyward.
"Only one choice left."
Karl chose the hack.
Hacking Adam Smasher?
Impossible.
Smasher was protected by military-grade ICE and had custom-designed anti-hack protocols. Successfully breaching him in an instant and taking control was nothing short of a pipe dream.
So what could Karl hack in an instant and fully override?
Himself.
He knew every exploit, every bypass in his own cyberware. No system was more accessible than his own.
Even the most advanced cyberware had subsystems outside of conscious control. For example, missile launchers built into a cyberarm—users couldn't manually micromanage every part of the transformation or launch sequence. They just issued commands: "transform," "prime for launch." The rest was automated.
But Karl wasn't a regular user.
What others couldn't control—he could.
His Reinforced Tendons had just finished a burst. Technically, they needed time to recharge. No more air-boosted movement.
But this wasn't about waiting on software.
"Move again."
Karl didn't just give a command. He dove into the deepest layer of the system—directly hijacking the control process.
His body—cybernetic or otherwise—existed solely under his command.
He recalled what Viktor once told him:
"Your body barely registers any rejection to implants. It's like they were always meant to be part of you."
If they were born to be his, then they obeyed him—no exceptions.
With a surge of consciousness, Karl forcefully flooded the tendon implant's core system.
The tendons couldn't fire compressed air again—no charge left. But they still acted as biomechanical supports for his legs.
So Karl cut that support.
"Whoosh!"
Adam Smasher's punch missed.
There was no impact. No feedback. Nothing. His red cybernetic eye simulated a pupil contraction—shock.
"Missed…?"
Impossible.
For the first time in the battle, doubt entered Adam Smasher's mind.
By his combat protocols and personal experience, Karl shouldn't have been able to dodge. At best, he should have brought his arms up—only to have them shattered as he was launched like a ragdoll.
That was the plan.
This strike was supposed to destroy Karl's arms and teach the arrogant brat the true difference in power.
Why did it miss?
As that thought hit him, Karl had already slid to his flank.
When standing, the fastest way to drop isn't a squat—it's muscle collapse.
By forcefully disengaging the tendon's support functions, Karl had allowed his legs to give out for just a moment, ducking under the blow. Then, just as quickly, he re-engaged the support and dashed aside.
"Close, Mr. Smasher."
Polite tone. Slight smile.
Followed by a snap of the monowire.
It lashed from the side—completely outside Smasher's predicted angles—and sliced across his left eye. A flash of blue. Sparks. Voltage. The eye overloaded and shut down.
Despite his grounding systems and synthetic relays, Adam Smasher felt it:
A real threat.
This wasn't about bruised pride anymore.
This was danger.
Losing an eye didn't scare him. But the suddenness, the precision—this was a real, unanticipated threat to his life.
Still, he was Adam Smasher. The turrets on his shoulders kept suppressing V and Jack as his arm swung—blindly but with precision—toward Karl.
It was enough to break Karl's momentum and force a retreat.
The strike sliced the air like a guillotine. Karl narrowly sidestepped—any later, and he'd have been split in two.
Smasher's remaining eye locked onto Karl.
But instead of attacking again… he asked:
"What was that?"
Clearly referring to Karl's impossible dual-burst evasive movement in under a second.
"Call it forced override. Or overclocking. Take your pick."
It was the first time Karl had done it—but he didn't mind stalling for a second to answer.
He kept his eyes on Smasher's ruined socket. Still smiling.
"But personally?"
A spark flickered across Smasher's dead left eye.
Karl's foot shifted. His left palm, hiding a blade, moved subtly.
He vanished.
"I call it… Absolute Control."
Ken Ichiro had once studied Karl's fighting style and wondered why his movements always looked just a bit off—like his technique didn't match his body.
But if he could see Karl now…
That question would vanish.
Because Karl had finally synced.
His mind.
His body.
His cyberware.
All in perfect harmony.
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