"Clear the circle! Move aside, what are you all doing?"
A near two-meter-tall mountain of muscle pushed through the crowd. Students tumbled aside, startled—until they recognized who it was.
Broad-shouldered and bald, with shoulders like boulders, he was Zack Whitaker, top of Class C, ranked sixth across the year.
"Zack Whitaker!" a voice shouted. "Come to watch me fight instead of your own match?"
Zack rubbed an earlobe, irritation smooth on his face. "Quiet down, clowns. I'll handle him later."
He'd been bored—he hadn't found a real challenge yet.
Mia Chen from their class had great footwork, but her strikes lacked power. No match. Zack needed someone like Gao Liangxiong—strong, reliable, brutal.
"Then what's all the fuss about? What's he doing up there?" Gao growled.
"We're seeing Wyatt Young schooling this bug," one replied.
Zack crossed his arms, gaze cold. "That bug who ranked above me once…"
"Let me see this bug," Gao urged, craning his neck for a better view of the ring.
Inside the ring, Wyatt Young flexed his neck, taunting Liam with a mocking grin. "Bare-knuckles or gear?"
He kicked at the metal gear rack—those weapons were unsharpened, outer shell coated in rubber, but still heavy as hell.
Liam cocked his head, offered a polite smile. "Whatever you prefer. You choose."
Wyatt's grin turned cruel. "Let's go bare-knuckles. I might accidentally kill you with gear."
Then, like a panther uncoiling, he exploded forward—at over twenty meters per second.
His massive fist, backed by near 800 kg of force, thundered toward Liam.
Wyatt sneered, imagining the splatter.
Liam watched the fist expand in his vision—and sidestepped.
Whoosh.
The punch sailed past, grazing Liam's hair.
"What…?" Wyatt's face froze in disbelief. Then it turned to fury.
"God damn it—lucky shot!" he snarled.
He followed with a brutal uppercut, lightning-fast. Liam tilted his chin—no wind, no injury—just inches from the strike.
The crowd erupted.
This is actually getting interesting!
"C'mon! How many times you gonna dodge?!" Wyatt roared, unleashing a blistering combo: straight punch, roundhouse kick, hook, spinning back kick, elbow strike, forward stomp.
The attacks came so fast, so furious. Every blow packed a wallop—800 kg fist after 2‑ton leg power.
But Liam? Calm. Focused. His face stayed serene.
Every attack brushed him, but he moved like wind. A paper puppet in a hurricane—just enough space to evade.
At first the crowd cheered each successful dodge. But after over a dozen clean evasions, murmurs rippled through them.
"He's good."
"Did Liam's footwork always look like that?"
"Your Class C underdog? You kidding?"
"He's leagues ahead!"
Zack Whitaker, head still cocked forward, studied Liam closely. "Hey, Whitaker—this bug?" Gao asked, incredulous.
"Dude's nimble. More than Mia Chen, anyhow."
Zack didn't respond. He just stared, brows tight, eyes calculating.
Zoe Reed stood beside Mia Chen, eyes wide, jaw dropped. Clever, cool Mia—ranking second in class, admired by many—shyly asked instead of glaring.
"Liam… did he train in secret?"
Zoe blinked. "You know each other best… I'm just asking, 'cause—"
Mia flushed, glancing away. "His footwork's crazy. I thought maybe he had a coach."
Zoe snorted. "He told me his headaches are gone… that's it."
Mia frowned, gaze drifting back to the ring.
The crowd buzzed again as Wyatt unleashed another combo.
But this time? They weren't cheering him on.
They were waiting for him to hit… and fail.
Wyatt's strikes were relentless. Over a hundred brutal hits. Even super-fit cadets would tire. Wyatt was breathing hard, eyes foam-laced with rage. He expected cheers and screams—but he got silence.
He'd wanted Liam humiliated—kneeling, begging, humiliating for Zoe to see.
Instead, Liam danced.
"Quit pussyfooting and fight me head-on!" Wyatt snarled.
He pulled back and launched a savage front fist.
Swish.
Then—clipp!
Wyatt froze. Liam had caught his wrist like a vice, fingers solid steel.
"Alright," Liam said softly, voice even. "Let's do it straight."
Wyatt's eyes narrowed.
Liam smiled. "Don't give up too soon."
And as Wyatt threw a brutal straight punch—fast, crisp, an executioner's blow—it struck… thin air.
Instead, Liam's fist met Wyatt's gut. It exploded inward like a battering ram.
The 6'5″ man bent. His feet left the ground. He flew through the air.
And crashed down two meters away on the grass.
Silence blanketed the field.