The Gaze of the Academy's Elite
The Logistics and Monitoring Wing of Greyhart Academy was, for the first time in its operational history, silent in a way that had nothing to do with reverence and everything to do with suffocating terror. The Dean, Valerius Thorne, stood before the massive, concave monitor, his face drawn tight with a tension that threatened to shatter his very composure. The air was thick with the scent of ozone and the nervous sweat of a dozen high-ranking professors, technical specialists, and tactical analysts. Every eye was locked onto the grainy, but highly stabilized, feed from the VD-001 Vigilance Drone, which was tracking Darkiel Mikado's progress deep within the Helios Five-Star Dungeon.
Their collective understanding of reality was currently resting on a razor's edge. They knew, factually, that Darkiel was a Level 10 graduating student, known for unparalleled laziness, zero Mana signature, and a debilitating addiction to nicotine and cheap spirits. Yet, this same student, devoid of potions or support, had just obliterated hundreds of Level 30 Tidal Scorpions in the Gate's entry chamber, healing his fatigue by consuming the very Essence of his fallen foes.
"Reconfirm the metrics, Professor Halen!" Dean Thorne snapped, his voice a strained wire of authority. "Is the System Log Filter correctly set to 'Level 10: Non-Mana User'?"
Professor Halen, the lead analyst, a man who had spent three decades meticulously quantifying Catalyst statistics, didn't even turn around. "Affirmative, Dean. The filter is locked on the recognized Mikado Identifier Tag. Logically, the student currently engaging the hostile environment should possess: STR 14, AGI 11, INT 12, WSD 15. Total reality output should be negligible. His Level is definitively Ten."
A collective, anxious murmur rippled through the room.
Dr. Lena Vasquez, the Mana Flow Dynamics expert, spoke, her voice laced with disbelief. "But his current kinetic output, Professor Halen—the force generated by his physical strikes during the first wave—exceeds the maximum theoretical output of a Level 50 Warrior Class Catalyst by a factor of three. We are forced to conclude that his base STR is significantly higher than 14, or he possesses a Physical Augmentation Skill we cannot detect. A Tier-3, perhaps? If so, why is it not registering on the standard System overlay?"
Professor Eldon Hayes, the grizzled Earth Weaver, scoffed, folding his arms. "A Tier-3 Augmentation? Lena, a Tier-3 Skill would register the Mana expenditure, even if minimal! He has zero Mana. What we observed was not skill, but an unholy economy of motion. He hit the monster's weakest point—the Reality Essence Node—with the minimum possible kinetic energy required for destabilization. It's like watching a master craftsman apply only the precise necessary pressure to break glass. But the scale... the sheer number of strikes he maintained while wearing those infernal Power Limiters for five years… it's simply impossible for a human circulatory system to sustain."
"We're beyond possibility, gentlemen," Dr. Carmilla Crimson interjected, her eyes sharp and focused on the flickering image of Darkiel. He was standing motionless in the indigo light, the dark hilt of the Soul Devourer visible at his hip. "He is not using a Skill, Professor Vasquez, and he is not simply strong, Professor Hayes. He is operating outside the System's conventional physics. The Mikado Bloodline specializes in Ki Control, a pre-Fracture ability that manipulates fundamental life force. The System may struggle to categorize his physical prowess, but it is still attempting to measure a Level 10 Catalyst who has just, to put it crudely, figured out how to turn Level 30 monsters into pure metabolic snacks."
Dean Thorne clenched his jaw. "And the issue of his Level 10 Status persists. Even if he is consuming Essence, the fundamental rule of the System is the Essence Satiation Threshold. He should have achieved Level 40, perhaps 50, after that much carnage! Why is he still Level 10?"
"Self-regulation," Carmilla replied, her voice low. "Or… Systemic resistance. The System cannot process the input into the desired output without breaking its own internal logic. It might be deliberately keeping him at Level 10 as a safety measure. It is refusing to validate his power."
The conversation was interrupted by the tactical analyst. "Warning! Environmental change detected! The second chamber has activated! Hostiles incoming!"
The Onslaught of the Cryptic Drones
The massive screen shifted its focus. Darkiel, moving with the same lazy, unhurried gait that had defined his five years at Greyhart, walked deeper into the gloom. The new monsters emerging from the cavern walls were instantly identified.
"Cryptic Drones! Level 32!" Professor Halen shouted, his voice cracking with urgency. "Inorganic constructs! Metallic chassis, reinforced Mana Core shielding! Designed to absorb kinetic force! He cannot defeat these without Mana Infusion or a specialized Arcane Skill! This is the Gate's checkmate against pure physical types!"
Panic flared across the faculty. They were watching a perceived Level 10 student, who supposedly relied only on brute force, face an enemy designed specifically to nullify brute force.
"Carmilla, he must have brought some form of Mana conduit, a hidden ring, a charm! His INT score might be low, but he must have planned for this!" the Dean pleaded, his face mirroring the terror of watching a protege walk off a cliff.
"He has no Mana, Dean," Carmilla stated with painful certainty. "He relies on pure kinetic disruption. If he cannot shatter their cores, this is where he falls. The Drones are deploying Energy Shroud Beta—a Tier-2 Mana shield! Even a Level 70 Specialist would struggle to pierce that with a physical weapon!"
The first wave of twenty Cryptic Drones charged, their metallic legs scuttling across the cavern floor, green Mana cores blazing like predatory eyes. They moved quickly, forming a tight, impenetrable shield wall, preparing to unleash their signature Disruption Arcana—a high-frequency energy burst designed to paralyze biological targets.
Darkiel stopped. He did not draw his sword. He didn't even raise his arms in a fighting stance.
He simply lowered his shoulder slightly, taking the barest fraction of a moment to breathe. The faculty watched, holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable: the first paralyzing shot, the first failure, the first visible sign of struggle.
Then, Darkiel moved.
It was not a punch, kick, or slash. It was an outward flex of his right arm, a movement so minimal it could have been mistaken for an adjustment of his tunic.
But the result was horrifying.
A perfectly spherical, transparent pressure field expanded rapidly from his elbow. It wasn't Mana; it was not Ki; it was an invisible, perfectly contained wave of Kinetic Energy. This wave struck the center of the charging Drone formation.
The Energy Shroud Beta—the Tier-2 Mana shield—flickered once, then imploded as if someone had punched a hole directly in the fabric of reality. The internal Mana Cores of all twenty Drones, deprived of their structural integrity, shattered simultaneously. The constructs themselves did not move; they simply ceased to exist as viable objects, collapsing into heaps of inert metal shards and a puff of faint, white Reality Essence vapor that vanished instantly into the dark air.
The faculty watched, transfixed, as Darkiel simply retracted his arm. He hadn't broken stride. He hadn't even blinked.
The silence in the Logistics Wing was absolute.
"Impossible," Professor Halen whispered, staring at the metrics flashing on his console. "The kinetic transfer coefficient... it registered 99.999% efficiency. No energy dissipation. It was a Perfect Force Strike."
"He used no Mana! No Ki signature detected!" Dr. Vasquez stammered, frantically adjusting her equipment. "The VD-001's sensors are accurate! He destroyed twenty Level 32 constructs with a non-System physical wave! How high must his Strength be to achieve that level of kinetic isolation? Is it STR 8,000? 9,000? This changes everything about physical Catalyst scaling!"
Professor Hayes, the veteran, was trembling. "It's not the STR, Lena! It's the control! He isolated the frequency of the metallic chassis's structural Mana and sent a counter-frequency through the air itself! He weaponized sound and pressure! He's treating the dungeon like a laboratory experiment, not a battlefield! Only the original Mikado Clan texts mentioned such a terrifying level of Ki refinement!"
The second, larger wave of Cryptic Drones—over two hundred of them—began to emerge, filling the cavern with their ominous green glow. They had learned nothing from the first wave's destruction.
Darkiel finally drew the Soul Devourer an inch from its sheath. The black metal seemed to drink the ambient light.
Then, he began to move.
He did not rely on the previous focused strikes. Against the dense wave, he became a cyclone of pure, physical speed. He used the blade only to deflect the occasional Disruption Arcana shot that managed to fire, but his primary weapons were his feet.
He executed a breathtaking series of high-speed kicks, not aimed at the Drones, but aimed at the cavern floor. Each strike was a sonic boom contained and directed downward. The ground beneath the Drones rippled violently, an invisible earthquake that shattered their stabilizers. The constructs began to vibrate wildly, unable to maintain their cohesion or their Mana shields.
Then, Darkiel leaped high, performing a full rotation mid-air, and smashed his open palm into the dome of the cavern ceiling.
The effect was the instantaneous pressurization of the entire chamber.
The two hundred Drones, already destabilized by the tremors, were caught in the sudden, violent surge of atmospheric compression. The air, pushed by the sheer force of Darkiel's Ki-infused palm strike, felt like liquid concrete. The Mana Shrouds cracked, the metallic chassis buckled, and in a silent, collective wave of destruction, the Drones imploded.
The resulting Essence vapor was a massive, white cloud that instantly streamed, not to the sword, but directly to Darkiel's body, wrapping him in a brief, restorative shroud of power.
On the Academy screen, the Stamina bar—which they had assumed was standard—shot up from 89% to 100%.
Dean Thorne sank heavily into a chair behind the console, utterly defeated. "He is toying with them. He is using their mass and their Mana density to engineer their own demise. A true Level 10 Catalyst who lacks Mana should have been killed twenty times over. What are his new Attributes, Halen? His Level must have jumped now!"
Professor Halen stammered, adjusting a dial on his console. "Dean… the Essence intake was massive, perhaps five thousand units… but the System is still reporting Level 10. And his Essence Count is at 3,000 again, just as before. It is not converting the rest. It is stalling."
The anxiety peaked. The faculty exchanged fearful glances, their understanding of the very System that gave them power crumbling. Darkiel, the slacker, the enigma, was actively mocking the laws of their universe, and the only evidence they had of his true ability was the lack of his death.
The Black Mirror
In the dark chamber, Darkiel stopped moving. The scent of ozone and pulverized metal was heavy. He had achieved the desired effect. His body was operating at peak, and his reserves were topped off. He knew the Overlord's chamber was next.
He raised his left hand, and spoke, his voice carrying clearly over the VD-001's sensitive microphone, though he was speaking only to himself.
"Show System Status. Authorization: Emperor."
In the Greyhart Logistics Wing, the lights seemed to dim as the colossal main monitor, which had been showing a normal, if impossibly strong, Catalyst, was instantly overwritten.
The image of Darkiel was framed by a massive, obsidian-black rectangle that materialized instantly before him. It was a System Window, but it was not the familiar, benevolent, bright blue interface used by every Catalyst in the world. This was the color of a grave and the texture of pure midnight. The text that burned within it was pure, cold, incandescent white.
A collective, shuddering gasp filled the room. The shock of the black interface alone was enough to make Professor Halen drop his stylus.
Then, the faculty read the numbers.
Dean Thorne, who had been sitting, bolted upright so violently his chair nearly toppled backward. His eyes, wide and horrified, scanned the text, fixating on the lines that defied every rule, every scientific law, every tenet of the Catalyst program they had dedicated their lives to.
System Status: Unforeseen Authority
Name: Darkiel Mikado
Age: 21
Level:30
Title: Last Blood of Mikado
Class:Emperor
Passive Skill:Decree (Mastered), Emperor's Aura (Mastered), Emperor's Martial Art (Mastered), Will of the Emperor (Mastered)
Active Skill:Emperor's Verdict (Tier 4), Emperor's Palm (Tier 4), Emperor's Skill (Tier 4)
Weapon: Soul Devourer (Sword)
Reality Essence Count: 3,000
Attributes:
STR (Strength):100,000
AGI (Agility):100,000
WSD (Wisdom):100,000
INT (Intelligence):100,000
MNA (Mana):0 / Unlimited
The silence that followed was so deep it felt like a vacuum had opened in the room, sucking out all the air and sound.
"Level 30." Dean Thorne was the first to speak, his voice a ghost. "The System only allowed him to jump twenty Levels despite the carnage, but it did register the jump. It stopped him at thirty. Why thirty? It's arbitrary! But look at the numbers! My God, look at the numbers!"
Dr. Vasquez choked, covering her mouth with both hands as she read the Attribute line. "One hundred thousand… in all four primary Attributes! The established, global, measurable maximum value for any single Attribute is 5,000! He is twenty times the peak! He is twenty times the power of the Archon Lord who guards the Prime Gate! This… this is not a measurement, Dean. It is the System's error limit! It is a placeholder for infinity!"
"And look at the Class!" Professor Hayes roared, his voice thick with a mixture of terror and exhilaration. "Emperor! It's not a Class; it's a Statement of Sovereignty! The System didn't give him this Class; it was forced to recognize it! And the Passive Skills—Mastered! He was born with the knowledge of how to utilize the power of the Mikado bloodline! His education here was nothing more than an elaborate, five-year theater performance!"
Carmilla, though prepared for the truth, felt the cold weight of the reality press down on her. She focused on the MNA line, the most telling sign of the System's defeat.
"0 / Unlimited," she murmured, articulating the terrifying truth for the faculty. "It knows he has no need for the conventional Mana pool, but it is forced to acknowledge the potential Mana capacity. The System cannot measure it, so it simply calls it Unlimited. He has surpassed the need for Mana entirely, yet his capacity is infinite. He is a Category Error personified."
The Dean slowly lowered his shaking hand, pointing at the screen's terrifying data table. "We spent five years… five years attempting to teach a man who possesses a Mastered Passive Skill called Decree. He doesn't need to cast a spell; he only needs to will the result, and his physical power, quantified at 100,000, manifests that Will as kinetic reality. We were attempting to teach him basic algebra when he invented the concept of the infinite."
The VD-001 feed showed Darkiel lowering the black window with a casual wave of his hand. He looked entirely unaffected by the statistical apocalypse he had just unleashed upon the Academy's monitoring wing. He then turned his full attention toward the immense, dark portal at the back of the cavern—the entrance to the Overlord's Chamber.
Elias, the young aide, found his voice again, though it trembled uncontrollably. "Doctor Crimson! The Overlord is Level 150! It has a unique Reality Core that can absorb kinetic energy! Even those Attribute scores… they can be countered by the Overlord's unique mechanics! We need to pull him out now! If he dies, the entire Academy will be held responsible for the death of the 'Last Blood of Mikado'!"
Carmilla looked at the Dean, her expression a mix of sorrow and fatalistic resignation. "You cannot pull him out, Elias. Not against the Will of the Emperor."
She stepped forward, placing a hand on the Dean's shoulder, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Dean, we are no longer dealing with a student, or even a Catalyst. We are dealing with an existential threat to the Dungeon System itself. He has the Soul Devourer, he has the Emperor Class, and he has a vengeance 15 years in the making. The Helios Gate is already doomed. Our only objective now is to document, to quantify, and to understand the physics of a man who is statistically God walking into a Level 150 room."
The Dean looked back at the screen, the static image of the colossal black System Status finally dissolving, replaced by the visual of Darkiel stepping through the Overlord's gate, his black sword now fully drawn, the Soul Devourer thirsting for the ultimate concentration of Essence.
"A hundred thousand," the Dean muttered, the number echoing his shattered career. "We called him a slacker. We called him a drunk. We called him lazy… when all this time, he was simply waiting for the System to catch up to the reality of his own existence."
The chamber door slammed shut behind Darkiel, cutting the live video feed. All that remained was the quiet hum of the monitors, the dry click of Professor Halen trying to wipe the ghostly image of the 100,000 from his memory, and the sound of the entire faculty breathing in shallow, fearful gasps. The lesson was complete: the System they worshipped was a fragile construct, and one bored genius had just found its fatal, terrifying ceiling.
The Threshold of Oblivion
The Academy Logistics Wing had descended into a state of profound psychological trauma. The colossal monitor, having just displayed the chilling, impossible metrics of Darkiel Mikado's black System window, now showed a simple, terrifying image: the interior of the Helios Gate Overlord's Chamber. The image was unstable, flickering with intense Mana interference, but the scale of the room was clear. It was a vast, hemispherical dome carved from obsidian, constantly lit by streaks of malevolent, purple lightning that danced across the ceiling.
Darkiel stood at the center of this cosmic arena, his back perfectly straight, the Soul Devourer held loosely in his right hand. The air in the chamber felt dense enough to crush bone, saturated with the raw, chaotic energy of the Level 150 Overlord—a creature that had defied the global System for over a decade.
In the Academy, the professors had abandoned all pretense of professional detachment. They were huddled, whispering frantically, watching the live feed with a fear that transcended their professional risk assessment.
"The level discrepancy… it's insurmountable!" Professor Halen whimpered, clutching his data slate like a shield. "Level 30 versus Level 150! The Dimensional Damage Reduction alone should render all his physical attacks useless! The Overlord's unique Core absorbs 90% of kinetic energy if it's below the Level 80 threshold! Darkiel's 100,000 STR score is irrelevant if the System's rules block the transfer!"
Dr. Lena Vasquez adjusted her spectacles, her voice sharp with manic calculation. "Halen, the System already broke for Darkiel! His Ki Control is an unquantifiable variable! We saw him bypass Mana shields with pure kinetic resonance! But the Overlord is different. It's an Essence Sink—it doesn't just block kinetic energy; it converts it into its own life force!"
Dean Valerius Thorne, leaning heavily on the console, wiped a sheen of sweat from his brow. "Carmilla, what do we know about this specific Overlord? Helios is notoriously unpredictable. Who is this Level 150 abomination?"
Dr. Carmilla Crimson never took her eyes off the screen, her amber gaze piercing the flickering image. "The reports are sparse, Dean. This Overlord is unique; it demonstrates advanced tactical intelligence. It's not a mindless beast. It uses the environment, it uses feints, it communicates. It has a name it grants itself. The last team that made it this far—the Level 120 'Solar Flare' Squad—was psychologically dismantled before the fight even began. This is a battle of will, not just power."
As Carmilla finished speaking, a towering shape detached itself from the obsidian wall at the far end of the chamber. It was a creature of liquid shadow and jagged Mana crystals, easily twenty feet tall, its form constantly shifting like smoke caught in a violent wind. Its eyes—two burning, crimson slits—fixed instantly on Darkiel.
The Overlord's voice was not a roar, but a deep, rolling resonance that shook the VD-001 drone's internal stabilization circuits. It was a voice filled with ancient malice and cold, dismissive contempt.
"Puny human," the creature hissed, the words echoing off the chamber walls like the scraping of metal on glass. "A Level 30 ant, straying from the light. I smell the scent of Kinetic Obsolescence upon you. A weak, Ki-user in an age of Mana. You bring me nothing but a minor increase in my total Essence pool."
Darkiel did not flinch. He stood utterly still, his eyes—the same shade of cold amber as Carmilla's—reflecting the demon's red gaze. The silence from him was more deafening than the Overlord's booming challenge. It lasted only a beat, but in that second, the entire Logistics Wing held its breath.
Then, Darkiel spoke. His voice, amplified by the drone's microphone, was calm, dry, and devoid of emotion—a simple statement of cosmic intent.
"I came here to erase you."
The simplicity of the sentence hit the Academy faculty like a physical blow. It was not a threat; it was a declaration of the new rules of reality.
The Overlord, for the first time, seemed to pause. A tremor of raw power ran through its crystalline body, a flicker of genuine surprise interrupting its cold arrogance.
"Such insolence is an insult to the Essence of Chaos itself!" the Overlord shrieked, the sound now piercing and aggressive. "I shall harvest your pride, whelp!"
The Brutal Connection
Before the faculty could even register the Overlord's aggressive shift, Doviscus, the creature of shadow and crystal, launched itself.
The speed of the attack was instantaneous, a terrifying leap that distorted the light. It wasn't a charge; it was a spatial collapse. The Overlord simply vanished from its position and reappeared directly in front of Darkiel, its massive, crystalline fist—the size of a small car—already descending with the force of a tectonic shift.
In the Academy, Professor Halen screamed. "It's too fast! He has no time to react! That's a Tier-5 Obliteration Strike!"
Darkiel's 100,000 AGI was, however, not irrelevant. It was simply overwhelmed by the Level 150 Overlord's raw velocity. His body responded instantly, but only in a desperate, last-second defensive action.
The Soul Devourer snapped up from his hip, not to attack, but to block. The black katana was held horizontally above his head, its ancient, thin blade meeting the colossal Mana-infused fist.
K-R-A-C-K!
The sound was not that of metal hitting crystal; it was the sound of air screaming and reality tearing. A blinding, localized explosion of force erupted around Darkiel. The floor beneath him instantly shattered into a fine, black dust, and a shockwave of purple energy violently ripped outward, sending the VD-001 drone spinning.
On the Academy screen, the image went haywire. The professors cried out in fear and despair.
When the drone finally restabilized, the image that greeted them was horrifying.
Darkiel was still standing. The Soul Devourer was still held high. But the ground beneath his feet was a crater a meter deep, and his feet were buried up to the ankles in pulverized obsidian. His arms, holding the blade, were visibly trembling, not from weakness, but from the immense kinetic force still driving down upon him. The blade of the Soul Devourer, impossibly, was undamaged, but the force had been transferred entirely into Darkiel's body.
A torrent of bright, arterial blood burst from Darkiel's mouth, spraying over the black hilt of his sword and splattering onto the obsidian floor. His face was contorted—a look of sheer, agonizing struggle that was alien to his typical impassivity. The sheer, overwhelming power of the Overlord's strike had bypassed his defenses and brutalized his internal organs. Even with STR 100,000, the difference in Level and Dimensional Authority was a gap too wide for sheer physicality to bridge.
"He connected! Darkiel is bleeding! Internal trauma detected!" Dr. Vasquez shouted, her voice laced with panic. "The blow connected, even with the block! His organs are ruptured! He won't last another minute!"
The Overlord, sensing the internal devastation, pressed its advantage, its shadow-crystalline fist grinding down on the katana. It recoiled slightly, acknowledging the strange, dark metal of the blade, but its confidence was absolute.
The Overlord's voice, smug and chilling, resonated through the chamber. "I am One of the Overlords, and my name is Doviscus! You cannot stand against the architects of this age, little one. Your life force is insignificant, and now, it is mine to absorb!"
The Unyielding Will of the Emperor
As Doviscus prepared to deliver the final, crushing blow, Darkiel, his mouth still leaking blood, did something that defied all physiological logic: he leaned into the pain.
The act was instantaneous, a sudden, violent surge of internal force that was visible only in the sudden, taut stiffness of his neck and jaw. His eyes, though filmed with pain, narrowed into slits of cold, unyielding amber.
In the control room, Carmilla Crimson, who had trained for years to recognize the subtlest shift in Ki-users, gasped. "He's activating the Passives! The Black System Passives! Look at his Aura!"
Darkiel's body, battered and broken, began to emit a silent, oppressive wave of energy. It was not the yellow light of the Dean, nor the blue of Mana, nor the familiar golden sheen of normal Ki. This energy was the color of sheer, absolute authority—a terrifying, pulsating black that seemed to absorb light and sound.
His three passive skills activated simultaneously, responding to the mortal threat to their host.
First, the Will of the Emperor flared. This passive was not a typical healing skill; it was the Mikado bloodline's capacity to instantaneously re-knit fundamental existence based on pure, unadulterated willpower.
Darkiel felt a searing, white-hot fire erupting in his chest, instantly cauterizing his internal wounds. His ripped lung tissue and damaged liver were forcibly snapped back into a functional state. The process was agonizing, but total in its obedience to his Will. The torrent of blood from his mouth ceased instantly, replaced by a dry, metallic taste. But the damage had been too great, the Overlord's power too overwhelming. He felt the pain recede, but the internal trauma remained, a dull, agonizing ache—half the injury was healed, the other half retained as a vital, driving pain.
"The pain remains," Darkiel thought, his mind crystal clear amidst the agony. "A reminder of the cost. Accept the pain. It is fuel for the Decree."
Secondly, the Emperor's Aura manifested. This was the most terrifying of the passives—the ability to refuse defeat. The black aura solidified around Darkiel, locking his musculature, his spinal column, and his joints into an unyielding state. The passive effect was simple: Darkiel cannot fall, physically or spiritually, under any circumstances. His knees would not buckle, his grip would not loosen, and his consciousness would not fade. He was locked into the fight, forever standing, forever pushing.
Lastly, the Decree—the gamble-like skill that was the Mikado's ultimate internal weapon—activated. It was a skill fueled entirely by intent. Darkiel's drive to kill Doviscus—to erase this symbol of the chaotic force that murdered his family—was absolute. The Decree registered this burning, unyielding intent and immediately heightened all of his senses to the outermost limits.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. The purple Mana crackle of the Overlord's fist appeared to move with the lazy speed of falling rain. Darkiel's mind was now a universe unto itself, capable of calculating the atomic structure of the Overlord's crystalline fist, the precise location of its Essence Core, and the microscopic flaws in the Mana density protecting its joints. The pain was still there, but now it was a distant signal, a sharp, useful marker in the infinite map of his heightened reality.
The Three-Second Judgment
The Overlord, Doviscus, was still pressing down, gloating over the sight of the human's blood. It was a fatal, arrogant mistake—a lapse in judgment that proved its reliance on the System's metrics.
Darkiel, now standing at the apex of his augmented power, his internal clock running at thousands of frames per second, saw the weakness. He saw the fraction of a second when Doviscus's crystalline musculature was fully extended and locked in place, preparing for the final push.
In that infinitely stretched moment, Darkiel activated his first Active Skill.
"Emperor's Verdict," Darkiel whispered, the sound a sharp, silent command only for the black System that served him.
The skill was silent. It was not a Mana wave, or a Ki blast. It was a pure, focused assertion of the Emperor's Will onto the Overlord's chaotic Essence Core.
Doviscus instantly froze.
On the Academy's screen, the twenty-foot monster, its fist poised inches above Darkiel's head, went entirely rigid. The pulsing purple light within its crystalline shell dimmed and stopped. The Overlord was not paralyzed; it was silenced—its active Will completely overruled by Darkiel's superior authority.
In the Logistics Wing, the professors stared in bewildered awe.
"It stopped! It just… stopped!" Dean Thorne gasped, leaning so far forward he was practically hugging the monitor.
"It's not paralyzed, Dean, it's locked!" Carmilla hissed, her eyes shining with realization. "The Decree allows him to assert his Will onto the Essence Structure! The Emperor's Verdict is the highest form of Stasis! It's not a skill against the body; it's a skill against the will! He has three seconds before the Level 150 Core can break the command!"
Darkiel's internal clock began counting down the microseconds—three seconds of absolute advantage.
He activated his second Active Skill, the final, terrifying piece of his plan.
"Emperor's Skill."
This skill was the manifestation of the Mikado bloodline's perfect kinetic efficiency. It was the absolute command over the Reality Essence Count to multiply output. The internal energy that flowed into his right arm—the one gripping the Soul Devourer—instantly tripled. One physical action would result in three discrete, simultaneous kinetic strikes.
Darkiel pulled the Soul Devourer back. The blade had absorbed the shock of the Overlord's attack, and now, fueled by the Emperor's Skill, it became a conduit of apocalyptic force.
One slash.
Darkiel executed a single, perfect diagonal slash—a movement so fast that in the normal flow of time, it would have been invisible. But the Emperor's Skill multiplied the physical movement.
The blade cut the air. The resulting kinetic force manifested three times, simultaneously hitting the Overlord's core point in three separate, distinct energy waves.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
A low, guttural shriek of agony, muffled by the silence of the Verdict, still managed to escape the Overlord.
Darkiel did not stop. His mind, heightened by the Decree, calculated the next necessary angle, utilizing the microseconds with total precision. He became a blur of silent, multiplied motion—a storm of three-pronged attacks.
He executed a sweeping horizontal cut (3 strikes).A descending vertical chop (3 strikes).A lightning-fast reverse-grip thrust (3 strikes).A blurring, high-speed series of short, choppy defensive slashes to protect his midline (9 strikes).
The Soul Devourer moved with impossible efficiency, striking the Overlord's crystalline body countless times. The faculty could only see a single, continuous black streak of motion around the frozen monster. Yet, the Overlord's body was visibly reacting—black Essence smoke was boiling off its frame, and the Mana crystals protecting its limbs were fracturing violently.
Darkiel pressed the assault, utilizing every available angle, every micro-adjustment of his body, driven by the searing, unhealed pain in his chest that reminded him of his Decree. He delivered a furious, final flurry of six primary movements, resulting in eighteen devastating strikes across the Overlord's most stable Mana points.
The entire sequence, a storm of thirty-six separate kinetic strikes, lasted barely the span of three heartbeats in the Academy control room.
The Aftermath and the Echoes
Then, the three seconds were over.
The Emperor's Verdict instantly collapsed.
The Overlord, Doviscus, was instantly freed. The purple Mana energy snapped back into its crystalline body, and the immense pressure of its fist, still pressing the Soul Devourer, resumed.
A massive, terrifying sound—a prolonged, drawn-out groan of pain—erupted from Doviscus. It was a sound of true, elemental suffering that shook the entire chamber. The Overlord recoiled, pulling its fist away, its crystalline form shaking violently.
Darkiel, blood still bubbling faintly at the corner of his mouth, dropped his stance, watching the monster. The Overlord's crystalline body was now crisscrossed with deep, burning black fractures. The entire right side of its armor was shattered, and the glow of its Essence Core was visibly dimmer.
On the main monitor, Professor Halen's damage metric overlay—designed to track kinetic impact on the Overlord's Core—began to scream. The final figure flashed in red: -50.1% HP.
The Overlord, Doviscus, had lost half of its health in three seconds.
In the Logistics Wing, the silence was instantly replaced by a hysterical, echoing wave of noise.
"Half… Half its health!" Dr. Vasquez shouted, clutching her hair. "The Level 150 Overlord! Hit by a Level 30 student! That damage output is Tier-7 Cataclysmic! It's the highest kinetic signature ever recorded at Greyhart! It should be dead! Why is it not dead?!"
"Because it's an Essence Sink!" Carmilla roared, standing now, her eyes blazing with fierce realization. "It absorbed the energy! The Level difference wasn't just physical; it was Authority! He hit it thirty-six times with the force of an Archon, and the Overlord's unique Core still managed to shunt away 50% of the damage! The Decree was a gamble, but it only brought him to equilibrium!"
Dean Thorne sank back into his chair, his face utterly pale, the realization of the Mikado bloodline's horrific truth crashing down on him.
Elias, the young aide, finally found his voice, shaking with terror and awe. "He… he took a direct hit from a Level 150 Overlord, a blow that should have reduced him to mist, and then he stood up, healed himself, froze time, and delivered the damage of an entire Level 100 squad! And he still needs to do it again! He's fighting a perfect, unbeatable shield! He struggled, and the Overlord is still standing!"
The final, terrifying thought echoed among the elite minds of the Academy—a thought more devastating than the sight of the 100,000 attributes.
The Level 30 Emperor had just thrown his absolute, calculated best, a three-second window of total power, at the Level 150 Overlord... and the enemy had survived.
Darkiel Mikado stood in the obsidian chamber, his body trembling slightly, his eyes burning into the wounded, furious Overlord. He knew the truth of the exchange: Emperor's Verdict was a one-time gambit in this fight. He was now injured, and the final half of the Overlord's Essence needed to be destroyed through raw, sustained combat.
"You grovel in pain," Darkiel stated, his voice now ringing with a terrifying, absolute certainty. "But I acknowledge your resilience, Doviscus. My first strike failed to erase you, but my second will shatter your sovereignty. The fight is not over."
The Overlord roared—a sound not of pain, but of pure, crystalline fury. The shadows in the room gathered around it, preparing for a counterattack that would not be held back by arrogance.