The stadium was louder than it had ever been.
The last match of the preliminary stage.
The one the entire world had been waiting for with bated breath.
Screens across Vornis—and even internationally—flashed the same electrifying headline in bold, pulsing letters:
"THE POWERLESS STUDENT'S FIRST REAL FIGHT — RAZE ARCWELL VS VOXEN HALE!"
People everywhere gathered in droves to watch: cafés overflowing with heated debates, streets lined with massive public displays drawing crowds, homes filled with families huddled around screens, rival academies pausing classes to stream the feed.
A boy born without Nexas—walking into a battlefield designed to test and break the most gifted students the world had to offer.
Even professional commentary desks—usually calm and analytical—could barely contain their raw excitement mixed with open skepticism.
"Will he rely entirely on custom equipment to compensate?"
"Can pure skill, training, and preparation survive against Voxen's adaptive assimilation?"
"A powerless kid made it this far through sheer will… this is history in the making—win or lose."
Inside the academy stadium itself, the students felt the pressure firsthand—electric, almost suffocating.
Bam Relic clenched his massive fists so tightly his knuckles cracked, eyes locked on the arena entrance.
Roger Castellan bounced on his toes with nervous energy, unable to sit still for even a second.
Rain Lancelot whispered softly to herself, hands clasped tightly in quiet hope, "Raze… please be careful."
Astra Noire simply watched from her reserved seat—expression unreadable as always, but golden eyes sharp, focused, and quietly intense.
On the topmost VIP balcony reserved for families and dignitaries, Raze's loved ones sat together—tension thick enough to cut.
Roland Arcwell's jaw was set tight, hands gripped white on the railing as if holding back a storm.
Rose Arcwell clasped her hands in silent prayer, eyes never leaving her son for a moment.
Little Lily bounced in her seat, waving a tiny handmade flag with "GO BIG BROTHER!" scribbled in bright, uneven marker—excitement overriding any fear.
And Luna Arcwell…
She exhaled shakily, ice-blue eyes locked unblinkingly on the arena entrance tunnel.
"Don't get hurt," she whispered fiercely under her breath. "Or I swear… I will destroy this entire tournament myself."
◆ ◆ ◆
The Announcement
The stadium lights dimmed dramatically—spotlights sweeping across the vast, reinforced floor like searchlights in a night sky.
A collective hush fell over the tens of thousands, broken only by anticipatory murmurs and the distant hum of media drones.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer boomed, voice echoing like rolling thunder through every speaker,
"THE FINAL PRELIMINARY MATCH… HAS… BEGUN!"
A massive collective roar shook the air—deafening, primal, electric.
"And stepping onto the stage first…
The boy who defied the entrance exam with perfect theory scores across every subject…
The student who earned his place through blood, sweat, and unyielding resolve…
The only candidate in Lionel Academy history with no Nexas—RAZE ARCWELL!!"
The central spotlight hit the contestant tunnel—bright, blinding, expectant.
◆ ◆ ◆
The Unveiling of the Suit
Raze stepped out calmly—stride measured and deliberate, posture unbreakable despite the weight of every gaze upon him.
Gasps rippled instantly through the stands like a wave.
He wasn't wearing the standard academy prototype hero suits issued to other students—lightweight training gear designed for safety and fairness.
Instead—
A sleek, dark-navy combat suit hugged his lean frame—matte finish with a subtle, almost predatory metallic sheen. Seamless construction that moved like liquid armor over muscle. Faint cobalt-blue lines pulsed across its surface like living veins—tracing shoulders, arms, torso in intricate patterns. Joints reinforced yet perfectly flexible. Material depth that caught light strangely—absorbing and reflecting in ways that hinted at impossible density.
Whispers erupted everywhere—spreading like wildfire.
"That suit… is that full high-grade Arcsteel construction?"
"No—look at the density shimmer and those energy lines—could that be… Abyss Alloy integration!?"
"Impossible! Abyss Alloy is heavily restricted—even trace amounts require council approval!"
"I thought only national governments and S-rank agencies have access to processed fragments!"
Teachers exchanged stunned, urgent glances on their elevated platform.
Professor Celeste Ardyn narrowed her silver eyes sharply, leaning forward.
"Arcwell… what exactly did your family forge for you?"
Even Astra leaned forward slightly from her seat—golden gaze intensifying with quiet calculation.
Raze walked calmly toward the arena center—every step echoing faintly under the roaring crowd.
On his back—two short, collapsible batons locked into custom magnetic sheathes along the spine. Darker than the suit. Heavier-looking. A faint, almost inaudible hum of contained power emanating only to those closest—teachers, perhaps, or opponents with sharp senses.
The suit wasn't flashy or ostentatious.
But it was terrifying in its quiet, purposeful menace.
Voxen Hale, already positioned opposite and waiting patiently, swallowed visibly when he saw it—eyes widening behind his focused stare, reassessing everything.
◆ ◆ ◆
Voxen Hale — The Iron Challenger
Voxen Hale had trained all his life for moments exactly like this.
Martial arts mastery from early childhood—forms drilled until they became instinct, body conditioned through years of pain and repetition.
Iron discipline that shaped both body and mind into weapons.
And a Nexas that turned his arms into living arsenals: Material Assimilation—converting up to his elbows into any hard inorganic substance he physically touched.
Steel for blinding speed.
Titanium for perfect balance and resilience.
Tungsten for raw, crushing power that could demolish concrete.
He stood ready—lean, athletic frame coiled like a spring, expression respectful but burning with quiet, long-held resolve.
He bowed deeply as Raze approached—formal, sincere.
"Raze Arcwell. It is an honor to face you on this stage."
Raze stopped a few respectful steps away, hands loose at his sides—relaxed but ready.
"The honor is mine, Voxen."
Voxen studied the suit once more—eyes tracing the faint cobalt veins, the unnatural material depth.
"You look… more than ready. That equipment… it's custom."
Raze exhaled softly, steel-blue eyes steady and unflinching.
"I have to be."
The arena crackled with tension—palpable, electric, hanging thick in the air.
◆ ◆ ◆
A Short Exchange Before War
Voxen shifted into a balanced fighting stance—knees bent, weight centered perfectly, arms loose.
"You know… most people underestimate you because you have no Nexas. They think it's an automatic win."
His voice carried quiet, hard-earned respect.
"But I don't. I've watched every evaluation. Every training session clip. If I let my guard down even once… I'll lose."
Raze smiled faintly—small, but genuine, cutting through the pressure.
"Good. Because I don't plan to give you a chance to relax—or underestimate me."
Voxen chuckled softly—nerves easing slightly, replaced by focused fire.
"You talk like someone born with overwhelming Nexas—confident, certain."
Raze's eyes sharpened, voice low but carrying clearly to the nearest microphones—and thus the world.
"No. I talk like someone who trained twice as hard—every single day—to survive without one."
A massive roar rose from the seats—approval, excitement, raw defiance.
The crowd chanted his name louder—wave after wave.
◆ ◆ ◆
The Match Begins
The referee—an experienced pro hero with years on the front lines—stood in the center, raising his arm high.
"Combatants ready?"
Both nodded firmly.
The arm dropped sharply.
"BEGIN!"
Voxen moved instantly—right arm shifting with a grinding, metallic transformation noise that echoed across the silent arena.
TUNGSTEN.
The heaviest, hardest form he could safely manage—dense enough to crush stone, bend steel beams, demolish reinforced barriers.
"HAH!"
His arm blurred forward in a straight, devastating punch—pure power behind it capable of denting armored vehicles or shattering concrete walls.
Students screamed from the stands.
"He's opening with full tungsten strike!?"
"That'll break bones—maybe end the match in one hit!!"
"Raze can't take that head-on!"
Teachers rose halfway from their seats—instinct overriding protocol.
Luna shot to her feet instantly, ice pressure rippling unconsciously.
"DON'T YOU DARE—!!"
But—
The impact never fully landed as intended.
Because Raze didn't dodge.
Raze didn't flinch or retreat a single step.
Raze blocked it.
With his bare hand.
◆ ◆ ◆
The Shock Heard Around the Stadium
BOOOOM—!!
A thunderous shockwave blasted outward—visible ripple tearing dust from the floor in a perfect circle, rattling the protective barrier fields, sending vibrations through every seat.
The entire stadium felt the impact in their chests—like a heartbeat skipped.
When the dust cloud settled slowly—
Raze stood firm.
Feet planted deep in shallow impact craters.
One open hand gripping Voxen's tungsten fist—stopping it cold, inches from his face.
Silence.
Utter. Disbelieving. Silence that lasted three full heartbeats.
Then—
"WHAT!?"
"HE BLOCKED A TUNGSTEN STRIKE!?"
"BARE-HANDED!?"
"HOW—HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE!? He has no Nexas!"
"Is his SUIT doing that!? What IS that suit!?"
Voxen's eyes trembled in raw shock—arm straining against immovable resistance, muscles bulging uselessly.
"H-How… how did you…? That was my strongest form at full power!"
Raze's arm throbbed under the suit's advanced reinforcement—but his expression remained calm, controlled.
He tightened his grip slightly—enough for Voxen to feel the counter-pressure forcing his arm back.
"It wasn't your strike that scared me."
He leaned forward fractionally, voice low but microphones catching every word for the world to hear.
"It was the thought of losing—of proving them all right. That a boy without Nexas doesn't belong here."
The stadium erupted into absolute thunder—cheers shaking the foundations, chants of his name rolling like waves.
◆ ◆ ◆
Why Didn't He Use His Weapons?
Behind Raze, the twin batons remained untouched in their sheathes—gleaming darkly, waiting.
Commentators and crowd noticed immediately—voices overlapping in frenzy.
"He could've drawn his batons instantly…"
"Why block with his HAND when he has weapons!?"
"Is the suit really that powerful alone? Or is it him?"
From the participant area:
Rain covered her mouth in awe, eyes shining. "That wasn't just the suit… that was Raze's timing—perfect, instinctive."
Roger shouted over the deafening noise: "THAT'S MY BOY! SHOW THEM WHAT THE POWERLESS CAN DO!!"
Bam pumped both fists wildly. "He stopped tungsten cold! COLD! With one hand!"
Astra's golden eyes narrowed further—quiet calculation mixing with unmistakable respect.
On the teacher's platform, Celeste whispered urgently to a colleague:
"Not Arcsteel alone… something else is embedded. That shimmer, the energy dispersion—don't tell me it's trace Abyss Alloy…"
◆ ◆ ◆
Raze's Calm Answer
Voxen staggered back a full step—clutching his numb tungsten fist as it reverted to flesh with a grinding, painful shift.
"Haa… haa… Raze… why didn't you use your weapons? Why risk blocking something so dangerous bare-handed?"
Raze shook out his arm once—the suit absorbing residual vibration seamlessly, faint cobalt lines glowing brighter for a moment.
He lifted his eyes—calm, controlled, burning with quiet, unbreakable fire.
"Because I needed to know."
Voxen blinked, catching ragged breath—confusion mixing with admiration.
"Know… what?"
Raze stepped forward slowly—closing the distance deliberately, batons still sheathed.
"That even without Nexas… even with just years of relentless training, unbreakable willpower, and this suit my family forged—"
He raised both fists—stance perfect, ready.
"I can still stand against someone born stronger than me."
The stadium erupted into absolute thunder—cheers shaking the very foundations, chants rolling like an avalanche.
Raze's voice carried over the roar—steady, defiant, inspiring.
"Now, Voxen… let's fight seriously."
Voxen stared for a heartbeat—exhausted already from the blocked strike, but grinning through shock, pain, and deep respect.
His arms shifted again—preparing new assimilation, eyes alight.
"Yes… let's."
The world held its breath.
The powerless boy had just rewritten every expectation in a single moment—
And the real battle was only about to begin.