CHAPTER 2: THE TOP NOTCH ACTION - PART 2
The infirmary was a quiet, sterile space. The healing was efficient—a combination of healing magic from an Acolyte and a pungent, green potion that stitched his flesh and soothed his bruised organs. His HP was restored, but the bone-deep fatigue and mental strain remained. Recovery potions couldn't replenish the Stamina lost from operating at 200% capacity for fifteen minutes. That required rest he didn't have.
As he sat on the cot, checking the action on his SR-25 rifle and frowning at the hairline stress fracture near the receiver from the harpoon-shot stunt, the curtain rustled aside.
Pro Hunter Vance leaned against the entry, arms crossed. "Your shield's totaled. Staff's a paperweight for a few days. And you look like you got run over by a stampede of rock-eaters."
Rocky didn't look up from his rifle. "It was an acceptable expenditure. The shield served its final purpose. The staff will recharge."
"Acceptable?" Vance snorted. "Kid, that was a masterwork ballistic shield. Not cheap. And you treat it like a disposable spark plug."
"It was a tool," Rocky said, his voice flat. "Tools break. The mission didn't." He finally met Vance's gaze. "The next test?"
Vance's eyes gleamed. "The real meat. The Tournament of the Muster. All aspirants who passed the preliminary—that's about 120 of you—will face off in one-on-one duels on the public grounds. Public. Graded by the Elders and Pro Hunters. Your performance determines your starting rank within the Academy, your access to resources, your entire future." He leaned in. "And everyone will be gunning for you now. You're no longer a joke. You're a mystery. And mysteries in this world either get worshipped or dissected."
Rocky finished reassembling the rifle with practiced, mechanical motions. "What are the rules?"
"Standard duel rules. Victory by knockout, surrender, or ring-out. Lethal force discouraged but... accidents happen. You can use any gear you brought with you. No external items. No pre-fight healing beyond what's already done." Vance's smirk returned. "They'll try to box you in. Your loadout is your greatest strength and your biggest weakness. They saw you move like a tank. They'll try to make you run dry."
"Understood."
As Vance left, another visitor slipped in. Rika, the flustered receptionist, now looking determined. She carried a small, heavy-looking case.
"Here," she said, thrusting it at him. "Don't get the wrong idea! It's not for you! It's... for the Academy's reputation! Can't have a candidate looking like a walking salvage yard!"
Rocky opened the case. Inside, nestled in custom foam, was a new shield. Not identical to his old one. This was different. Sleeker, hexagonal like the last, but made of a matte-gray composite material. It had a series of small, recessed ports along the rim and a faint, almost invisible crystalline mesh layered within.
"It's a prototype," Rika said quickly, her cheeks flushing. "Reactive Composite Shield. My design. The mesh is a mana-dispersal lattice. It can absorb a certain threshold of magical energy and dissipate it as harmless light. Not good against sustained spells, but it'll negate the first hit of a fireball or frost lance. The ports... are for modular attachments. If you have any... tech." She looked pointedly at his rifle, his emitter. "It's also 20% lighter than your old one. But don't you dare break it! I need the data!"
Rocky studied the shield, then her face. "You're a Crafter. A good one. Why give this to me? The 'walking salvage yard'?"
Rika looked away, muttering. "Because... you used the tools. You didn't just wave them around. You understood them. Even the stupid staff trick. That's... that's what Crafting is. Understanding how things work. Not just having them." She met his eyes, her own fierce. "So prove me right. And bring it back in one piece."
She fled before he could respond.
He hefted the new shield. Lighter. Smarter. A gift, not of pity, but of professional respect. He attached it to his left arm, feeling the improved weight distribution. It left his Stamina penalty at 35% instead of 40%. A small edge. Every edge mattered.
---
The tournament grounds were a colossal amphitheater of white stone, already thrumming with energy. Hundreds of spectators—students from higher years, city dignitaries, merchants, and common folk—filled the stands. The air crackled with anticipation. The story of the "Jobless SSS Clear" had spread like wildfire.
Rocky stood in the contestant's ready-pen, a gated area to the side of the central dueling platform. Around him, the other 119 aspirants were a sea of focused tension. They stretched, checked weapons, murmured prayers or strategies. Many cast wary, calculating glances his way. The dynamic had shifted. The mockery was gone, replaced by cold assessment. He was an unknown variable. They were trying to solve him.
Elder Elara's voice, magically amplified, echoed across the amphitheater. "Aspirants! You have proven your basic competency. Now, you must prove your combat worth. The tournament will be single elimination. Your first opponents have been seeded based on preliminary clearance time and efficiency. You will fight until one remains standing. Let the bouts begin!"
A massive holographic bracket appeared in the air above the arena. Names flashed, matches assigned. Rocky scanned it. His first match was against "Brond - Class: Guardian (Tank Variant)."
The same brute who had led the mockery in the yard. A poetic start.
Brond stomped into the central ring, a tower of gleaming steel. He carried a shield even larger than Rocky's old one—a literal tower shield—and a heavy, spiked maul. His face, beneath his helm, was a mask of grim determination. No more jokes. This was business.
Rocky entered from the opposite side. The roar of the crowd was deafening. He carried his SR-25 rifle slung across his chest, the new shield on his arm, the longsword at his hip, the shotgun on his thigh. The staff and sniper rifle he'd left in the ready-pen; wrong tools for this job. The dueling ring was 50 feet in diameter—too close for the Barrett, too confined for the staff's area effects.
The referee, a stern-faced Pro Hunter, stood between them. "Rules are simple! Ring-out, surrender, or incapacitation! Begin!"
The gong sounded.
Brond didn't charge. He was smarter than he looked. He planted his tower shield with a clang, becoming an immovable fortress. "Come on, Jobless! Let's see you scratch this!" His strategy was clear: outlast. Let Rocky waste energy and resources on an impregnable defense. Tank his Stamina dry.
Rocky didn't oblige. He didn't move from his starting position. He simply raised the SR-25 rifle to his shoulder in a smooth, practiced motion.
A murmur ran through the crowd. A rifle? Against enchanted plate armor?
Brond laughed behind his shield. "You think a pea-shooter will—"
CRACK.
Rocky fired. Not at Brond. Not at the shield. He fired at the ground, six inches in front of the bottom edge of Brond's tower shield. The 7.62mm round struck the white arena stone, not to penetrate, but to shatter. The specific stone, stressed by centuries of combat, fractured violently.
Technique: [Precision Shooting] + [Environmental Awareness] + [Tactical Genius]. He'd scanned the ring while walking in. Noted the hairline cracks, the worn spots. He wasn't just fighting Brond; he was fighting the arena.
The fracture shot upward like lightning. The base of Brond's tower shield, planted firmly, was suddenly on an unstable, tilting platform.
Brond grunted, his perfect balance compromised for a split second as the shield wobbled.
That was all Rocky needed. He was already moving. Not a full sprint—his gear wouldn't allow it—but a powerful, forward [Earth Shaker Step] that became a [Low Sprint]. He closed half the distance.
Brond, recovering, shoved his shield back down to stabilize it. He exposed a tiny sliver of his body—his right forearm and part of his thigh—around the shield's edge as he adjusted his grip.
Rocky's left hand, which had been supporting the rifle foregrip, released. In a blur, it drew the Mk23 SOCOM pistol from his drop-leg holster.
Technique: [Ambidextrous Shift] + [Quick Draw]. He fired the heavy pistol one-handed.
BAM.
The .45 ACP round didn't aim for the armored thigh. It struck the joint of Brond's knee armor—a precisely engineered weak point. The impact didn't pierce, but the kinetic force was like a sledgehammer on a hinge. Brond's leg buckled. He cried out, stumbling to one knee, his maul swinging wildly for balance.
Rocky holstered the pistol as he closed the final distance. He didn't slash with his sword. He used the rifle. Swinging it like a club, he struck the top edge of Brond's now-tilted tower shield with the stock.
Technique: [Leverage Strike]. It wasn't about power; it was about physics. The strike, combined with Brond's compromised stance and the unstable ground, did the impossible. It tipped the massive tower shield backward, over Brond's head.
The crowd gasped as the Guardian was yanked off-balance, his primary defense now a liability, pulling him onto his back.
Rocky stood over him. He placed the muzzle of the SR-25 against the vision slit of Brond's helm. "Yield."
The silence was absolute. Brond, stunned, humiliated, and utterly defeated in under fifteen seconds, dropped his maul. "I... yield."
The referee's hand shot up. "Winner: Rocky!"
The amphitheater exploded. Not just in cheers, but in confused, excited analysis. He hadn't used a single class skill. He'd used geology, mechanics, and timing.
From the Elders' box, Pro Hunter Vance chuckled. "He didn't fight the man. He fought the situation."
Elder Elara nodded slowly. "A Jobless, indeed. He sees the world not as a series of stats and skills, but as a system of interconnected parts. He finds the loose thread and pulls."
The next few rounds passed in a similar blur of efficient, unsettling victories. Rocky's opponents, having seen the first fight, tried new tactics.
Second Match: vs. "Lyn - Class: Elementalist (Fire Specialist)."
Lyn, the mage who'd called him a waste of a face, opened with a barrage of [Fireball] and [Flame Wave], keeping her distance, filling the ring with fire.
Rocky's response: He raised his new shield. The first [Fireball] impacted. Instead of exploding, it splashed against the reactive composite, the mana-dispersal lattice glowing brightly as it scattered the magical energy into harmless pyrotechnics. Lyn stared, her combo broken.
He used the visual cover of the dispersing light to hurl a throwing knife not at her, but at the stone at her feet. The knife struck, sparking. It was a magnesium-tipped knife from his kit. The spark ignited the magnesium, creating a sudden, blinding white flare at Lyn's feet.
[Technique: Flashbang Improvisation]. Lyn shrieked, blinded and disoriented. Rocky closed in, not with violence, but to gently tap her shoulder with his sword tip. "You're open." She yielded, tears of frustration in her eyes.
Third Match: vs. "Dirk - Class: Brute (Duelist)."
Dirk, Brond's friend with the spiked club, tried pure, aggressive fury. He charged, club whirling, using a skill [Thundering Onslaught] that increased his speed and power.
Rocky didn't back up. He stepped into the charge, inside the arc of the heavy club. He used his shield in a [Shield Bash], but not to stop Dirk. To redirect him. Using Dirk's own momentum, he guided the Brute past him, using a [Pivot Return] that left Dirk stumbling, over-committed. A simple leg sweep [Low Sweep Kick] took Dirk's feet out. Before he hit the ground, Rocky's pistol was against his temple. "Yield." Another victory under ten seconds.
With each win, the crowd's fascination grew. The Elders' notes became more detailed. He wasn't winning with overwhelming force. He was winning with minimum necessary force. Every action was precise, economical, and targeted at the critical flaw in his opponent's strategy or equipment.
The fatigue, however, was cumulative. His Stamina was draining with each fight. The weight of his gear, the mental load of constant tactical calculation—it was grinding him down. By the time he reached the Quarter-Finals, his movements, while still precise, had lost their razor's-edge speed. He was operating on muscle memory and grit.
His quarter-final opponent was seeded 8th overall: "Kael - Class: Shadowblade (Assassin Variant)."
Kael was the opposite of previous opponents—a lithe, silent fighter in dark leathers, armed with twin serrated short-swords. He didn't stand still. The moment the gong sounded, he used [Shadow Step], vanishing from sight.
Rocky stood still in the center of the ring, eyes closed. He wasn't using sight. He was using [Keen Hearing], [Environmental Awareness], and the pressure changes in the air.
A whisper of movement behind him. Kael materialized, a short-sword aiming for the gap between his backplate and helmet—a killing blow in a real fight.
Rocky didn't turn. He dropped into a crouch [Quick Dip], the blade passing over his head. His right hand, already on his sword hilt, didn't draw. Instead, he elbowed backward violently [Elbow-Lance Thrust], striking Kael's sternum. The assassin grunted, his form solidifying.
Before Kael could re-vanish, Rocky's left hand shot back, grabbing the assassin's wrist. He stood, using his greater weight and leverage to execute a brutal [Hip Throw], slamming Kael onto the stone. He placed a boot on Kael's wrist, pinning a sword, and aimed his pistol down. "Yield."
Kael, gasping, nodded. The crowd, which had expected a long battle of stealth vs. perception, was stunned by the brutal, close-quarters efficiency. The Jobless had just out-assassinated an Assassin.
As Rocky helped Kael up—a small gesture that didn't go unnoticed by the Elders—he felt a wave of dizziness. His Stamina bar, invisible to others but screaming in his muscles, was deep in the red. Below 20%. He was running on fumes.
In the ready-pen, chugging water and forcing down an energy bar, he saw his next opponent for the Semi-Finals.
The bracket displayed: "ROCKY vs. BOLAS."
A murmur of anticipation shook the stands. The third-year Champion, publicly humiliated, seeking redemption. Bolas stood across the pen, stretching with exaggerated calm, his plasma-edged greatsword glowing with contained power. He caught Rocky's eye and drew a finger across his throat, smiling.
This was no longer just a tournament match. This was personal.
Pro Hunter Vance approached the pen, his voice low. "Bolas is a Champion. Not just a class—a ranking. He's top of his year. He's got strength, speed, and skill. And he's studied your last four fights. He won't fall for environmental tricks or quick draws."
Rocky nodded, breathing slowly, trying to coax more oxygen into his burning lungs. "I know."
"Your Stamina's shot. Your fancy shield might stop one plasma burst, but his sword cuts through magic and metal. And he's fast. You can't outmaneuver him in that kit."
"I know."
Vance looked at him, then at the gear. "So what's the plan, kid?"
Rocky looked at his hands, then at Bolas. He began to do something shocking. He started taking gear off. He unstrapped the shotgun from his thigh. He removed the SR-25 rifle's sling. He set aside the bandoleer of throwing knives. He even unbuckled the pistol from his drop-leg holster, leaving only the shoulder-holstered SIG P226.
"What are you doing?" Vance asked, bewildered.
"Minimum necessary force," Rocky said, his voice weary but clear. "The gear has a cost. It's costing me now. Against this opponent, in this state, most of it is just dead weight. It makes me predictable. He expects the arsenal."
He stood now with only: the new composite shield on his left arm, the longsword at his hip, the one hidden pistol, and his duffel bag (which he didn't open). He looked almost... normal. Like a poorly equipped foot soldier.
"You're going in half-strength against a Champion?" Vance hissed.
"No," Rocky said, a flicker of that cold, flint-like resolve returning to his eyes. "I'm going in with exactly what I need. The rest... is misdirection."
The gong for the semi-final match rang.
Rocky walked into the ring, feeling strangely light without the crushing weight of full kit. The crowd buzzed at his stripped-down appearance. Was he conceding? Was he broken?
Bolas sneered, twirling his greatsword, which left trails of green plasma in the air. "Finally realized you're just a pack mule? Going to fight like a real man with a real weapon?"
Rocky said nothing. He took his stance: Formless Ready. The relaxed, non-committal posture. He held his shield loosely, his right hand resting on his sword's plain pommel.
"Begin!"
Bolas didn't gloat this time. He came in like a hurricane. He activated a skill—[Champion's Charge]—blurring across the ring, greatsword raised for a devastating [Sky Cleaver].
Rocky didn't try to block. He used [Void Step], a micro-shift back, letting the plasma blade sizzle through the air an inch from his chest. The heat seared his armor's surface.
Bolas flowed into a [Whirlwind Slash], a spinning attack meant to cut through any guard. Rocky used [Willow's Sway], leaning back at the waist, the blade missing. He followed with [Pivot Return], moving to Bolas's off-hand side.
But Bolas was too good. He anticipated it, reversing his spin with shocking agility, his sword coming around in a backhand slash. Rocky had to bring his shield up.
CLANG-SZZZT!
The plasma edge met the reactive composite. The mana-dispersal lattice glowed white-hot, screaming as it tried to dissipate the magical plasma. It succeeded... partially. The shield held, but a deep, molten gouge was scorched across its surface, and the lattice flickered, damaged. Rika would be furious.
The impact drove Rocky back, his boots scraping stone. His already low Stamina dipped further. 10%.
Bolas pressed, a relentless series of chops, thrusts, and magical [Plasma Arc] projectiles from his blade. Rocky was forced into pure defense. [Cyclone Parry] with his sword to deflect, [Eight Directions Guard] with his shield. He gave ground, circling, his movements slowing perceptibly. He was being worn down.
The crowd groaned. This was it. The Cinderella story ended by sheer, overwhelming class superiority.
Bolas sensed victory. "See? No tricks! No gadgets! Just you and me! AND I AM SUPERIOR!" He gathered energy for a finishing skill, his greatsword blazing like a green sun. [DRACONIC EXECUTION]!
This was it. A massive, single-column blast of plasma that would erase most defenses.
Rocky, panting, shield scarred and smoking, did something inexplicable. He turned his back on Bolas.
A collective gasp. Was he surrendering?
No. He ran. Not away, but toward the edge of the ring, where his discarded duffel bag sat just outside the boundary line. The rules: no external items. The bag was external now.
"COWARD!" Bolas roared, unleashing the [Draconic Execution]. The beam of green death lanced across the arena toward Rocky's exposed back.
At the last possible millisecond, Rocky dove forward, not into the bag, but past it, hitting the ground in a [Roll Evade] that took him outside the ring's boundary.
The plasma beam struck the area he'd just occupied... and hit the duffel bag.
BOOOOOOM.
The bag wasn't just full of socks. It held his remaining ammunition, his depleted sonic emitter, spare parts, and—critically—the inert but still magically saturated crystalline staff and several Raufoss .50 cal rounds.
The catalytic reaction was instantaneous and catastrophic. The plasma ignited the Raufoss incendiary compounds. The unstable magical energy in the staff interacted violently with the raw plasma. The duffel bag vanished in a spectacular fireball of green and gold energy that shook the entire stadium.
The referee threw up a hasty barrier spell. The crowd screamed and ducked.
When the light and smoke cleared, Rocky was on his knees just outside the ring, looking singed but intact. The duffel bag was gone, replaced by a smoldering crater in the white stone floor. Inside the ring, Bolas stood stunned, his finishing move completely wasted on an inanimate object.
The referee, coughing, looked at the scene. Rocky was outside the boundary line. That was a ring-out. But...
Rocky raised a hand, pointing at Bolas's feet. "Referee. Check his left boot."
Everyone looked. Bolas's left boot was on the very edge of the ring... but a small, jagged piece of shrapnel from the exploding duffel—a piece of the emitter casing—had landed inside the ring, directly under the heel of his boot. It had lifted his heel a quarter-inch off the ground.
The rule was clear: both feet must be fully within the ring at the match's conclusion. A technicality, but a rock-solid one.
The referee bent down, inspected, and his eyes widened. He looked from the smoldering crater, to the shell-shocked Bolas, to the exhausted but calculating Rocky.
He straightened and raised his hand.
"Winner... by ring-out... ROCKY!"
The silence was nuclear.
Then, chaos.
Bolas screamed in incoherent rage, turning purple. The crowd erupted in disbelief, amazement, and howls of protest or laughter.
Rocky pushed himself to his feet, every muscle screaming. He had won. Not by overpowering Bolas, but by making Bolas's own overpowering strength the instrument of his defeat. He'd sacrificed his entire reserve kit—a huge strategic loss for the tournament overall—to win this one battle. It was the ultimate expression of "minimum necessary force." The cost was astronomical. The victory was absolute.
As he was declared the winner and Bolas was led away, frothing, Rocky looked up at the Elders' box. Elder Elara was staring, her galactic eyes wide with something beyond shock—a dawning, profound comprehension. Pro Hunter Vance was laughing so hard he was crying, pounding the railing.
Rocky had reached the Finals. He was battered, gear-depleted, Stamina-less, and had just turned a Champion into a joke.
And in the finals, waiting for him, was the tournament's number one seed: a serene, silver-haired young woman named Elara (no relation to the Elder), whose registered class was "Arcane Fencer." She had dismantled every opponent with elegant, effortless swordplay woven with instant, precise magic.
He had nothing left but a scarred shield, a simple sword, one pistol, and his wits.
The amphitheater's roar reached a fever pitch. The Jobless Hunter versus the Prodigious Mage-Duelist. The ultimate clash of system versus anti-system.
Rocky walked to the center of the ring for the final match, his breath ragged, but his gray eyes calm. He had come this far. He would see it through.