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The apartment was eerily quiet. Noah carefully picked up the sleeping Claire. Her body was light, carrying the lingering warmth of exhaustion, and her even breaths brushed against his neck like the soft fur of a cat. He laid her on the large bed and covered her with a thin blanket.
Beneath the morning light squeezing through the curtains, her face radiated a peacefulness that felt like the calm after a storm. Noah took a deep breath and stepped into the living room, his feet shoulder-width apart.
Tiger Stance.
His entire aura shifted instantly. The gentle student vanished, replaced by a ferocity as steady as a mountain. The new power—the fusion of his internal Qi and the G-Virus—surged through his limbs like an awakened primordial beast. He could hear his own heart beating like a war drum.
He moved through the Dragon-Tiger Stance and then into a set of Four Hammers. His fists tore through the air with dull, explosive cracks. Finally, he transitioned into the Twelve-Road Springing Leg. His toes sliced through the air with sharp whistles, leaving afterimages.
Normally, this routine would leave him drenched in sweat. Today, he felt only a warm, comfortable glow, as if he were soaking in a hot spring. Fatigue had been erased from his biology.
The bedroom door creaked open. Claire leaned against the frame, draped in one of Noah's oversized T-shirts. She rubbed her eyes, her gaze locked on him.
"You look... different," she whispered.
"I feel better than 'different,'" Noah said, pulling her into an embrace. He could feel her press her face against his chest, sensing the explosive power beneath his skin.
"We need to know your limits," Claire said, her voice regaining its tactical edge. "We can't plan the next move without knowing exactly what you can do."
The limit test began.
Test One: Stamina. Noah dropped for push-ups. One, two, a hundred... he moved with a tireless, mechanical rhythm. Claire counted until three hundred, then gave up and started flipping through a fashion magazine. When she finished the entire magazine, Noah hadn't even broken a sweat. "Stop," she finally said. "This is a pass. Full marks."
Test Two: Explosive Power. Noah stood a brick-like "Michelin Travel Guide" on the coffee table. With a simple straight punch—no wind-up—he struck. Thud. The heavy book exploded. Scraps of paper danced through the room like snow. Claire stared at the mess, then at Noah's unbruised knuckles, her mouth forming a perfect 'O'.
Test Three: Reaction Speed. Claire threw a cushion at the back of his head. Without turning, Noah caught it. She threw the remote. A magazine. An apple. He caught them all with his back turned. Finally, she flicked a lemon drop at him with all her might. Noah extended two fingers and pinched the candy out of the air. He unwrapped it, popped it into his mouth, and winked. "Sweet."
Test Four: Durability. Claire hesitated. Noah insisted. He handed her a solid wooden mop handle. "Full force. My back." Claire gritted her teeth and swung. CRACK. The wood snapped in two. Noah didn't even sway. "Hmm," he muttered, rubbing his shoulder. "A bit itchy."
Noah analyzed the results. "On paper, I'm roughly equivalent to 0.7 of a T-103 Tyrant in terms of raw stats. But with my martial arts and the way I can channel this energy... I'm confident I could go toe-to-toe with one."
While Claire showered, Noah tested his recovery. He drew a combat knife and slashed his left arm—a deep, six-centimeter cut. He watched as the blood clotted almost instantly. Within an hour, the skin was smooth and flawless again. Not even a scar remained.
Thousands of miles away, in the wood-scented conference room, the titans watched the data on a projector.
"Impossible!" the man in the white suit shouted. "The G-Virus at the primary stage shouldn't do this! His cellular activity is off the charts!"
"It's not just the virus," the old man with the pipe said, pointing at the energy flow readings from Noah's silver needle practice. "The virus is the fuel, but his ancient arts are the engine. He's stimulating human potential in a way we never thought possible."
Trant stood by the window, swirling his whiskey. "Noah has exceeded expectations. We shall establish a dedicated department to study this fusion. As for 'Mr. C'... give him a warning. Tell him the experimental material is under my supervision. Tell him to stop eyeing Sherry Birkin. If he needs a host, he can find his own."
Trant smiled into his glass. "And tell the rookie cop to stay with the girl. Let's see what our 'Little Bald Eagles' do in Paris."
In the Paris apartment, Noah sat on the carpet. He noticed a strange phenomenon: his Qi felt more refined and easier to control today. It seemed as if his connection with Claire was actually nourishing his strength—a literal harmonization of Yin and Yang.
He looked at Claire and couldn't help a slightly "lecherous" smile.
Thump. A pillow hit him in the face. "What are you grinning about, pervert?" Claire asked, hands on her hips.
"Nothing, nothing," Noah said, clearing his throat as the laptop beeped.
[Two identity wristbands arriving in one hour. Role: Special Security. The rest is up to you. Have fun at the Paris Headquarters. —T]
At dusk, a building of cold glass and steel crouched in the Parisian suburbs like a silent behemoth. Noah and Claire, wearing dark blue security uniforms and metallic wristbands, walked through the main gate.
A burly, bearded man with eyes like an eagle stopped them. "The new hires?" his voice grated like sandpaper. "You look young, but age isn't a factor here. Head to the Equipment Depot. Gear up."
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