The locker room operated like a public bathhouse—numbered wristbands corresponded to lockers, efficient and impersonal.
Association rules were strict: no equipment allowed during testing. Male candidates could wear shorts provided by staff. Female candidates got an additional sports bra.
Not that it mattered much. Female heroes were a minority in general, and today's recruitment pool was almost entirely men.
The locker room was packed with bodybuilders—massive physiques crammed together, comparing bicep measurements and exchanging protein shake recipes. Pectoral muscles flexed in unspoken competition. The testosterone level approached hazardous concentrations.
The atmosphere was aggressively masculine.
Jordan ignored it entirely and started removing his shirt.
The moment the fabric came off, conversation stuttered.
Someone in the corner inhaled sharply.
Jordan's physique was the result of systematic attribute card enhancement—tall frame, defined musculature, exaggerated V-taper from shoulders to waist. Perfect proportions that had absolutely nothing to do with gym effort and everything to do with gacha pulls.
An exceptionally vigorous silver-haired old man stared openly, eyes gleaming with unmistakable excitement.
"Perfect," the old man breathed. "Absolutely perfect body proportions. Martial arts talent visible to the naked eye—this child is a rare gem!"
Spider-Sense flared.
Jordan's attention snapped sideways. Someone was watching him with intense focus—not hostile, but interested in a way that made his instincts prickle.
He turned slightly.
A sprightly old man who looked seventy-plus smiled kindly at him, grandfatherly and harmless. Then, just like everyone else, he casually removed his shirt.
The locker room went silent.
The old man's torso was granite. Muscle definition that would make professional athletes weep, packed onto a frame that moved with the easy grace of someone half his age. The contrast between his kind, squinty-eyed smile and the body that could clearly crush skulls barehanded created jarring cognitive dissonance.
"Holy shit," someone whispered. "That old man—"
"How does a random park grandpa have a physique like that?!"
Jordan recognized him immediately.
Silver Fang. Bang.
Future third-ranked S-Class hero. Martial arts grandmaster whose Flowing Water Rock Shattering Fist had made him legendary in his youth. One of humanity's top combat assets.
And currently staring at Jordan like he'd found a winning lottery ticket.
Jordan nodded politely in acknowledgment.
Bang's smile widened.
They stored their belongings and joined the flow of candidates heading toward the assessment area.
Bang positioned himself on the opposite side of the group, but his gaze kept drifting back—studying Jordan's posture, movement patterns, the way he carried his weight. His eyes gleamed with unmistakable interest.
Jordan felt a headache forming.
He knew Bang's reputation. The old man was a dedicated teacher, always seeking talented students for his dojo. And he had a tendency to be... persistent when he found someone with potential.
Practicing martial arts requires suffering, Jordan thought. Why suffer when I can cheat with cards?
The testing venue sprawled across the massive space, divided into stations. First came the basics: height, weight, vision, lung capacity. Staff recorded everything with clinical efficiency.
Jordan finished the preliminaries and spotted Lanny waiting near the entrance to the strength testing room, blonde hair and burgundy glasses standing out against the crowd.
"Officer Evans, please follow me."
Jordan nodded and started forward—
"Um, young lady, may I join you?"
Lanny turned, startled. An incredibly muscular old man stood behind her, smiling with what could charitably be described as grandfatherly enthusiasm but looked suspiciously like a leer.
"Sir, I'm afraid—"
"This is Master Bang," Jordan interjected smoothly. "A martial arts grandmaster."
Both Lanny and Bang blinked in surprise.
"Hey, you know me?" Bang asked, clearly pleased.
Jordan nodded. "I was fortunate enough to witness the master's Flowing Water Rock Shattering Fist once."
He demonstrated a few hand movements—approximations, since he had zero actual martial training.
Bang's eyebrow twitched. The movements look professional, but this kid has no foundation whatsoever. "Master is too generous a title. I'm just an ordinary old man who runs a dojo."
Jordan leaned closer, voice dropping. "Not at all. I know a little about the master's deeds in his youth."
Bang's posture shifted subtly, a flash of something dangerous crossing his expression. "You seem to know quite a bit, young man."
Then he relaxed, chuckling. "Ahem. Best not to dwell on the past. What's your name?"
"Jordan Evans. I'm a police officer."
"Evans, hmm?" Bang's smile returned, genuine this time. "Come visit my dojo sometime. It's not far from Z-City—peaceful environment, good training grounds."
"I'd be honored."
Lanny stood behind them, completely lost. The two had gone from subtle tension to friendly invitation in thirty seconds flat. She hurried to catch up in her heels, reasserting control.
"Please follow me. We have a private testing room available."
Bang's eyes lit up. "No waiting in line? Excellent!"
Jordan glanced at him. "Master, you're being a bit obvious with your enthusiasm."
"At my age, I've earned the right to be obvious."
Lanny led them to a machine that resembled a train engine—massive, industrial, covered in sensors and display panels. She explained the situation to the confused staff: two test subjects instead of one.
Jordan and Bang exchanged glances.
"Evans, would you like to go first?"
"Master, please. I'd like to observe your technique."
Bang nodded, no longer being polite. He stretched his arms, loosening muscles, rolling his shoulders.
Before meeting Jordan, Bang had been curious about the Hero Association but noncommittal. He'd signed up partly to help ordinary people, partly to evaluate whether the organization lived up to its claims. Rankings, fame, popularity—none of that interested him.
But now?
Now he wanted to show this young man what true martial arts looked like.
Bang stood shirtless before the testing machine, legs slightly bent, waist coiled. His white beard and hair stirred despite the still air, moved by some internal energy.
He raised one hand. The other settled behind his back.
His arms traced smooth, flawless arcs through the air—movements like water flowing, like Tai Chi in its purest form.
Then he struck.
"Flowing Water Rock Shattering Fist!"
Spider-Time activated automatically.
The world slowed to a crawl. Jordan's enhanced perception captured every detail—the perfect economy of motion, the way Bang's entire body contributed to the strike, channeling force through optimal pathways. What looked effortless contained the world's most refined technique, generating tremendous power with minimal effort.
A gazelle leaping across a cliff. Inevitable. Beautiful. Deadly.
The fist connected with the leather pad.
BOOM.
Air compressed audibly. The sound cracked like a gunshot.
Before the staff could process what happened, the display screen above the machine lit up with electronic chimes:
Ding. Ding. Ding.
Three large "9"s appeared in sequence.
"Nine hundred ninety-nine kilograms!" A technician gaped at the readout. "No—wait, it's exceeded the machine's measurement capacity!"
The display flashed an error message: LIMIT EXCEEDED.
"Mr. Bang..." The staff member looked between the old man and the smoking machine. "Your strength test score is... perfect. Maximum possible score."
Bang lowered his fist slowly, breathing steady, completely unfazed.
He turned to Jordan with a modest smile.
"Your turn, young man. Show me what you've got."