The mont Instructor Heiron gave the command and the vines fully withdrew into the earth, the Spearopion lunged forward, but not with the reckless hunger of a beast unleashed—it halted midway, the hardened tips of its legs scraping against the arena floor.
Sothing had changed. Sothing invisible, yet undeniable.
The students didn’t even have the breath to gasp.
From where Wesley stood, their silence wasn’t just shock—it was disbelief trembling on the edge of fear.
"He won’t last," soone whispered, barely louder than a breath.
"He has no chance..."
"That thing killed a mid-tier beast with one strike."
"Why did Instructor even allow this?! He’s going to get impaled!"
"I don’t want to see him die. I really don’t."
"Even if he blocks one strike, the venom eats through magic..."
Voices clustered in hushed panic and grim certainty.
The group of students—those who had earlier shouted and teased—now seed pale, pressed against the rails as if the beast could leap out and rip them apart instead.
But Gabe didn’t flinch.
His stance was firm. Feet grounded. Arms relaxed yet ready. His shield didn’t tremble in his grasp, and the way his eyes narrowed—it was like he didn’t hear any of them.
And then it happened.
Boom.
An explosion of pressure burst from Gabe’s body—not from his mouth or his muscles, but from his very being.
The air warped for a mont, as if the heat of the sun had dropped on the arena floor.
A pulse of shimring Mana flared around him like a corona, not wild, but controlled—calculated.
Instructor Heiron’s expression shifted instantly. The glow in his hands, once prepared to snatch Gabe away from certain death, dimd for a mont as he blinked in raw surprise.
"Aura manifestation?" he said, his voice echoing over the stunned crowd. "Genius... absolute genius! He startled the beast into stillness. That’s advanced-level combat behavior!"
The Spearopion flinched, halting its stride. Its claws retracted slightly. The spear-tipped tail, once poised to strike, hesitated as if sniffing out the unfamiliar energy.
Wesley narrowed his eyes.
He didn’t say a word—but in that quiet mont, sothing clicked. That technique. The pressure. The deliberate, targeted intimidation.
He’d used that sa tactic in their spar. Not consciously, but his body—his system-enhanced instincts—released an aura with every swing of his mop.
Not for offense, but deception. Fake an attack to bait a defense. Confuse, pressure, manipulate the senses. Gabe must’ve felt it, processed it, and now... replicated it.
Wesley swallowed back a strange feeling. Awe? No. It was sothing else.
He had thought of Gabe as talented—but still within the realm of the ordinary. Now, watching that sa boy freeze a high-level beast with an improvised aura blast...
He realized he couldn’t underestimate people here. Not even those without a system. Not even soone who once lost to a mop-wielding janitor.
And Gabe?
Gabe stood there calm, the echo of the aura pulsing in his veins.
He didn’t even know why it worked so well. He only recalled, earlier, when Wesley had swung that ridiculous mop in his face—how he’d felt his skin crawl, his heart drop, his breath catch for just a second.
That raw sensation of death brushing past his cheek, even though it was just a cleaning tool.
Back then, Gabe had been confused, overwheld. But now? Now he understood.
He looked toward Wesley outside the arena and smirked ever so slightly.
"You felt that too, right?" Gabe called out.
Wesley blinked. Speechless.
Then the silence shattered.
The Spearopion struck.
It was sudden—blindingly fast. Its massive tail whipped forward with a violent whistle, the spear-point extending mid-air into a deadly javelin of glowing violet.
Its claws slamd against the floor, propelling its entire body toward Gabe like a launched bolt.
Gabe raised his shield.
Clang!
The spear cracked against the tallic surface, exploding with a burst of energy—but Gabe didn’t falter. He pivoted. Shifted his stance.
Let the impact slide off the angle of his shield, redirecting the montum to his side rather than absorbing it.
And again.
The beast slashed with a claw. Gabe stepped backward.
It swiped with its barbed leg. Gabe ducked and rolled to the side.
The spear struck down vertically like a guillotine.
Gabe raised his shield again, the edge scraping the violet tip, sparks flying as the tal hissed, but he sidestepped at the last second—cleanly, flawlessly.
Instructor Heiron’s breath caught.
This wasn’t just survival. It was skill.
Every strike that should’ve crushed him was redirected, diffused, evaded. Gabe’s movents weren’t hesitant. They were tactical. Like soone who had already mapped every attack before it ca.
Heiron narrowed his eyes.
Sothing wasn’t right.
The Spearopion was fast. Its tail moved quicker than most creatures could think. But Gabe wasn’t only keeping up—he was one step ahead.
Why... why does the beast seem so slow in comparison? the Instructor wondered.
And then he rembered the earlier bout that Gabe said. The Janitor. The mop. That terrifying dance of dodges, unpredictable pressure, and impossible speed.
Could it be... from the Janitor? He learned from the Janitor.
"Is this why?" Heiron murmured. But he would shake his head. It’s impossible.
It was Gabe’s talent.
Mana Suppression training.
Yes!
That’s it!
That’s the only reason!
The crowd outside was murmuring too.
"No way..."
"He shouldn’t be able to dodge that!"
"His shield just angled the tail to the side like it was a stick!"
"He’s not just surviving—he’s... he’s dancing around it!"
"Is this really the sa Gabe who couldn’t land a clean strike two weeks ago?"
"How is he reading its movents? How is he moving like that?!"
The astonishnt grew by the second.
Instructor Heiron stepped closer to the edge, eyes wide.
"What is this?" he whispered aloud. "This is... impossible."
His wand hand lowered unconsciously as he stared.
Gabe dipped low beneath a tail strike and redirected the montum with a shield tap, causing the Spearopion to overextend. He rolled under the creature’s underbelly, angled his blade toward its exposed flank—and stopped.
No command to attack.
He returned to defense.
Redirect.
Evade.
Control.
Heiron saw it. The footwork. The breathing. The use of shield angles and shifting weight distribution to absorb impact without taking damage. It was advanced—too advanced. And yet, here it was.
His jaw went slack.
And Gabe?
In his mind, he was no longer fighting a monster. He was replaying mop strikes, evasions, shoulder feints. He was rembering Wesley’s insane unpredictability, the smacking gust of the mop like a club of montum and rage.
Compared to that? The Spearopion felt like a child swinging a stick.
He’s slower. He telegraphs his attack. He gives space to breathe. Janitor didn’t do that. He was relentless.
Another tail strike—blocked. Another leg slash—evaded. Another feint—redirected.
This wasn’t defense. This was command of the flow.
Then, without warning, a massive wall of glowing vines erupted between Gabe and the Spearopion. The beast screeched as the plants curled around it again, binding it tighter, this ti with double the force.
Heiron had intervened.
He couldn’t let this go on.
The Spearopion thrashed violently, but the roots were already reclaiming their territory, pinning it like a furious puppet on strings.
Heiron’s voice finally returned.
Mouth agape, steps slow, he walked toward the center of the arena, never taking his eyes off Gabe.
"How..." he breathed.
Gabe turned to him, calm.
Instructor Heiron stared at the boy like he had just witnessed a miracle crawl out of the dirt.
"How did you get this strong?"
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