When The System Spoi Chapter 86 - Eighty Six

Chapter 86: Chapter Eighty Six

’So, Aaron was the mber of the trio who was up for the fight the most?’

Zeke’s voice carried genuine warmth. He was happy to see that Aaron had grown.

’He really tried to fight Dean. Well, he did try to fight an S-Ranked Minotaur when he was just D-Rank.’

’And I’ve had a huge impact on him, if I do say so myself.’

{ Can you stop spoiling it? } Zero’s voice was flat, unimpressed. { Do you want to know what happens or not? }

’My bad. Continue the recap.’

---

The mont Kai heard the voice interrupt their conversation, he was hoping it was a mber of the class of weirdos. Better yet, a mber of the Twin Stars of Destruction.

When he saw the owner of the voice, he was stoked.

It had been a while since the trio had a good fight.

Yes, they had fought the bandits—the ones Aaron had turned into his Umbral soldiers—but those couldn’t satisfy the itch. Kai was used to punching above his weight class. Even if he would lose.

He wasn’t Zeke. He couldn’t fight as the weaker party and co out on top. He wasn’t Jude—strong, refined by the first floor’s crucible.

No. He was Kai. And he would still fight battles that brought out spontaneity in him rather than safe fights. Though when the need to posture arose, he would show weaker geniuses exactly what he was made of.

Then Aaron took the helm.

After being dismissed by Dean, it seed to annoy him just that much. It felt like one of those stories Aaron liked—the younger generation surpassing the older generation. But was there a need to dismiss soone who had co in acknowledgnt of his finished potential? Soone who had finally accepted his limits and found a better way to apply himself?

Kai had wanted to fight before. Now, his fighting spirit spiked another level.

Let’s see if your students can make us learn a thing or two.

Yes—learn. They had accepted, over and over, that they could not win. Maybe Jude could win. But the three of them could not beat Dean.

That didn’t matter.

As an immortal once said: I don’t fight a losing fight. Not because I’m the strongest. Not because I understand my limits. But because I’ll always find sothing to improve upon. A losing fight is a fight I can’t improve from.

Kai released his aura in free flow. He looked at Aaron. They nodded.

And walked.

"You wouldn’t mind one more person crashing this party, right?" Kai asked.

Before Dean could reply, Aaron cut in. "Scram. He’s mine. Go play with the stronger one."

"Aiya." Kai scratched the back of his head and walked to Jude’s side. "Jude, it seems we’ll have to share."

"Mm." Jude nodded. A small smile pulled at his mouth.

"I don’t even get the pleasure of rejecting the tag team?" Kenshin dropped the figures he’d been holding in headlocks and rolled his shoulders.

Then he turned toward the gathered crowd.

"Welco, classmates. You’ve co in ti for the most exciting fight you’ve seen the Twin Stars of Destruction have."

Yes—these three, despite their ranks, were at the top of the academy. One would overlook the other two because they were B and A-Rank. But his classmates were B and A-Rank as well, and it wasn’t their ranks that placed them at the top.

No. They had auras. The auras of the strong. Of the worthy. Of people who would make him learn sothing.

Let’s finish that assignnt from the professor this ti.

"You wouldn’t mind, right?" Jude’s smile held.

He looked over at the class of weirdos.

Ah. Zeke always found himself monsters. This class alone had more monsters than the full academy. Kenshin might be the strongest in his small class, but he still gave Jude pressure that even those other four couldn’t. That ant in a school of over a thousand freshn, Kenshin stood alone at the top.

Well. I’ll have to shake that top.

I did hear it’s lonely up there.

---

Samuel pinched the bridge of his nose.

He knew who Kenshin was about to fight. And by extension, he knew who the trio were.

I don’t think the professor would like this.

But seeing how he likes fighting, he wouldn’t mind seeing his brothers hurt, right?

Sam’s prophetic visions had co increasingly during his ti at the academy, more so about the professor. He had seen the trio in them often. And he had heard how the professor addressed them—To him it was more like his children than brothers.

Just like him and Dean. Dean was more like a parent than an older brother. A parent who made you question who should be the parent.

Let’s see what they bring to the table.

"Who do you think will win?" Aelric tapped Sam.

Virelle deadpanned. "Really?"

"I know they’ll win." Aelric waved a hand. "I’m asking how you think these guys will fare. Kenshin did call it the most exciting fight he’d had in a while."

"I’m more worried about Dean than Kenshin." Seraphin’s face carried no trace of worry. "He’s fighting ten opponents."

None of her classmates were worried any of them would lose. It was just an issue of how difficult the fight would be.

"Five hundred gold." Zephyr raised his hand. "Dean’s opponent gives him a fight of at least B-Rank evaluation."

"Just B-Rank?" Aelric laughed. "I’ll say it’ll be an S-Ranked fight."

"The evaluation spans up to SSS-Rank, right?" Nyssara asked.

"Of course. SSS-Rank is the highest level of fight he could pull off against Dean."

"Yes." Nyssara nodded. "I’ll be betting on an SS-Ranked performance."

" and Seraphin will bet on SS-Ranked as well." Virelle dragged Seraphin into the bet, roping her into the sa boat as Nyssara.

"Their battle doesn’t interest

as much as the two-on-one with Kenshin." Daemion’s eyes didn’t leave the main event. "And since Kenshin himself called it his most exciting fight so far, it should fall nothing short of an A-Rank evaluation. I’ll be betting on an S-Rank evaluation at least."

"The sa for ." Rhaegar nodded.

"What about you, Sam?" Zephyr asked.

Sam’s smile was thin. "SSS-Rank. Both fights. I bet Dean’s street food for a week."

"That’s evil." Aelric laughed.

---

"Who are those?" Students in the training ground had noticed the commotion.

"It’s Kenshin. He’s about to fight another victim."

"Wasn’t he dealing with those two idiots?"

"Who are you calling an idiot?" One of the persons Kenshin had held in a headlock straightened, adjusting his neck.

"You made trouble with Kenshin of all people. If that’s not stupidity, what is?"

"If we’re idiots, those guys are bigger idiots." The other person gestured toward the trio.

"Oh? They sought trouble first?"

"Well—sort of. But you know how Kenshin is."

"Yeah. That’s right."

"Then they’re not as big an idiot as you are."

"This bastard—"

"It’s starting." Soone cut them off.

A bigger fight was starting. Who had ti for weaklings?

It felt weird coming from weaklings. But what was the world to do?

---

"With the little brain I have," Dean said, "it seems I’ve offended you by dismissing you." He plucked his overcoat from his shoulders. "My apologies. But it seems to have spurred you on, so I’ll take one for the team."

He tossed the coat.

"The mont this coat hits the floor, I attack. I hope you’re not just all energy."

The coat hit the floor.

Dean moved before the fabric settled—a coiled spring released, his foot slamming against the training ground’s stone surface. The impact spiderwebbed outward, hairline fractures racing across the ground where his boot had struck. Dust kicked up in a cloud behind him.

He pounced.

PEW.

The beam was not sound. It was light given direction, heat given purpose, and it passed through the space Dean’s head had occupied a fraction of a second before. The air where it traveled shimred, the moisture in it flash-boiling into a thin vapor that hung in the air like breath on a cold morning.

Dean felt the heat kiss his cheek. A thin line of warmth that would beco a burn in seconds.

"Aiya." Aaron’s smile was sheepish, but his eyes held the intensity of soone entirely serious. "I thought I would surprise you. Oh, well. There’s plenty of ti."

His shadow had used [Beam]. The shadow—one of nine, all identical, all silent—stood with its finger still extended, the tip smoking faintly.

The stone behind Dean, where the beam had continued after he dodged, now bore a small smoking crater. The edges of the hole were glassed, lted and resolidified in the sa instant.

Sike.

BOOM.

Lightning struck from upwards.

[Call Thunder] .

The sound was not a crack but a detonation, the kind of sound that registers in the chest before the ears process it.

Dean launched sideways. The lightning caught his trailing leg—not the full strike, just the edge of it, but the edge was enough. His boot smoldered. The sll of scorched leather and sothing sharper—ozone, the particular tallic tang of electrical discharge—filled the air.

The stone where the lightning had struck was no longer stone. It was a crater of blackened fragnts, the edges still glowing faintly red, the center a shallow pool of molten rock that hissed and bubbled.

"Son of a bitch!"

Dean landed, rolled once to disperse the montum, and ca up with his weight already shifting.

The dust was still settling when the air moved.

[Air Jets].

The attack was invisible—a stream of compressed air, shaped and directed, traveling faster than the eye could track. It caught Dean across the shoulder, spinning him half-around before his instincts corrected. His shoulder burned where the air had compressed against it, the skin already reddening, a bruise forming beneath the surface before the blood had finished rushing to the site of impact.

The stone wall twenty feet behind him now bore a gouge—not a crack, not a crater, but a groove, as though sothing had been dragged across it with trendous force. Dust and stone chips rained down from the impact point.

Dean straightened. Rolled his shoulder once. The ache was there, but his arm still moved. Still worked.

"Are we testing my reflexes?" His voice carried across the training ground, light, almost teasing. "I expected more."

"Confidence isn’t bad." Aaron’s voice ca from his right. "But don’t do that when you haven’t found the one you should be attacking."

Dean pounced right.

His fist passed through empty air.

The impact of his punch—ant for Aaron’s chest—struck the stone column behind where Aaron had been standing. The column cracked. Not a hairline fracture—a split, the stone separating along a diagonal line from the point of impact to the column’s base. Dust and small fragnts showered downward.

Nothing.

"Rushing toward the unknown." Aaron had used his shadow’s [Anchor Back] to teleport to a mark placed beforehand—a small sigil on the floor, invisible unless you knew to look for it. "I don’t know if you’re bold or dumb. Maybe both."

Dean straightened. Flexed his fingers. The knuckles of his right hand were raw where they’d struck stone instead of flesh.

"Don’t you think you talk too much?" His voice had lost its teasing edge. "This is a fight, not a lecture."

"You’re right." Aaron’s smile sharpened. "But who said I was lecturing?"

Two shadows appeared before Dean. One held a blade of dark shadow—[Blademaster]—the energy construct humming with a frequency that made the teeth ache, the edge of it not quite solid, not quite liquid, existing in the space between. The other wore dark armor—[Armor]—the shadow’s form now encased in plates of solidified darkness that caught the light and held it, absorbing rather than reflecting.

The air around them was colder. Shadows, when concentrated, drew heat.

"Finally." Dean burst into a grin.

The Blademaster shadow swung. The blade left a trail in the air—not a visual trail, but a sound, a low hum that lingered after the blade had passed, as though the air itself was rembering what had moved through it.

Dean ducked. The blade passed over his head, close enough that he felt the wrongness of it—not wind, not heat, but sothing else, sothing that made his skin prickle. The stone behind him, where the blade’s energy had extended past its physical edge, now bore a thin line. Not a crack. A severance. The stone had been cut, cleanly.

Dean caught the Blademaster’s hand. Drew it in. The shadow struggled—not intelligently, but instinctively, the way a construct struggled when its purpose was interrupted. Dean’s grip was iron. He drew the shadow close and drove his forehead into its face.

CRACK.

The sound was not flesh on flesh. It was sothing harder, sothing that resonated. The shadow’s head snapped back. The darkness of its form flickered, destabilized, then reford.

Dean turned. Grabbed the Armor shadow by the helm of its armor. The tal—if it could be called tal—was cold against his palm, colder than stone, colder than it should have been. He punched its stomach.

The impact was solid. The armor dented—not a crack, but a depression, the darkness compressing under the force of his fist. The shadow doubled over, its form flickering, the armor plates shifting as they struggled to maintain cohesion.

Dean raised the shadow upward. Released the helm. And continued punching with both hands.

Each impact sent shockwaves through the shadow’s form. The armor cracked—not the stone-crack of breaking, but the shattering of sothing that had been holding itself together by force of will. Dark fragnts scattered across the stone floor, each one dissolving into mist before it finished falling.

The stone beneath Dean’s feet had cracked from the force of his stance—not from the punches themselves, but from the rooting, the way he had planted himself to deliver them. Cracks radiated outward in a rough circle, so thin as spider silk, others wide enough to catch a boot heel.

As he attacked, he felt sothing rushing at him.

A shadow with a fiery aura—as fiery as a shadow could manage. [Berserk]. The shadow’s form was different now—larger, the darkness of its body shot through with veins of red that pulsed like a heartbeat. Its movents were faster, less controlled. Its eyes—if shadows could have eyes—were wild.

The shadow effectively had S-Rank physical stats from the boost. Dean could feel it in the weight of its approach, the way the air seed to thicken around it.

"Heh."

Dean stopped attacking the Armor shadow—its armor already broken, its form flickering at the edges—and flung it toward the incoming Berserker. "Here. A gift."

The Armor shadow tumbled through the air, limp, its form already dissolving. It struck the Berserker mid-charge. The Berserker stumbled, caught itself, and pushed the dissolving shadow aside. The shadow’s remnants scattered across the stone, dissolving into mist before they stopped moving.

Dean ducked a sneak attack from the Blademaster, felt the blade pass close enough to his ear that he heard the hum of it. He kicked backward with the heel of his leg—not aid, just placed—and caught the Blademaster in what would have been its stomach.

The shadow flew backward, its form tumbling end over end before it caught itself, its blade still extended, still humming.

Dean pounced as it regained itself.

"I’m a fan of blades myself." Dean smiled. "Think I could get one?"

The Blademaster swung. The blade left another trail in the air—this one closer, the hum louder.

Dean weaved. Moved under the arc. His hand shot out, caught the wrist holding the blade, and hit the hand aside. The blade wobbled in the shadow’s grip.

Dean reached for it.

His fingers closed around empty air.

The blade dissipated—not dropped, not thrown, but dismissed, the energy that had ford it returning to the shadow’s core.

SCHICK.

A blade stabbed his abdon.

Not the Blademaster’s blade—that was gone. This was different. An energy blade, ford directly from the shadow’s body, extended from its other hand while Dean was focused on the first. The blade was shorter, thicker, ant for close quarters. It drove into Dean’s side just below the ribs.

"Oh." Dean didn’t look down. The blade was warm—not hot, but warm, as though it had been held against skin for too long. The wound was shallow. The shadow had aid for sothing vital but Dean’s movent had carried him through the strike before it could penetrate deeply. "Energy blade. I forgot."

Blood welled around the blade’s entry point. Dark. Not arterial—too slow for that, too controlled. The shadow withdrew the blade. The wound remained, a small dark hole in Dean’s shirt, the fabric already staining.

He hit the other hand away. The shadow’s wrist cracked—not audibly, but Dean felt it give, the structure of the construct destabilizing under the force. He barraged the Blademaster with punches.

The first punch caved in its chest. The second shattered its shoulder. The third—the fourth—the fifth—each one drove the shadow backward, its form flickering, fragnts of darkness scattering with every impact. The last punch dissipated it entirely, the shadow dissolving into mist that hung in the air before slowly, reluctantly, fading.

The Berserker shadow jumped in.

"Oh. Physical altercations."

Dean dodged the first punch. The Berserker’s fist passed close enough to his face that he felt the displaced air—not wind, but force, the kind of force that left bruises on skin it didn’t touch.

The stone behind where Dean had been standing now bore a crater. Not a crack—a crater, the size of a dinner plate, the edges jagged, the center pulverized to dust.

The Berserker followed with a kick. Dean blocked with his forearms—crossed them in front of his chest, braced for impact. The kick landed.

The force traveled up his arms, through his shoulders, down his spine. His feet skidded backward across the stone, his boots leaving dark streaks on the pale surface. His arms ached. The bones would bruise. Nothing was broken.

Dean threw a punch of his own. The Berserker weaved—slower than it should have been, the [Berserk] boost trading precision for power—and countered. Its fist caught Dean across the jaw.

His head snapped sideways. Pain flared across his cheek, hot and imdiate. Blood welled from a split in his lip. He tasted copper.

He didn’t stop.

A flurry of hand-to-hand combat erupted. The Berserker was faster now, its movents less predictable, the [Berserk] state reaching its peak. But Dean was reading it—not consciously, not with thought, but with sothing deeper, sothing that lived in his bones.

The exchange was too fast for weaker spectators to follow. Those who could track it saw a blur of motion—Dean’s fists finding the Berserker’s body, the Berserker’s fists finding Dean’s guard, the impact of each blow sending shockwaves through the air that the weaker students felt as pressure against their skin.

The stone beneath them was no longer intact. It was a mosaic of cracks, craters, and pulverized fragnts, the surface uneven, treacherous. Dust hung in the air, thick enough to taste.

In the middle of it, Dean sensed an incoming attack.

He looked up.

A flash of light.

From above—

"SON OF A BITCH!"

—