Chapter 94: Chapter Ninety Four
---
Zeke released the pressure.
The class did not move. Not imdiately. They remained exactly where they had fallen—sprawled across the white floor, chests heaving, bodies still recalibrating to the absence of weight. The aura had not injured them, but it had inford them. Their professor was not playing a role. He was not performing nace. The pressure was simply what existed around him when he stopped holding it back.
Rhaegar did not wait for his lungs to fully recover.
He activated the mind-link.part of his ability [psychic sovereign] , as natural as breathing if breathing required focus. The connection snapped into place between the ten of them, clean and imdiate, a network of shared awareness that bypassed the need for words.
They had never fought as a team before. Not like this. But the mind-link would smooth the edges, fill the gaps that inexperience would otherwise leave open. Rhaegar could feel their lingering shock—the aftershock of Zeke’s displeasure still reverberating through their nervous systems—but beneath that, sothing else was waking up.
Two of them were already moving.
Kenshin and Dean had not waited for the plan. They never did. But they had waited just long enough—for the pressure to lift, for their legs to rember how to hold them, for the signal that Rhaegar’s link was active. The mont it snapped into place, they launched forward.
Kenshin’s body ignited. A white aura flared around him—[Heavenly Restriction] stripping away his mana, converting it into raw physical force. His stats surged past SSS-Rank. His eyes found Zeke.
Dean, running beside him, activated his own ability for the first ti on screen. [Apex Predator] was not a simple boost. It was conditional. [Hunter’s Elevation] required specific origins—divine, demonic, undead, monster—and a stronger opponent. Zeke was stronger, but he did not qualify for the origins.
That was what [Human Ascendancy] was for.
The ability’s second boon covered everything outside those categories. Against opponents one rank above him, Dean’s physical stats rose by fifty percent. Against opponents two ranks above him, the increase climbed to seventy-five.
Two ranks above is where Zeke lies, as he is but just an SS Rank entity, one at the early stage at that.
Yet, this entity was terrifying as saints.
Dean’s stats surged. Strength and agility touched SSS-Rank. Endurance and perception followed close behind, being at the peak of SS Rank.
With Kenshin as described in the fight against Jude reaching SSS Rank in his stats.
Together, they still did not matter.
---
To understand what happens in the next mont, we must first recognize that the Zeke before us is no longer the Zeke from the previous volu.
This is a Zeke who has spent millions of years inside a simulated world—a construct generated by the tower. Physical changes do not carry over, of course. But have you heard of experience? Of ntal accumulation?
That is the unspoken reward—and punishnt—of the tower’s first trial.
Consider this: even the least talented person, given millions of years to refine a single craft, would erge as a certified combatant. And Zeke was more than the average genius. His battle experience, his skill developnt across all areas and levels of combat—these now surpass what the so-called talent of these young battle junkies could ever keep up with.
---
Zeke stood in a golden aura—[Giant’s Dominion], copied from Zeldris, boosting his physical abilities by eighty percent. His face was impassive. His hands were at his sides. He did not shift into a stance. He simply waited.
Kenshin reached him first.
The punch was not telegraphed—it simply arrived, a fist closing the distance between them in less ti than it took to register. Zeke tilted his head. The fist passed where his jaw had been. The air displacent alone would have staggered a normal opponent; Zeke’s hair stirred.
Kenshin followed imdiately, no reset, no recovery—just the next attack already in motion. A knee. An elbow. A second punch, different angle, sa speed.
Zeke moved through each of them like water through stones. Not dodging so much as not being there when the strike arrived. His economy of motion was obscene. Kenshin threw a dozen attacks; Zeke shifted his weight a dozen tis, each adjustnt asured in centiters rather than inches.
Dean appeared on his left.
The punch was wider than Kenshin’s, more committed, carrying the full weight of his boosted strength. Zeke’s torso rotated. The punch passed through the space his ribs had occupied. Dean’s montum carried him forward, and he used it, spinning into a kick aid at Zeke’s hip.
Zeke’s palm t the kick. The impact was solid—at on at, bone on bone. The sound echoed across the white space.
"Urgh."
Dean’s grunt was not pain. It was effort. The kick had landed exactly as intended. Zeke had caught it exactly as intended. Neither of them had gained ground.
Kenshin pressed forward again. Dean recovered and pressed with him. For the next minute, they threw everything they had—punches, kicks, elbows, knees, combinations that would have dismantled anyone else in the academy. They attacked simultaneously, alternately, from angles that should have been impossible to cover.
Zeke’s body flowed.
[Martial Instinct] was not a combat style. It was an answer to combat styles—a reactive architecture that consud incoming information and produced outgoing movent with no discernible gap between the two. Kenshin threw a punch; Zeke was not there. Dean threw a kick; Zeke’s block was already in place. They adjusted; Zeke had already adjusted to their adjustnt.
Dean’s [Combat Intuition] kept him in the exchange. He read Zeke’s movents a fraction of a second faster than Kenshin, committed a fraction of a second later, recovered a fraction of a second sooner. It was not enough.
"Hm."
The sound was small. Almost thoughtful.
Zeke nodded.
They did not falter—there was no ti for faltering—but the acknowledgnt landed like a weight. He was not impressed. He was not disappointed. He was observing.
Kenshin threw a punch. Zeke ducked under it, his spine folding like a bow drawn back. Dean saw the opening—the duck left Zeke’s side exposed—and kicked, his shin driving toward Zeke’s ribs.
Zeke’s palm caught the kick again. This ti, he did not hold.
He lifted.
Dean’s leg rose with Zeke’s hand, his balance shifting, his center of gravity tilting past the point of recovery. In the sa motion, Zeke kicked out—two legs, two targets. His foot caught Dean in the chest and Kenshin in the stomach simultaneously, the force of the strike transferring through both of them.
They skidded backward across the white floor. Dean’s boots left dark streaks. Kenshin’s heels dug grooves into the surface. Neither fell, but both were pushed back, the distance between them and their professor widening for the first ti since the fight began.
Zeke settled into a boxing stance.
The shift was subtle—weight distribution, hand position, the angle of his shoulders. He stepped forward, then back, a short rhythmic slide that tested the ground beneath him. Then he planted his feet and pivoted toward Dean.
He crossed the distance in a blur.
Dean’s [Combat Intuition] scread at him to move. He threw a punch—not aid, not tid, just there, the best his body could produce in the fraction of a second it had to respond.
Zeke was not there.
He had slipped under the punch, inside Dean’s guard, and his uppercut was already traveling. The fist connected with Dean’s chin. The impact lifted Dean’s head, snapped it back, sent a shockwave through his jaw that he felt in his temples.
Zeke did not stop.
Right hook. Left hook. The blows landed in rapid succession, each one finding its mark with the precision of soone who had thrown the sa combination thousands of tis. Dean’s head rocked left, then right. His guard collapsed.
The second uppercut lifted him off the ground.
His feet left the white floor. His body rose, carried upward by the force of the blow, his chin still tilted toward the ceiling. For a mont, he hung there—suspended, weightless, caught between the impact and the fall.
Zeke’s cross ended it.
The punch was not faster than the others. It was not harder. It was simply final—the last word in a sentence that had already said everything. It caught Dean in the chest, just below the sternum, and drove him backward through the air.
Blood sprayed from his mouth as he flew. Not a mist—a streak, dark against the white, trailing behind him like a banner.
He hit the ground and kept sliding.
Kenshin was already there.
He had not waited for Dean to fall. He had not hesitated. The mont Zeke turned toward Dean, Kenshin had closed the distance, and now he was inside Zeke’s guard, his fist already moving.
Zeke weaved.
The punch passed over his shoulder. Kenshin followed with his other hand—a hook, close-range, almost no wind-up. Zeke slipped under it as well, rotating his torso, his center of gravity shifting without apparent effort.
He landed a jab in Kenshin’s stomach.
The punch was not powerful. It was placed. Kenshin’s endurance was his lowest stat—the weakness in his otherwise overwhelming physical profile. The jab sank into his abdon, compressing muscle and tissue against spine, and Kenshin’s body folded around it.
He did not fall. His regeneration was already working, the wound healing as fast as it was inflicted. But for a fraction of a second, he was stopped—his montum arrested, his body reeling.
A block of ice erupted from his stomach.
Not from the wound—from the space around the wound, crystallizing outward in a branching formation that encased his torso, his arms, his head. The ice was not cold in the ordinary sense. It was deviant. A prison made of stillness given form.
Kenshin’s eyes, visible through the translucent surface, were wide with surprise.
A golden light flared—different from [Giant’s Dominion], brighter, cleaner. Evidently a buff from the school of deviant magic as Zeke beca faster.
Zeke moved.
He appeared before the gathered students not in a blur but in an instant—one heartbeat he was in front of the frozen Kenshin, the next he was standing between Zephyr and Aelric. The displacent of air followed a mont later, a rush of wind that stirred their hair and clothes.
They scrambled.
Aelric tried to move—his body shifting, bones already beginning to extend through his skin—but Zeke’s hand was faster. It closed around Aelric’s braid, yanked him forward, and drove him into the ground.
The impact cracked the white floor. Aelric’s face struck the surface, his nose breaking, blood spraying across the pristine material. Before he could recover, a lance of golden light—materialized from light magic summoned by Zeke—stabbed through his shoulder and pinned him to the ground.
"Hmm."
Zeke’s head tilted. Pressure was mounting on him—not physical, but spatial, a force pressing inward from all sides, trying to compress him into a smaller space. [Pressure Sovereign]. Seraphin had joined the fight.
"You’ve decided to join the battle?"
His voice was calm. Almost conversational.
He smirked.
And released his aura.
The pressure was not directed. It was simply present—a wave of killing intent that washed over Seraphin, not touching her body but saturating her perception. Her focus fractured. The pressure she had been applying wavered, then collapsed.
Zeke’s smirk widened.
He appeared before Sam.
Not a blur this ti—a teleport, space folding and unfolding around him, depositing him exactly where he wanted to be. [Teleportation]. A spell from the space magic branch.
"I expected more from you." His voice was quiet, almost disappointed. "You should have begun using [Future Reading] the mont I engaged them. You and Rhaegar could have made a better team."
He reached for Sam—not a punch, not a grab, just a hand closing the distance between them, intending to slam him to the ground.
A presence appeared at his side.
Daemion.
"He did use his ability, Professor." The words were calm, asured. Daemion’s arms were outstretched, his palms aid at Zeke’s torso. "Rhaegar simply decided this was the best outco."
The plan was simple: touch Zeke, activate [Dinsional Eye], and send him to the connected dinsion. Not to trap him—the Crucible might not permit that—but to buy ti. To reset the engagent. To give the class room to breathe.
Zeke snorted.
And teleported away.
The space where he had been standing was empty. Daemion’s hands closed on nothing.
Zeke reappeared twenty feet back, his posture unchanged, his expression unreadable. He surveyed the class.
They had gathered. Dean was on his feet, one hand pressed to his chest, the other pulling the lance of light from Aelric’s shoulder. The wound was shallow—Zeke had aid to pin, not to kill. Aelric rose, his shoulder already clotting, his nose already resetting.
Kenshin was free of the ice, his regeneration having lted it from the inside. He stood at the group’s edge, his posture coiled, his eyes fixed on Zeke.
"A small sacrifice for the many." Zeke’s voice carried across the white space, light and unhurried. "Or rather, a boost in confidence for your classmates. They’re still shocked from the aura fest."
He tilted his head.
"Still within reason..."
He paused.
"Nyssara."
She was behind him.
She had appeared there—[Superposition], no cost, no tell, simply deciding to be sowhere and being there. Her hand was raised, a spell already forming, her target the back of Zeke’s head.
The mont he spoke her na, fear jolted through her.
Not the slow dread of anticipation. A spike, sudden and total, driven directly into her nervous system. She tried to move—to activate [Superposition], to be anywhere else—and found that she could not.
[Reality Anchor].
A sub-ability of [Sunder]. The space around her was locked. No teleportation. No portals. No escape.
"You must have been bad at hide and seek as a child."
Zeke’s voice was flat. The words were a tease, but his face did not smile.
He turned his attention back to the group.
The students stood in a loose formation—not quite a line, not quite a circle, but sothing in between. Their faces held three expressions simultaneously: shock at what had just happened, acceptance that it had happened, and resolve. They were still here. They were still fighting.
"Is this all still going according to plan?"
Zeke’s smile was the first he had given since the fight began. It was not a pleasant smile. It was the smile of soone who had already seen the end of the conversation and was simply waiting for the other person to catch up.
The group looked to Rhaegar.
His smile was wry. His eyes held conviction.
’Kenshin.’ His thought moved through the ntal space, clear and deliberate. ’Do you think this is what those guys felt when they fought you?’
Kenshin scratched his head. His smile was lopsided.
He did not answer.
He did not need to.
—
Reviews
All reviews (0)