Ethan Gray assessed the trainees restless expressions. Their skepticism hung thick—raw recruits doubting a retired champion's edge.

  "Records indicate three high school recruits," Ethan said, swiping through a holographic dossier. "Suit up first. Full armor."

  Combat protocols mandated reinforced plating: shock-dampening helmets, titanium-weave neck guards. Even blunted training spears packed lethal force.

  Ethan secured his visor, the mesh obscuring his weathered features. "Enter the arena."

  The twenty-meter combat ring hummed with anticipation. Provincial Coach Lucas Grant barked, "Watch closely! Master half his skill, you'll qualify for the World Combat Championship!"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  First challenger: Kyle Foster, a wiry sixteen-year-old. His stance screamed overconfidence.

  "Begin!" boomed the AI referee—a spectral face projected overhead.

  Kyle exploded forward, spear hissing like a viper. Ethan retreated half a step; the thrust kissed empty air.

  "Telegraphed," Ethan noted as Kyle unleashed a flurry. Each strike missed by centimeters.

  After thirty failed attempts, Ethan finally parried. His spear shaft twisted with surgical precision.

  Clang!

  Kyle's weapon clattered into the safety nets. The boy gaped at his trembling hands. "But I bench 220!"

  "Gym stats≠combat IQ," Ethan said. "Your footwork's amateur. Distance management—foundational."

  One by one, trainees attacked. Even veterans like Derek Shaw and Marcus Lee fell within seconds. Only Marcus survived two exchanges before Ethan's counterthrust lit his chest armor's warning sensor.

  "That's the Spear Demon?" a rookie breathed.

  "Historical rankings aren't decorations," Lucas grunted.

  Post-drill, the squad clustered around Ethan, eyes blazing. "How do we reach your level?"

  "Decades of 4 AM drills," Ethan said. "Muscle memory fuses technique into instinct. No shortcuts."