A lean young man opposite me was grinning ear to ear, clearly already imagining how he’d knock me down with one strike and move on to the next match.
Naturally, I wasn’t planning to give him such satisfaction, but judging by his sharp, well-practiced movements, he wasn’t a complete novice in hand-to-hand combat.
“Hey, look at me!” my opponent shouted indignantly as I closed my eyes to activate my energy-saturated pupils. The world immediately transformed, becoming blurry and without clear outlines, but glowing auras emanated toward me from every direction.
It was one of the master-level techniques, a variation of out-of-body vision combined with saturating the eyeballs with energy.
Due to my body’s underdevelopment, I had to act almost blindly, losing normal vision. But in exchange, I gained a chance at victory, provided the rest of my body didn’t fail me.
“Ha! This wimp closed his eyes in fear of getting hit,” a familiar youthful bass taunted nearby, but I didn’t allow myself to be distracted by the provocateur.
The opponent stepped forward, then shifted his centre of gravity onto his back foot, pressing his elbows to his sides, and with a loud grunt, swung a kick toward my ear. At least, he tried.
The moment I detected the start of his movement, I subtly shifted closer to him. The strike became awkward, landing on my forearm, and in the same instant, I jabbed my knuckles beneath his knee.
The guy yelped, collapsing to the ground, but he immediately jumped up, hopping on one leg.
He couldn’t step on the other—it seemed to have gone numb. When I took a step forward, he flailed his arms wildly, trying to ward me off. Too fast—too fast for my new body—but I still managed to catch his strike on my shoulder and drive my fingertips under his ribs.
“Stop! The fight is over,” the examiner announced as he rushed toward us. My opponent, quietly wheezing and groaning, crumpled to the floor, clutching his legs to his stomach while shielding his head with his elbows.
I had no intention of hitting someone who was already down, though it seemed like that was normal practice around here.
Well, it made sense.
A soldier, unlike a warrior, must win by any means necessary, including striking those who are down and killing the unarmed.
“What did you do to him?” the man asked sternly, examining the curled-up student on the floor.
“He’s fine. He’ll be good as new in five minutes,” I replied with a smile, closing my eyes and slowly drawing energy out of my iris. Otherwise, it would start glowing, revealing my abilities prematurely.
“Sister!” the instructor called loudly. The world returned to its usual vibrant colors, and I could see not just the flows of energy but also human faces again.
A medic quickly approached, examined the student, tugged at his limbs, massaged his muscles to release stagnant blood, and the boy started regaining color.
“The fight is concluded by technical knockout,” the examiner said after giving me a scrutinizing look. “The winner is Julius Zuvorin. You may rest.”
“Thank you for the easy match up, instructor.”
He frowned even more but pointed toward the benches for those awaiting their turn.
I took the seat in the front row. That wasn’t too bad—I could study potential opponents and their tactics.
From the first glance, it was clear that all fighters fell into three major styles, likely determined by their trainers or instructors. It seemed the program wasn’t tailored individually but grouped and class-based, with only slight variations based on hand-to-hand combat skills and body types.
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From my perspective, I could classify the fighters into three groups,
1. Pure boxers — They rarely used their legs but covered their heads well, maintaining excellent control over the distance. They blocked blows with their forearms and elbows, never allowing opponents to retreat too far.
2. Mixed-style fighters — Using military hand-to-hand combat techniques, they incorporated throws, grabs, knee strikes, and kicks. Their strategy was to keep a distance and exhaust their opponents, targeting muscles. A few well-placed strikes to the thigh, and their limping opponent could no longer maintain an ideal block.
3. Unusual tacticians — Their approach looked like incompetence at first but followed a clear system. They minimized direct strikes, maintained a low, springy stance, and executed wide, time-consuming swings with hard-to-predict trajectories.
It took me almost five minutes to understand their strategy—it wasn’t hand-to-hand combat at all.
It was sabre fighting… without sabres. Ridiculous and not very effective, but remembering how the Witch of Corvette had cut down gun-wielding guards, all questions answered themselves.
“Zuvorin, to the barrier,” the examiner ordered, and I eagerly stepped into the circle. “The rules are the same—no strikes to the face, but head hits are allowed. You can concede by stepping out of the circle or tapping the floor.”
As the instructor explained the rules, my second opponent entered the ring, and I felt a pit in my stomach. Everything was beginning to feel like an intentional setup.
Changes to the exam format, the rescheduling of the first test, and now this. My opponent was a head taller than me and at least thirty kilograms heavier.
The boy, dressed in the green and red colors of his academy, with a black eagle crest on his chest, radiated confidence but showed no signs of contempt or arrogance.
Maybe a hint of anger—but it seemed directed at the instructor, not me. Perhaps he hadn’t seen my previous fight or had dismissed it as a fluke, not considering me a serious opponent.
‘Well, that would be his downfall.’
Closing my left eye, I flooded it with energy. Within moments, I realized I had made the right choice. The opponent lunged forward and unleashed a flurry of strikes at me, all landing in empty space.
I retreated half a step, and his fists churned the air, leaving a salty mist of sweat in their wake.
Another instant, and I was forced to step back again, waiting for my eye to adjust. I could already see the contraction of his meridians, the dense energy pulsing throughout his body.
Fast, skilled, and technical—this opponent could’ve easily defeated my first challenger in mere seconds. The difference in class was evident to anyone.
Still, I managed to circle him, always staying just beyond the reach of his lightning-fast punches. During his first strike, he hadn’t held back, allowing me to measure the maximum distance he could reach.
Afterward, I stopped focusing on his hands entirely, watching only his legs and hips to keep him from closing the gap.
"— Finish off the runt!” came an angry shout from the students. If I were even a third as developed as my opponent, I could have worn him out and then overpowered him. But right now, my barely strengthened body was the biggest problem.
I’d tire out first, which meant I’d have to trade blow for blow.
I froze in place, and my delighted opponent threw a furious punch at my head. Or at least, he tried—since I wasn’t defending myself—but his fist only grazed my hair, sliding past.
My fingers dug into his neck instead, applying precise pressure to block blood flow and numb his nerve endings.
His second punch knocked the wind out of me, lifting me slightly off the ground. Though I managed to raise my arm at the last second, the bones creaked ominously. I staggered back, nearly stepping out of the ring, but my opponent just stood there, dumbly swinging his fists, unable to move and turning increasingly blue.
For a few seconds, he wobbled his head, then collapsed to the floor, thrashing his legs.
‘Damn, did I overdo it?’
“Medic!” the examiner shouted, rushing over to the student. His movements clearly showed years of experience—pinning the guy down to stop his flailing like that took real skill.
He pressed his knee into the student’s chest and held his head steady. A few seconds later, the same nurse I’d seen earlier ran over, checking the guy’s neck anxiously, but I could already see that the blood was beginning to flow, and energy was circulating through his meridians again.
“Half an hour, and he’d recover on his own.”
The medic wasn’t planning to wait, though. She opened her kit, quickly pulled out a syringe, filled it with some clear liquid, and injected it straight into my former opponent’s neck. The guy immediately relaxed and turned pink, his muscles releasing from their spasms, and he fell into a deep sleep almost instantly.
“What the hell was that, Zuvorin!” roared the trainer, towering over me by at least three heads. I couldn’t even see the lights past this mountain of a man. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Apologies, Sir. I don’t understand the question,” I replied, standing at attention.
“You don’t understand? Don’t play dumb with me—you know exactly what I’m talking about! You nearly killed BOB!” the examiner continued to bellow.
“Not at all, sir. As I had already said, he would have recovered on his own in half an hour—an hour at most. Meanwhile, I doubt I would’ve gotten off lightly with just a concussion after meeting his fist,” I answered without a smile but barely managing to suppress my sarcasm, staring directly into the trainer’s eyes without looking away.