Ethan scanned the recruits' eager faces. "Three high schoolers first," he announced, tossing body armor to the newcomers. "Full gear. Helmets on."

In the hexagonal combat arena, fluorescent lights glinted off polymer spears. State team recruits shuffled nervously as Ethan secured his visor. The holographic referee flashed overhead – a shimmering eagle with glowing talons.

"Finn Williams," Ethan called, pointing at the lanky teenager. "Show me your best thrust."

The 17-year-old bounced on his toes like an overclocked jackrabbit. "Coach, my piercing strike broke three practice dummies last week!"

"Try not to impale the walls," Ethan deadpanned.

Finn charged, spear tip whining through air. Ethan backstepped precisely – twenty centimeters clearance. The recruit's follow-up strikes created silver whirlwinds, yet Ethan's footwork traced perfect avoidance arcs.

Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

Clang!

Ethan's counterstrike vibrated Finn's spear with ultrasonic precision. The weapon clattered across shock-absorbent tiles as the teen stared at trembling hands.

"Your windup telegraphs like stadium fireworks," Ethan critiqued. "And your stance..." He mimicked Finn's spread-legged posture, drawing snickers. "...belongs in a cowboy movie."

Two Hours Later

Eleven spears lay scattered like pickup sticks. Only Zack Miller lasted two exchanges before his chest armor lit up with the scarlet shame of a knockout signal.

"Legendary..." whispered a recruit named Hunter, rubbing welted palms. The "Spear Demon" moved with predator economy – no flashy spins, just lethal efficiency honed through ten thousand hours of drills.

Locker Room Aftermath

Ethan toweled off when his phone buzzed. The caller ID flashed Vincent Cross – his billionaire mentor and Star Combat Club's primary investor.

"Gray," Vincent's gravelly voice carried decades of cigar smoke. "Cancel the charity gig. Corporate wants fresh meat for next month's exhibition."

"These kids need–"

"Need marketable stars, not washed-up has-beens!" The line went dead.

Ethan stared at his reflection in the steel locker. The jagged scar down his right thigh pulsed with phantom pain. Outside, laughter bubbled from recruits comparing bruises – their hero worship untouched by boardroom politics.