Chubbs smirked, the kind of smug grin that made you want to punch it off someone’s face. “Orders from the elder. You’re to stay put today, Master Asmon.”
There was no respect in the way he said “Master Asmon.” If anything, it sounded like he was calling him a toddler in charge of a toy kingdom. Chubbs, once polite thanks to Asmon’s father, Victor, had clearly decided he no longer cared now that the patriarch was away.
Asmon’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Move aside.”
Chubbs crossed his arms. “Now, now. Don’t make this difficult. The Elder said—”
SLAP!
Chubbs’s head snapped to the side before he could finish his sentence. His cheek turned red as he stared at Asmon in disbelief.
[You've slapped Chubbs, MAGA activated! You slapping technique has evolved to Silver Rank martial art ‘Know Your Place!’ ]
Asmon blinked at the notifications, then grinned. “Wow, leveling up from slapping someone? I should’ve started earlier!”
Chubbs, still processing the stinging betrayal on his face, growled, “You little—!”
But before he could finish his sentence, Asmon raised a hand. “Shh. Let’s not waste your last brain cell on words. It’s about to get busy.”
Chubbs roared and swung a punch, aiming to knock Asmon flat. But Asmon barely flinched, casually catching the fist between two fingers like it was a pesky mosquito.
“What?!” Chubbs’s jaw dropped.
“Don’t look so shocked.” Asmon smirked. “Isn’t it obvious? I am strong. You? Not so much.”
Before Chubbs could say another word, Asmon throw Groveling punch straight into his chest. The burly man flew backward like a sack of potatoes and crumpled to the ground, groaning.
[‘One Punch To Make your Enemy Grovel.’ Partially mastered!]
Asmon dusted off his hands and stepped over Kuan without a second glance. As he walked toward the courtyard, the system kept chiming like an overeager cheerleader.
[‘Make Step Great Again.’ Mastered!]
Asmon glanced at his feet. “Walking to greatness. Literally. At this rate, I’ll trip and discover a divine treasure.”
The courtyard bustled with activity as disciples gathered to send off Harris , who stood at the center looking like a peacock basking in everyone’s admiration. The Grand Elder, Stelter Thrumpwood, stood nearby, beaming proudly.
Asmon strode in, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife. “Harris Thrumpwood!”
All eyes turned toward him. Harris Thrumpwood raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What are you doing here, Asmon?”
Asmon didn’t miss a beat. “The spot for Silvercrest Martial Institute belongs to me. My father risked his life to secure it, and I’m here to take it back. You? You’re just borrowing what’s mine.”
You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
“Isn’t that the so-called waste of the Thrumpwood family?”
“What’s he even thinking?”
“Does he have a death wish?”
Harris smirked, his tone dripping with condescension. “Oh, please. You’re just upset you weren’t good enough. Be a good boy and go home before you embarrass yourself.”
Asmon stepped closer, his grin as sharp as a blade. “Embarrass myself? Watch closely, Harris. The only thing I’m here to embarrass is you.”
The square buzzed with the low hum of sneers and muffled laughter as Asmon strolled toward Harris and Stelter. Their smug expressions faltered when they saw him approach, their confidence visibly shaken.
“Asmon, stop running your mouth!” Harris barked, the disdain in his voice thick enough to choke on. “Sure, the Patriarch secured a spot at Silvercrest Martial Institute for the family, but you? What qualifies you to take it? You’re a glorified punching bag stuck at the second stage of Body Tempering! Do you seriously believe you’re worthy of this chance?”
The sneer curling Harris’s lips was almost too big for his face. Beneath it, however, was a simmering bitterness. Three months ago, he had flunked Silvercrest Martial Institute’s freshman assessment. At sixteen, this was his last shot, his final ticket to salvation. Losing the spot wasn’t an option—not to Asmon, of all people.
“Not qualified?” Asmon said, raising an eyebrow with practiced nonchalance. “And you are? If I remember correctly, you didn’t pass the Silvercrest Martial Institute assessment either. So, remind me again, what makes you any better?”
Harris’s face darkened like a storm cloud, anger flashing in his eyes. The Silvercrest Martial Institute assessment was the stuff of nightmares—famously brutal and only conquered by the best of the best. For someone to fail it, as Harris had, was a sore spot he preferred left untouched. Asmon’s words, unfortunately, poked right at the bruise, and in front of a crowd no less.
“Even if I failed,” Harris shot back, his voice rising, “I’m still leagues ahead of a waste like you who’s been stuck at the second level of Body Tempering for years! This spot should go to someone with real potential—not a hopeless dead end like you.”
As the onlookers whispered and snickered, Harris’s lips twisted into a mocking grin. “I’ll tell you what,” he continued, the confidence dripping from his voice like poison. “If you can beat me, I’ll give up the spot myself. How about that?”
Gasps rippled through the square. Asmon’s gaze slid to Stelter, who was watching the exchange with a frown. “Elder, what do you think?” Asmon asked calmly.
Stelter hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. After a pause, he nodded. “The spot should indeed go to the family’s most promising disciple,” he declared, his tone heavy with meaning. It was clear from his expression he didn’t consider Asmon to be a threat to Harris.
Asmon smirked, turning back to his cousin. “All right, Harris. You heard the elder. Get over here and fight me.”
The square exploded with disbelief.
“Did Asmon just challenge Harris? Is he insane?”
“Harris’s been at the fifth level of Body Tempering for months! Asmon’s practically committing suicide.”
“This is going to be over in seconds!”
Even Harris was momentarily stunned, blinking at Asmon as if he’d suddenly sprouted a second head. Then his shock melted into cruel amusement. “Fine,” he sneered. “You want a fight? Don’t come crying to me when you regret it.”
Harris lunged, his fist slicing through the air like a cannonball aimed straight at Asmon’s head. The watching disciples cringed, already imagining the gruesome aftermath.
But Asmon didn’t even flinch. With the ease of swatting away a pesky fly, he sidestepped the punch, leaving Harris’s attack to crash harmlessly into empty air.
“Wait…did that actually happen?” one disciple whispered, his jaw practically unhinged. “Did Asmon just dodge?”
Harris’s confidence wavered as he stared at his missed punch in disbelief. But then he sneered, shaking off the moment. “Lucky shot,” he muttered under his breath. “Let’s see you dodge this!”
He launched another punch, faster this time. Asmon didn’t bother moving backward. With a flick of his wrist, he caught Harris’s fist mid-swing, stopping it dead in its tracks. Gasps echoed around the square.
Asmon cocked his head, his expression somewhere between amused and bored. “Is that it?” he asked, his tone light. “No wonder Silvercrest Martial Institute turned you down.”
“You—!” Harris’s face flushed a deep crimson as laughter bubbled up from the crowd. The harder he tried to free his fist from Asmon’s grip, the tighter the hold became.
“You call me a waste,” Asmon said, leaning in slightly as his voice dropped to a sharp whisper, “but honestly, I’m starting to think you’re the real disappointment here.”