Fury erupted across Harris ’s face as he yanked his hand back, summoning every ounce of energy he could muster. “Tiger Howl Fist!” he roared, his fists glowing with power as he hurtled toward Asmon with all the force he could gather.

Asmon didn’t move. Instead, he smiled—a small, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, as if daring Harris Thrumpwood to try.

The crowd in the square was buzzing louder than a hive of agitated bees, their excitement palpable.

“Finally! Harris’s busting out 'Tiger Howl Fist'! The guy means business this time,” one disciple whispered, barely containing his awe.

“Right? Word is, he’s got it to Minor Accomplishment. Combine that with his strength at the fifth layer of Body Tempering, and Asmon’s toast.”

“Seriously. Asmon must have a death wish, taunting Harris like that. What’s he even thinking?”

Meanwhile, Harris soaked in the hype like a peacock basking in its own magnificence. A malicious grin split his face, his eyes gleaming with glee. “You’re finished, you little bastard,” he sneered, relishing the moment. In his mind, the Silvercrest Martial Institute token was his golden ticket out of the Thrumpwood family. Nobody—not even Asmon—was going to mess that up for him.

Asmon, however, looked as calm as a monk on meditation day. He simply stepped back, fist clenched, and focused his energy. The air around him began to hum as his aura surged, gathering power like a storm winding up to let loose.

“One Punch To Make your Enemy Grovel” Asmon’s voice rang out, strong and clear. His fist shot forward, a force of nature in motion, the energy behind it cracking like a whip through the air.

The clash was thunderous, shaking the square like a mini earthquake. A moment later, a figure went flying, landing with a spectacular crash a good distance away.

The crowd gasped in unison, their collective breath held in suspense. Everyone was certain Asmon would be the one eating dirt. “What else could happen against someone two whole Level ahead?' they thought. ’Lucky if he didn’t break half his ribs in the process.’

But as the dust cleared, mouths dropped open in disbelief. The person sprawled out on the ground wasn’t Asmon—it was Harris!

“W-what the hell just happened?!” one disciple stammered, his voice high with shock.

“Did Asmon just… win? Against him?”

“No way! The ‘waste’ of the Thrumpwood family actually sent Harris flying with one punch? That’s insane!”

All around, disciples were muttering, struggling to reconcile the smug punching bag they knew with the powerhouse now standing tall. This wasn’t some fluke. Asmon had just pulled off the impossible.

On the elder platform, Stelter nearly dropped his teacup. ‘That’s Asmon? The same kid stuck at the second level for years?’ He rubbed his eyes. Nope, not a hallucination. Just yesterday, Harris Thrumpwood had trounced this kid and walked off with the academy token. Now, this?

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As the whispers grew louder, Asmon calmly strode toward Harris, who was still sprawled on the ground looking like he’d forgotten how legs worked. Standing over him, Asmon’s voice was cold, sharp, and commanding. “Harris, you lost. Hand over the Silvercrest Martial Institute token.”

“No! NO! I didn’t lose! This—this is some trick!” Harris sputtered, coughing up blood. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with unhinged fury. “How could a nobody like you beat me?!”

He staggered to his feet, fists shaking with rage, and lunged at Asmon. “I’ll make you regret this, you trash!”

Asmon raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t even flinch. But before either of them could make a move, a shadowy figure dropped from above, landing gracefully between them like a cat that had just stuck its perfect dismount.

“Ah, the esteemed Elder of the Thrumpwood family,” Asmon said dryly, crossing his arms. “Come to play referee?”

Stelter gave Asmon a long, unreadable look before turning to his grandson. His tone was cold enough to freeze molten steel. “Hand over the Silvercrest Martial Institute token. Now.”

Harris Thrumpwood’s face twisted further, veins bulging on his forehead. “No! Grandpa, I haven’t lost! I can still win!”

“Enough!” Stelter barked, his voice slicing through the air like a whip. “A loss is a loss. Stop embarrassing yourself. Or me. Token. Now.”

With shaking hands and a face redder than a beet, Harris fished the token from his robes and shoved it at Asmon as though it burned to touch.

Asmon snatched it, gave Harris a look that screamed ‘pathetic’, and without another word, turned and walked toward the gate. The onlookers parted like the Red Sea, watching him leave in stunned silence.

By the time Asmon arrived at Silvercrest Martial Institute, the towering gates loomed before him, a stark contrast to the chaos he’d left behind. He barely had time to admire the scenery before a familiar chime rang in his mind.

[‘Make Step Great Again.’ Evolved to Gold rank technique, ‘Almost Great Step.’]

Asmon blinked, then let out a low whistle. 'Not bad. Got a Gold-Rank movement technique just from walking? The system really is something else.'

He shook his head in disbelief. All this from a walk to the academy? Forget the token—if life kept playing out like this, he might just stroll his way to becoming a legend.

At Silvercrest Martial Institute, mastering a gold-Rank martial skill while still in the Body Tempering Realm was like discovering oil in your backyard—it was rare and made you the talk of the town. For Asmon, this wasn’t just an accomplishment; it was a line drawn in the sand, marking him as someone who couldn’t be ignored.

With his Almost Great Step and sixth-level Body Tempering strength, Asmon was no longer the underdog. His speed now rivaled martial artists two or three levels above him. As he mentally patted himself on the back for his progress, a voice that dripped with mockery cut through his thoughts like nails on a chalkboard.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Asmon, the Thrumpwood family’s legendary failure. Tell me, did your dad have to bribe someone to get you into Silvercrest Martial Institute?”

Asmon’s internal groan was loud enough to echo across dimensions. He turned toward the voice to see a familiar, self-satisfied smirk plastered on the face of Lucas Yates . Decked out in flashy robes that screamed, 'My family’s richer than yours,' Lucas radiated arrogance.

“Lucas Yates ,” Asmon muttered, his eyes narrowing like a predator spotting its prey.

Lucas Yates , heir to one of Goldenridge City’s three big families, had a face that begged to be punched and an ego inflated by his older brother’s success. The two of them had locked horns more than once, but Lucas Yates ’s older brother had always tipped the scales in his favor.

But today? Today was different. Asmon’s newfound confidence told him Lucas Yates wasn’t even worth the calories it’d take to argue. With a dismissive glance, Asmon strode past him, radiating cool indifference.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Lucas barked, stepping in front of Asmon to block his path, his face redder than a steamed crab.

Asmon sighed, his expression as frosty as winter. “Lucas , the only reason you’re even in Silvercrest Martial Institute is because your brother dragged you in. Don’t act like you’re anything special.”