Big Monty scoffed, his bravado returning. “Rules? They’re for the weak. Even if I break every bone in your body, the academy wouldn’t dare punish me.”

'Wow,' Asmon thought, biting back a laugh. 'Who writes this guy’s dialogue? Villains Weekly?'

“You’re welcome to try,” Asmon said aloud, his voice icy. “But if you want a fight, let’s do it in the arena. That shiny ‘number one A-class student’ title? I’m taking it.”

The crowd erupted into a chorus of gasps and murmurs, their excitement palpable. “Did he just challenge Big Monty? Is he nuts?”

Big Monty froze, caught between shock and fury. “You think you can take my title?” he growled. “Do you even know who you’re messing with?”

“Someone who talks a lot but hasn’t done much else,” Asmon replied with a casual shrug. “Are we fighting or not? Or are you all bark and no bite?”

The crowd’s collective 'oooh' was deafening. Even Big Monty’s confidence seemed to waver for a moment before his expression hardened.

“Fine,” he spat. “You’ve got guts, kid. Too bad you won’t have them for long.”

Big Monty strutted toward the martial arts ring with the swagger of someone who had won before the fight even started. Asmon followed at a leisurely pace, hands in his pockets, looking more like he was out for a stroll than heading into a showdown.

Word spread faster than wildfire. Within minutes, students flooded the central square, eager to witness the spectacle of someone challenging Silvercrest Martial Institute’s golden boy, Big Monty. The martial arts platform became the epicenter of the academy’s excitement, with bets flying and whispers buzzing.

On the platform, Asmon stood opposite Big Monty, the tension between them crackling like fireworks on New Year’s Eve.

"Who’s that guy? Is he nuts? Challenging Big Monty of all people?"

"Does he have a death wish? Even Louis Sheffield couldn’t scratch Big Monty’s Golden Shield last time!"

“Pfft, this guy’s toast. But hey, free entertainment.”

Big Monty soaked in the crowd's awe like it was his birthright. His eyes locked onto Asmon, amusement flickering in his gaze. "Gotta hand it to you, Asmon. You’ve got guts," he sneered. "For that, I’ll even let you take three free shots. If you can break my Silver tier Golden Shield in three moves, I’ll concede defeat."

A golden aura shimmered around Big Monty, radiating smugness. It was like he’d just wrapped himself in an unbreakable insurance policy.

“Wow! Senior Big Monty’s shield is legendary!” someone whispered. “They say even Golden-level attacks barely dent it.”

Asmon didn’t bat an eye. He tilted his head, studying the glowing shield as if it were a cheap carnival prize. Intimidated? Not even close. His lips curled into a faint smile that screamed, 'Nice toy you’ve got there.'

Big Monty stood with all the confidence of someone who’d brought a bazooka to a pillow fight. The crowd ate it up. Most looked at Asmon like he’d signed up to lose with express shipping.

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But Asmon had other plans. he stretched his arms and took a deep breath. Then, without warning, he started throwing punches into the air. Left jab, right hook, uppercut—each strike was more animated than the last.

Big Monty raised an eyebrow. "Uh… what are you doing?"

“Warming up,” Asmon replied casually, not missing a beat. "Don’t worry, I’ll get to you soon enough."

Big Monty’s face darkened. "Warming up? You’re wasting my time. Just admit you’re scared, kneel down, and I might not humiliate you in front of everyone."

Asmon chuckled, throwing another punch. "Scared of you? Nah, I’m just letting you enjoy your top-student status for a few more minutes. Five, to be exact."

Big Monty crossed his arms, clearly annoyed. “Fine. You’ve got five minutes. But after that, I’m ending this circus act.”

Asmon continued his air-punching marathon, each blow sharper and more focused than the last. The onlookers were baffled.

“Is… is he shadowboxing?”

“What’s he trying to do? Scare Senior Big Monty into submission?”

“I think he’s lost it. Someone call a healer.”

Despite the mockery, Asmon’s movements weren’t just for show. With every strike, a familiar notification echoed in his mind:

[You threw a punch. Energy surged, precision enhanced, mastery accelerated. Your silver-rank martial skill, One Punch To Make your Enemy Grovel., has been perfected and transformed into Ground Breaking Fist.]

Punch. Punch. Punch.

[Strength intensified, momentum built, technique elevated. Ground Breaking Fist has transcended into Ball Spitting Fist.]

Big Monty’s patience was wearing thin. "Are you done pretending to be a windmill?" he barked.

Asmon paused, lowering his fists with an easy smile. "Yep, all set. Ready when you are."

Big Monty snorted, his disdain practically visible. "Finally. Let’s get this over with."

Asmon raised a finger, his voice calm but sharp. "By the way, are you sure you only want me to use three moves?"

Big Monty’s smirk deepened. "Three? I’m feeling generous. You could take thirty, and it wouldn’t matter."

“One will do.” Asmon’s words hung in the air like a storm cloud, drawing gasps from the crowd.

Big Monty laughed, a loud, condescending sound. "You’re delusional if you think you can break my Golden Shield with one punch."

Asmon clenched his fist, and the atmosphere shifted. The crowd’s chatter faded as a silver glow enveloped his hand, growing brighter and sharper by the second. The energy condensed, taking the shape of a blazing fist.

“Ball Splitting Fist!” Asmon’s voice rang out like thunder. His fist shot forward, the silver energy streaking through the air like a comet.

Big Monty’s eyes widened in disbelief. He barely had time to react, hastily channeling all his energy into fortifying the Golden Shield.

The fist collided with the golden barrier, a deafening boom echoing across the square. Students shielded their eyes from the blinding flash of light. When the dust settled, Big Monty’s Golden Shield was gone—shattered like glass.

And Big Monty? He was flat on his back, coughing as he stared at Asmon in stunned silence.

Asmon dusted off his sleeves, his voice light and playful. "Guess I overestimated your shield. Sorry about that."

The crowd erupted in chaos. Cheers, gasps, and whispers filled the air as Asmon strolled off the platform, leaving Big Monty to process his first public humiliation.

“Who… who is this guy?” someone whispered.

“Whoever he is, Senior Big Monty just got wrecked!”

“You… you…” he gasped, staring up at Asmon with wide, terrified eyes. The smug confidence he’d flaunted moments ago had evaporated faster than a puddle in the summer sun. His hands shot to his crotch, clutching desperately as his face turned an alarming shade of blue. A guttural, choked whimper escaped his lips as the horrifying realization sank in—his precious jewels felt like they had been split clean in two.

Asmon dusted off his sleeve with the nonchalance of someone who’d just swatted a fly. He glanced at the crowd, who looked like they’d collectively forgotten how to breathe. “Go back and tell your master,” he said, his tone icy but calm, “if he’s got a problem with me, he should deal with it himself.”

And with that, Asmon walked away, leaving Big Monty sprawled on the ground, defeated by a single punch. The training field buzzed with whispers as the onlookers processed what they’d just seen.