Lock stood calmly in the arena, watching the hulking man charge toward him. He didn't shift his stance, didn't even raise his guard. His stillness was unnerving.
The man's grin widened. "You've got guts, brat!"
He threw a straight punch at Lock's face, the air cracking around his fist. He had put everything into that blow.
Lock tilted his head slightly, almost bored. "Interesting," he murmured. "But it looks like I'll need to fix that attitude of yours."
In one smooth movement, Lock slipped under the punch and drove his right fist into the man's midsection.
Bang.
The sound was dull and heavy, like a hammer striking flesh. The man's face twisted in pain as the force blasted him backward. He staggered several steps before managing to steady himself.
"Not bad," Lock said casually. "You didn't fall."
"Stop looking down on me, bastard!" the man roared. He lunged again.
But before he could even raise his arms, Lock's leg blurred. The kick smashed into his side with the force of a galloping carriage. The man — nearly 1.85 meters tall and built like a brick wall — was lifted off his feet and sent crashing two meters away.
The crowd fell silent, stunned.
No one had expected the seemingly lean, young Lock — who stood at around 1.7 meters, though he'd grown taller recently — to launch such a devastating kick. The strength required to throw a man like that was frightening.
Lock approached the groaning man, expression unreadable. "Do you yield?"
"Yield to you, you—!" The man suddenly sprang up, swinging to grab Lock's arm.
But Lock was faster. A precise kick snapped into his ribs, sending him tumbling out of the arena. Those standing nearby scattered to avoid the impact.
All traces of contempt vanished from the onlookers' eyes.
He might be young, but this was no ordinary recruit. Lock was terrifyingly strong.
Ignoring the stares, Lock jumped lightly off the stage, walked over to the man struggling to rise, and crouched slightly. "Do you submit?"
"I don't!" the man spat stubbornly.
Lock's lips curved upward. The smile sent a chill through the crowd. "Good. Then I'll keep beating you until you do."
The man's face went pale, but before he could move, Lock's hand shot out, dragging him upright. What followed was brutal and methodical: the man stood up again and again, only to be sent crashing down again and again. It happened nearly ten times.
By the end, his body was a mess of bruises and blood, and he finally collapsed unconscious.
Lock straightened his uniform, took the towel Petra handed him, wiped the blood from his knuckles, and said coolly, "Patch him up. He passes."
The nearby Military Police immediately hurried over, respectful now. They carried the unconscious man away through the crowd. People instinctively stepped aside, their expressions wary.
Fear had begun to settle in.
Lock climbed back into the No. 1 arena and swept his gaze around. "Anyone else wants to challenge me?"
The response was a wall of silence.
The image of the broken man was still fresh in everyone's mind. The same men who had sneered moments ago now stared at the ground.
Lock waited a few seconds, then tilted his head slightly. His tone turned mocking. "I thought survivors down here were supposed to be tough. Turns out you're all cowards. Fine. I'll make it easier — five of you can come at once."
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd. "Five people?!"
They stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. But on the platform, Petra, Oluo, Eld, and Ymir exchanged knowing looks.
"Hey, hey…" Eld muttered, his mouth twitching. "He's doing it again. Does Lock just want this kind of thing?"
Petra sighed. She and Ymir had once watched Lock single-handedly defeat more than sixty opponents in succession. The look they shared now said everything: they'd seen this play out before, and there was no stopping it.
But neither of them was worried. With the way Lock trained daily — enduring punishing physical regimens far beyond normal soldiers — even ten men at once couldn't bring him down.
The only thing that could limit him was stamina.
While they were talking, Lock's next match began.
The moment Lock opened the stage to five-on-one fights, applicants surged forward. Compared to winning ten matches in a row, five versus one seemed easier — at least, that's what they believed.
They were wrong.
The No. 1 arena turned into a slaughterhouse. Groups of five rushed in one after another, only to be dismantled like they were nothing. Screams echoed through the underground chamber as bodies were thrown, kicked, or slammed out of the ring.
At first, the Military Police stationed around were shocked. But after watching gr,p after group get demolished, they grew numb.
They realized something critical: you do not mess with Lock.
Applicants who had thought they could use numbers to overwhelm him quickly understood that they were facing a monster.
Even so, they kept coming. Lock was beginning to sweat, his breathing heavier — but his movements never faltered.
"Look at him — he's exhausted!" someone shouted.
"Yeah! He's slowing down, he's finished!"
"He's taken on too many, he's bound to fall!"
"He's a freak, how is he still standing after all this?!"
Their desperation was palpable. Many of them weren't fighting to win anymore; they were fighting to convince themselves that he could be beaten.
Lock felt none of that. He was in his element. Every strike, every dodge, every takedown honed his senses sharper. His body moved like a machine forged for battle.
The system voice in his head rang at intervals, each chime a quiet reward:
[You have endured multiple strikes without falling. Single-hit resistance +1.]
[Your combat skills have improved through fierce fighting. Fighting skill +1.]
[You have persisted under intense battle. Endurance +1.]
One group down. Another. Another.
Time blurred into the rhythm of combat — fists colliding, bodies flying, gasps from the crowd.
An hour passed. Then another half.
One by one, challengers crumpled at his feet. The worst were thrown clean off the arena, landing in the dirt with bruised ribs and shattered pride.
Finally, as the last five-man team fell before him, Lock exhaled slowly. The voice echoed in his head again — louder this time.
[Achievement Unlocked: Enemy of 100. Fighting skill +4. Physical strength +4.]
A rush of power surged through him, subtle but undeniable. His limbs felt lighter, his strikes sharper, his senses more attuned.
He looked at his hands for a brief moment, flexing his fingers.
He was changing.
And then came the next challenge prompt, crisp and clear:
[New Achievement Mission: Enemy of 1000]
Objective: Defeat 1000 opponents.
Reward: Fighting skill +8, physical strength +8.
Time Limit: None.
Lock's lips curved into a faint, dangerous smile.
He wasn't done yet.
---
A/N: Advanced Chapters Have Been Uploaded On My Patreon
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