The main arena had been transformed into a gladiatorial spectacle that would have made ancient Rome jealous. Twenty-meter holographic displays showed real-time biometrics, combat statistics, and betting odds that shifted faster than Aiden could track. Two thousand voices created a wall of sound that vibrated through the crystalline dome overhead, and every single one of them seemed to be chanting the same name.
"LUCAS! LUCAS! LUCAS!"
Aiden stood in the fighter's tunnel, watching through the entrance as his opponent basked in adoration like it was his natural element. Lucas Drake had always been the academy's golden boy, but today he looked like something carved from marble and divine mandate. His combat suit was pristine academy regulation, his stance was perfect, and his smile suggested he was about to do something he'd been looking forward to for a very long time.
The holographic displays showed their respective records in brutal detail:
LUCAS DRAKE: 847 WINS, 3 LOSSES, 2 DRAWS
AIDEN CROSS: 2 WINS, 1,247 LOSSES
Someone in the crowd started laughing at the statistics. Others joined in until the entire arena echoed with the sound of collective amusement at his expense.
"Nervous?" Jay materialized beside him, somehow having bypassed security with a collection of unauthorized recording equipment and what appeared to be a foam finger shaped like a middle digit. "Because statistically speaking, this is either going to be the greatest upset in academy history or the most entertainingly one-sided beating ever recorded."
"Your confidence is overwhelming," Aiden muttered.
"Hey, I've got money riding on you lasting more than two minutes! That's practically a vote of confidence!" Jay held up his comm unit, which was already streaming live commentary to what looked like several hundred viewers. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're here with the man, the myth, the statistical impossibility himself—Aiden Cross! How are you feeling about your chances today?"
"Like I'm about to discover what internal bleeding tastes like."
"Excellent! Honesty in the face of impending doom! This is why you're my favorite subject for actuarial analysis!"
Your friend's enthusiasm for your potential demise is touching. Also, neural integration at 78%. If you're going to die today, at least you'll do it with enhanced perception of exactly how badly you're being destroyed.
"Still cheerful as ever," Aiden thought.
I've analyzed Lucas Drake's combat patterns. He's not just physically superior—he's tactically sophisticated. He studies his opponents, adapts to their weaknesses, and exploits psychological pressure. In short, he's everything you're not.
"Thanks for the pep talk."
The arena announcer's voice boomed across the dome: "Ladies and gentlemen, presenting our combatants! In the red corner, with a record of 847 wins and 3 losses, ranked fourth in his class and heir to the Drake military legacy—LUCAS DRAKE!"
The crowd's roar was deafening. Lucas stepped into the spotlight, arms raised in acknowledgment of the adoration. He looked like a conquering hero preparing for another inevitable victory.
"And in the blue corner…" The announcer paused, consulting his notes with obvious confusion. "With a record of two wins and… twelve hundred and forty-seven losses… representing Omega Block and the power of statistical anomalies… AIDEN CROSS!"
The crowd's response was a mixture of laughter, boos, and what sounded like genuine sympathy. Someone threw a foam cushion at the arena floor. Jay immediately began chanting "UNDERDOG! UNDERDOG!" until security confiscated his megaphone.
Aiden walked onto the platform, acutely aware that every step was being broadcast live to the entire academy and probably half the military district. In the VIP section, he spotted Administrator Voss sitting with a collection of officials he didn't recognize—people in expensive suits who watched the proceedings with the kind of clinical interest that made his skin crawl.
Lucas was already at the center of the platform, stretching with casual confidence. "Cross," he said as Aiden approached. "I have to admit, I'm curious. Two impossible victories in three days. Either you've discovered the universe's most ironic performance enhancement, or you're about to experience regression to the mean on a cosmic scale."
"Maybe I just got lucky twice."
"Maybe." Lucas's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "But luck is a finite resource. And frankly, you've never been good at resource management."
The platform activated with a harmonic hum, energy barriers rising around them like a cage. The referee—a senior instructor Aiden had never seen without a disapproving expression—stepped between them.
"Standard combat rules. No weapons, no external enhancements, no killing strikes. Victory by knockout, submission, or ring-out. Any questions?"
Aiden glanced toward the stands and caught Mira's eye. She was sitting in the faculty observation section, studying both fighters with analytical intensity. For just a moment, she held his gaze and mouthed a single word: "Breathe."
"Begin!" the referee shouted, diving clear of the platform.
Lucas moved like liquid lightning, closing the distance with a combination that should have ended the fight in the first five seconds. But Aiden's enhanced perception caught the rhythm, the subtle telegraphs, the patterns that normal fighters wouldn't notice until it was too late.
He slipped the first strike by millimeters, deflected the second with a technique stolen from Marcus Webb, and actually managed to block the third without breaking his forearm. The crowd gasped at the unexpected display of competence.
Interesting. He's testing your new abilities rather than finishing you immediately. He wants to understand what changed.
Lucas stepped back, cocking his head like a predator studying unusual prey. "Not bad, Cross. Someone's been practicing."
He attacked again, but this time the sequence was different—chaotic, non-repeating, designed to prevent pattern recognition. A feint high that became a low sweep, flowing into a spinning elbow that transformed mid-motion into a grappling attempt. It was beautiful, deadly, and completely unpredictable.
Aiden barely escaped the combination, his ribs screaming from a glancing blow that would have hospitalized him a week ago. The System was trying to process Lucas's movements, but the chaotic nature of the attacks made analysis nearly impossible.
"He's scrambling your pattern recognition," Aiden realized.
Correct. He's studied your recent fights and adapted accordingly. Traditional copying won't work against deliberately inconsistent technique.
"Then what do I do?"
Improvise. Take fragments instead of full sequences. Build something new.
Lucas pressed his advantage with another impossible combination, but this time Aiden was ready. Instead of trying to copy entire techniques, he borrowed micro-elements: Mira's footwork rhythm to maintain balance, Kade's leverage principles to redirect force, a guard position he'd seen Lucas himself use in training.
The borrowed elements flowed together into something that wasn't quite any technique he'd ever seen, but somehow worked perfectly. He absorbed Lucas's assault, redirected the kinetic energy, and created an opening that shouldn't have existed.
His counterattack was a masterpiece of assembled excellence. A jab with Derek Voss's precision, powered by Marcus Webb's hip rotation, aimed with Lucas's own targeting methodology. It connected with Lucas Drake's perfectly sculpted jaw with a sound like a gunshot.
Lucas stumbled backward, touching his lip with genuine surprise. A drop of blood stained his fingers.
The arena fell silent except for Jay's ecstatic screaming: "CONTACT! WE HAVE CONTACT! CROSS JUST MADE THE GOLDEN BOY BLEED! THIS IS NOT A DRILL!"
"So that's what contact feels like," Aiden said, flexing his knuckles. "Weird. I don't hate it."
Congratulations. You've just invented a combination that works exactly once, on Tuesdays, when the opponent is too surprised to dodge properly. Don't let it go to your head.
Lucas wiped the blood from his lip, studying it with fascination rather than anger. "Well, well, well. The academy's favorite punching bag has developed some actual technique." His smile returned, but now it carried genuine menace. "How interesting."
He rolled his shoulders, and suddenly his entire demeanor changed. The casual confidence was gone, replaced by the focused intensity of someone who'd decided to stop playing games. In the VIP section, Aiden noticed several officials leaning forward with renewed interest.
"You know what, Cross? I was going to make this quick and relatively painless. Professional courtesy for a fellow student." Lucas dropped into a combat stance Aiden had never seen before—lower, more fluid, radiating lethal potential. "But you've just made this personal."
The System's warning flashed across Aiden's vision like an emergency beacon:
ALERT: Counter-Resonance pattern detected. Opponent is deploying tactics tailored to exploit System integration gaps. Translation: he came prepared. Your odds just tanked.
"What does that mean?" Aiden thought frantically.
It means he's not just good. He knows exactly what you are.
The countdown timer blazed in his peripheral vision: 00:47:33.
Less than forty-seven minutes left before the System integration deadline, and Lucas Drake was about to unleash whatever he'd been holding in reserve. In the stands, the crowd sensed the shift in dynamics, their excited chatter fading to anticipatory silence.
The arena's combat bell chimed once, signaling the next phase of the match.
Lucas smiled, and launched himself forward with speed that made his earlier attacks look like warm-up exercises.
The chapter ended mid-surge, with two thousand spectators holding their breath and Aiden Cross about to discover just how much trouble he was really in.