Alonso felt it all.

The beating of his heart. The blood pulsing through his veins. The sweat trailing down his body. The iron taste in his mouth. The pain in his gut. The sting of every open wound, flashing through his nerves.

The burn in his muscles. The weight in his legs. The blur at the edge of his vision. The tension in his fingers. The throb in his bones.

The strain in each breath. The pressure in his chest. The heat rising from his skin. The wounds, the marks, the blood—etched deep into his flesh.

All that… was him.

On the other side, a trident was coming. Grip near the back end for extended reach, yet balanced enough to remain stable. The eyes behind it held the cold certainty of a result already foreseen.

A vicious strike, aimed to end it all—straight for his heart.

His stance was solid. Even in his arrogance and Fury state, he held little to no openings. Feet anchored to the ground, sand caving beneath the pressure. Muscles coiled tight, now unleashed like springs snapping forward.

Heat streamed from his body like steam. His frame bulged, every vein visible—like a wild beast pumped full of madness and power.

Which, truthfully, was an accurate description.

That… was Eryx.

And as the trident closed in… Alonso watched calmly.

Shame… I could've used more data.

He watched it flash toward his beating heart—faster than the wind itself.

And he slashed.

No stance. No footing. His body still in mid-air, no ground to draw force from.

He slashed as he activated his capacitor nodes, and imbued EM force into his blades.

A slash that carried speed—yet far less weight than the grounded thrust from the beastman.

And yet—

A slash that hit.

And a thrust… that fell short.

Eryx roared as the scales near his chest, already battered, were cut deep—blood spilling from a blade that had barely missed his heart.

He shot back in a blur, eyes wide with disbelief, as Alonso touched down, boots grinding the sand to a stop.

The crowd fell silent as they saw it—Alonso standing tall, with nothing but three shallow punctures in his chest from the trident. Blood dripped slowly from the edge of his right sword.

Ayu felt herself ride a storm of emotions in a blink. She'd feared the worst—but then… how? Why hadn't Eryx's thrust landed? Had he misread the distance? And more than that—why the hell had he run straight into Alonso's slash?

She shook her head, trying to steady her thoughts, eyes flicking to her master.

But Makoh's expression didn't change. He remained still, gaze locked on the arena, calm and unreadable.

Alonso took a deep breath, holding back the fire in his blood. The pain from all his wounds, especially that last hit to his gut, pulsed through him… and yet, it felt strangely grounding.

He stepped forward, both blades in hand. The intensity of Overdrive threatened to consume him, to drown him in its fire. But he held it back—contained it down to the smallest flicker, the primal force running through his nerves suppressed by sheer will and his recent mastery of the Understanding of Self.

He studied Eryx—his stance, his eyes. The anger, the fury, the arrogance were still there, but now laced with confusion, keeping the beast still, waiting, watching.

His chest wound bled freely, the cut deep—his heart nearly exposed. And with Fury still active, the bleeding only worsened with each thundering beat.

Alonso stared at him coldly, the rhythm of his steps steady as he inched closer to the beastman.

Nearly a full second passed before Eryx reacted. His form blurred, sending an explosion of sand into the air.

A trident materialized before his body was fully visible, swinging toward Alonso's head in a wide, violent arc.

Alonso's eyes narrowed. For a brief instant, he let Overdrive push his body to the limit, channeling force from the deepest core as every muscle aligned. His form blurred out of Eryx's senses, using the beastman's raw instincts against him.

The trident finished its motion, a blast of air and heat following behind it—but Alonso had already moved explosively out of range and then—

Back in.

His swords flashed. Capacitor nodes surged as he channeled force in perfect sync with his muscles and core. Like lightning through his veins, his body exploded into motion.

His blades thrust forward in a blur Eryx only perceived when it was already upon him.

Yet even then, under Fury, his reflexes were near unmatched. At the last instant, Eryx pushed against the ground and avo—

Huh?

The thrust? Where was—

A slash cut his throat cleanly.

An arc of dark blood shot from the wound, catching the moonlight and firelight as it shimmered in the night.

Eryx's eyes locked on his opponent. Confusion filled them—he couldn't understand. When did the soft foot slash his throat? He'd kept track of every move, both blades. The human had been out of range for a slash, and—

And…

His eyes slowly dimmed as the vitality drained from his body. His steps staggered. His thoughts blurred. The realization came slow. He… he lost?

His trident fell into the sand as one hand clutched at his throat, mixing with the blood pouring down.

Then he stared at the soft foot before him.

He… lost?

His lifeless body collapsed into the sand, joining the blood of all those who came before.

Eryx, disciple of Grandmaster Hoki, Scalefather of the Black Bloom… was dead.

The seventh fight of the full moon festival… was over.

The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

And yet, Alonso didn't move. Not out of tiredness, respect, or pride.

He stood still—eyes slightly widened—not focused on the corpse at his feet, but on what had flickered into existence the instant his blade struck true.

A vision only he could see.

No-Strike – 7.003 %

Jack had been immersed in his room for more than 24 hours. Besides a few essentials—quick meals, a hot shower, a nap here and there—he hadn't left. His helmet stayed on, fully plugged into the VR grid, watching, rewatching, and breaking down every angle of the fight feed.

The last transmission from Gen-1 had detonated across the internet like a bomb. What had once been a niche curiosity, a subject of speculation or patriotic hype, had suddenly become a global fixation.

Social media timelines, international forums, and private group chats were flooded with nonstop discussion of the latest climber feed that featured his friend Alonso and his Thai girlfriend, Ayu, fighting against the three-tail and four-tail creatures, both bearing a disturbing resemblance to the mysterious seventh boss they faced on the last known stage.

Dozens of major defence analysts posted breakdowns. Clips of the duo dodging hypersonic tail strikes, moving faster than the human eye, began circulating next to charts estimating G-forces, acceleration curves, and moment-to-moment stress on the body.

One ex-special forces captain went viral on Reels when he said, flat out, "Forget the lad (Alonso), that girl (Ayu)—on her own, unarmed—would be a threat not a single special forces unit on Earth could neutralize without unacceptable casualties."

Many edits using AI showed real-time overlays—pulse readouts, vector lines, movement models. When someone slowed down Ayu's mid-air feint into a triple-axis elbow strike, it became the most-watched ten-second clip of the day, across all platforms. Streamers paused games just to analyze the footage. News channels opened evening segments with "How dangerous are Gen-1s really?"

Jack had watched a serious thread on StackDefense model Alonso's EM wave distortions to estimate his internal reaction times under combat stress—and the thread concluded he could process battlefield stimuli nearly 16 times faster than an average human under optimal conditions. That was when the narrative truly shifted.

And people were scared.

Even military circles were talking. Leaked forums from private contractor networks showed concern—not awe, but fear. Fear of what Gen-1s might become if they were ever weaponized or turned rogue.

Jack was scrolling through it—part of him still feeling like it was all surreal, part curious, part uneasy at how his friend's image was being used without his consent. And deeper still, buried beneath it all, was something else. A quiet longing. A hope that one day, he too might wield that kind of strength.

He was just about to click on another viral clip when—

"NOTICE: Grade-2 notification for all users. ASCENT rules concerning SRP have been updated."

Grade-2?

Jack still didn't understand the difference, and frankly, he wasn't bothered to check. In any case—

"MEI, summarize the changes."

"Understood. The update concerns the treatment of returnees. A new clause has been added for ex-Climbers who have mutated and completed the second stage of the second tier. They will now hold the formal title of World-Affirmed Returnee Delegate, abbreviated as W.A.R.D."

"Second stage? The one with the six, seven bosses… okay. And what does that mean? This… fancy-ass title?"

"Those holding the designation of W.A.R.D. are granted unrestricted international mobility. They may enter or exit any national territory without visas, checkpoints, or customs declaration. Additionally, W.A.R.D. holders possess full diplomatic protection equivalent to or exceeding that of a United Nations special envoy."

"Equivalent to—what the fuck? They can just walk into a country, no passport, no ID, nothing?"

"That is correct. The clause includes total legal immunity for all non-war crimes. W.A.R.D. status supersedes national and local jurisdiction in all but exceptional cases."

"So basically, they can punch a senator in the face and the cops can't even touch them?"

"In basic terms, yes. Furthermore, individuals holding W.A.R.D. status are now exempt from the Standard Returnee Protocol, popularly known as SRP. They are not subject to quarantine, debriefing, skill-reporting, or neurological assessment upon return."

"No SRP? Damn… then… they just… re-enter society and… that's it?"

"Correct. They may choose to resume a private life, engage in national affairs, or form their own organisations. There are no restrictions."

Jack leaned back in his virtual chair, eyes flicking toward the paused clip of Alonso slashing through the four-tailed bastard.

His mind ticked through the new info slow at first, confusion giving way to something else.

A grin.

So it was already happening.

What he'd known deep down from the start. What no one wanted to admit—but now the suits, the polished bastards with fake smiles and crisis briefs, they knew it too.

Climbers couldn't be leashed anymore.

Well, maybe for a little longer. Maybe they still had a few tricks left. But even the big dogs at the top had figured it out: the carrot and the stick stops working when no stick's strong enough. Now all they had left was to offer the prettiest, juiciest fucking carrot the world could bake.

Jack chuckled to himself.

Good.

That's how it should be. The—

Suddenly the VR cracked off. System booted him back, just like that.

Jack blinked as the real world returned in a haze and he sat upright in bed, helmet half off.

"MEI?" he muttered, frowning.

A knock hit the door.

What now—lunch? Dinner? Hadn't even checked the time. But why the hell—

The door opened.

Standing there was a tall prick in a tailored black suit, shoes polished like mirrors, hair slicked back like he stepped out of a fucking recruitment ad.

"Jack?" the man said, voice smooth. "Please come with me."

Jack blinked. Who the hell was this old bloke?

He didn't answer, just sighed and dragged on his shoes, standing up slow.

He followed.

But the second the door opened and sunlight slapped his face—he froze.

Because what lay outside wasn't what he expected… not even close.

Why is it not working? The model should have been tuned after she fixed the issue with the hyperparameters near the resonance peak. The simulations showed stability under the intended full range of spectrum, yet that damn—

"Chiara?"

The hundreds of diagrams and equations scribbled in her mind like a 3D blackboard disappeared as she snapped back, her eyes opening.

Her body felt stiff. Her mouth dry. A faint ache curled up from her stomach. How long had it been?

She stood up from her chair, eyes still foggy, and turned toward Lukas. "What happened?"

"Happened?" He smiled, slowly shaking his head. "When was the last time you left this room, Chiara?"

"I…" Her second mind clicked into motion and gave her the answer in less than millisecond. "One hundred and three hours, twenty-two minutes and—okay, yeah, I get your point. I'll go eat now. I was just dealing with some annoying—"

Her frame buckled. A wave of dizziness and weakness hit her before she could finish the sentence. Before she could fall, Lukas stepped in and caught her.

He sighed as she steadied herself again and stood straight. "Sorry, it was just… yeah. I need energy."

"Energy? Chiara, what the hell… you…" His voice dropped a register. His tone shifted. "You can't keep up like this."

Chiara inhaled slowly, letting the light fully return to her gaze. "I'm sorry I worried you, but I'm fine. I have mechanisms in place for critical situations. I've got rations stored in—"

She gestured with her chin, and a sleek metallic container floated over to her. It slid open, releasing the unmistakable scent of dense preserved meat.

"I'm okay. This is just my shut-in mode. Had it back on Earth too… often. That's just… me, I guess," she said, forcing a small smile.

Lukas shook his head and exhaled. "I thought you were gonna pull out rice, soy, and eggs from that box."

Chiara blinked, then chuckled.

Lukas grinned. "Good. As long as that version of you is still kicking around, I'm not too worried."

He turned and started walking out, giving her a lazy wave. "Anyway, start packing. We're leaving."

"Leaving?" Chiara frowned—but only for an instant. Her third mind activated, running through every recent event, schedule, and last conversation with the others until it locked onto the most likely answer.

"It's been four weeks. You mean… back to the Ajnal?"

Lukas nodded, smiling over his shoulder as he kept walking. "Yep. Time to get the crew back together."

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