The silence hanging over the Sector 7 Central Arena was absolute.
Ten thousand spectators sat frozen in their seats. Above the ring, the floating broadcast screens replayed the exact millisecond of impact on a high-speed loop: Caine catching a Level 25 energy-infused blade bare-handed, the weapon shattering into a cloud of glowing dust, and the Section 2 vanguard leader being launched two hundred meters across the stone floor by a strike that projected no visible light whatsoever.
"Ref... referee?" Section 2's vice-captain stammered, his silver-armored knees visibly shaking as he backed away from Caine. "His... his blade... he shattered a Level 25 alloy sword with his raw fingers..."
In the VIP observation booth, Proctor Vance leaned forward so fast his heavy leather coat whipped against the metal railing. His eyes were wide, fixed entirely on Caine's right hand.
Beside him, Director Thorne's expression remained unreadable, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped his armrests.
"Check his output logs," Thorne ordered sharply, his voice cutting through the stunned silence of the observation deck. "What did the arena kinetic sensors register on that punch?"
A technician typed frantically at his glowing console, sweat dripping down his neck. "Sir! The high-sensitivity arena sensors registered a slight pulse... CHPower 12!"
"Twelve?!" Vance barked, pointing down at the shattered ring. "His official baseline has sat dead at 10 for two years! How does a two-digit sensor bump obliterate a high-density alloy longsword or knock an armored Level 25 cadet unconscious through a kinetic field?!"
"It's the dampening gloves," Thorne whispered, his eyes narrowing as he analyzed the data stream. "His baseline didn't actually grow to 12. He threw twenty percent of a massive internal load, and those custom gloves absorbed ninety-nine percent of the feedback. The arena's military-grade sensors only picked up the microscopic fraction of kinetic friction that leaked through the weave. The actual density was locked inside the impact zone!"
Down in the ring, Caine glanced down at his right palm inside the dark Conductive Weave glove. He could feel the slight warmth of the silver threading where the microscopic leak had passed through. His true baseline was still a registered 10, but Silas's gloves had successfully masked a Master-tier internal force down to a harmless two-digit blip on the Academy's meters.
Caine didn't give Section 2 time to recover.
"Jax, push forward," Caine said, his voice quiet, calm, and completely devoid of fatigue. "Lyra, flank left."
"O-On it!" Jax yelled, snapping out of his shock with a fierce grin. He planted his boots and slammed his heavy kite shield against the stone floor. "Auxiliary Vanguard! Advance!"
Section 2's remaining three cadets completely lost their nerve. Seeing Caine step forward with his hands casually resting at his sides, they didn't even attempt to raise their weapons.
"We surrender!" the vice-captain screamed, tossing his glowing rapier onto the stone floor and raising both hands in panic. "We yield! Match over!"
The arena's high-output PA system let out a sharp squeal as the announcer finally remembered to breathe.
"W-WINNER OF MATCH 1... AUXILIARY SQUAD 4!"
A delayed, thunderous explosion of noise erupted from the Auxiliary stands in the upper tier. Section 4 cadets—who had been mocked and relegated to perimeter scraps for years—stood on their seats, cheering at the top of their lungs. Meanwhile, the luxury boxes occupied by Section 1 and Section 2 elites were dead quiet.
Marcus sat in the Section 1 front row, his jaw slack and his face pale. Beside him, Darius slowly narrowed his eyes, his golden aura flaring around his shoulders like a warning flame.
"That wasn't an unstable feedback pulse," Darius whispered, his voice dropping into a cold, dangerous register. "He controlled every ounce of that density. He's hiding something."