"Ha ha! Big brother's still the best!"
"Isn't this kid getting a bit presumptuous?"
"Trying to play a waiting game with the commander? That's way too naive."
The Spartans exchanged puzzled glances and fell silent, even beginning to doubt themselves. Meanwhile, the Empire's Fist and support troops gathered nearby burst into teasing remarks. A few seasoned veterans—seeing a bunch of "kids" clad in expensive armor, modified by unknown means—naturally didn't want to be outshone. Although they lacked the complete files on the Spartans, they knew well that the Spartans were in a completely different league. After all, the Spartans' height and build alone dwarfed those of the support troops.
So when this experimental unit made its grand entrance, a few veteran soldiers couldn't help but feel uneasy and wary. They speculated that the Spartans' arrival was meant to phase out some of the older units—and suspected that these super-soldiers were being groomed to replace them. Sigismund's single punch that knocked Fred out cold only seemed to "save face" for those veterans.
Their tone even carried a trace of subtle mockery, as if trying to cover up an anxiety they themselves hadn't fully recognized. In contrast, the Empire's Fist warriors barely batted an eye; they were simply watching the show, as if the trial match were nothing more than an inconsequential performance.
The elven warriors watching on, however, remained silent. Their eyes showed concern—a silent expression of sympathy and worry for Fred. Especially among the female elves, some of whom were over three hundred years old, seeing Fred sprawled on the ground evoked a surge of maternal instinct. They wanted to rush over and help, to gently soothe the wounds of the duel.
Before any of them could step forward, an Empire's Fist soldier clad in titanium power armor acted swiftly. With brisk, decisive movements, he hoisted Fred up and quickly exited the training area—clearly heading to a nearby med bay for a thorough check.
Although Fred's swift defeat had severely dented morale, it didn't mean the Spartans would give up.
Thump, thump!
At that moment, heavy footsteps echoed across the training stage. A Spartan warrior, designated 092 and with red-accented shoulder armor, silently stepped onto the stage.
"Oh? That's some admirable courage," Sigismund remarked openly.
Yet he didn't assume a fighting stance; he merely stood there casually, his eyes scanning Spartan 092 as he approached, then surveying all the Spartans gathered before continuing,
"Anyone here who can last ten rounds under my blows will be assigned to lead the assault on Tatooine. How's that for a deal?"
His gaze then returned to Spartan 092 as he smiled, "Of course, ten rounds might be too much for you all. So you're welcome to try a 1-vs-3 or 1-vs-5 scenario—I won't object. Either way, if any one of you can hold out for ten rounds under my attack, I'll keep my word."
"?!"
At these words, the previously subdued mood among the Spartans ignited in an instant. Sigismund's challenge, laced with provocation, sparked their fighting spirit. After all, his tone was undeniably arrogant!
It was clear that on many measures the Astartes were superior to the Spartans. But Sigismund's proposal of one-on-three or one-on-five challenges clearly dismissed the Spartans' worth. Remember, the Spartans weren't just individually powerful—they excelled in teamwork. If they coordinated their efforts against him, especially when Astartes weren't sporting Terminator Armor or using ranged weapons, they were confident they could prevail.
The atmosphere in the training area grew tense, as if an unseen storm was brewing. All onlookers—the support troops, Empire's Fist soldiers, and elven warriors—fell silent. They knew all too well the extent of Sigismund's might. Within the ranks of the Empire's Fist, Sigismund was hailed as "the foremost beneath the prototype," even capable of exchanging a couple of moves with Dorn himself. His combat skills and raw strength had long surpassed those of ordinary Astartes, making him nearly legendary.
Thus, when Sigismund threw down his challenge, everyone's eyes fixed on the stage, eager to see if these "newcomers" could really go toe-to-toe with him.
"No thanks," declared Spartan 092, Jerome, in a low, resolute voice, as he rejected Sigismund's "offer."
Although Sigismund's proposal seemed generous, Jerome had no intention of relying solely on numerical advantage.
Whoosh!
In a flash, Jerome lunged forward like a bolt of lightning, throwing a punch straight at Sigismund's face.
To the support troops and elven warriors watching, Jerome's speed left a fleeting afterimage—so swift that his form was almost impossible to discern.
Yet, to Sigismund, even this speed was far too sluggish. With a calm, controlled demeanor, Sigismund executed a simple evasion, effortlessly dodging Jerome's straight punch, then stepping back to avoid his swinging blow.
Then his counterattack came with even greater swiftness. He delivered a whip-like kick to Jerome's abdomen with precision and force.
Buzz—Bang!
The sound of a shield shattering and metal colliding thundered through the training area.
Thud!
Jerome's body, as if severed from its tether, was hurled off the stage and crashed heavily onto the floor. His limbs flailed lifelessly, and the face beneath his helmet slumped into unconsciousness, like a toppled statue.
Fortunately, Sigismund had controlled his strike well enough to spare Jerome's helmet visor. Even if it were damaged, the ship's engineers—and especially the dwarf craftsmen—could handle repairs.
In the aftermath of Jerome's rapid defeat, the Spartans fell into a heavy silence. Was it Sigismund's personal might, or are all members of the Empire's Fist truly this formidable?
Faced with such overwhelming display, some Spartans began to doubt themselves.
Chapter 546: Encirclement "Defying Fate" Luck
"Ha ha! Still, nothing beats the prowess of an elder!"
"Is this kid just too full of himself?"
"Trying to play a defensive waiting game with the commander? That's way too naive."
The Spartans looked at each other in dismay, their silence turning into self-doubt. Yet the Empire's Fist and support troops, gathered at the sidelines, remained unperturbed—they only laughed and teased.
A few veteran soldiers, noticing these "young bucks" in their expensive, mysteriously modified armor, naturally didn't want to be shown up. Though they weren't privy to the Spartans' detailed files, they knew that the Spartans were a force that easily outclassed them. Their towering stature and robust builds made them a heavyweight compared to the support troops.
Thus, when this experimental unit made a grand appearance, some old-timers couldn't help but feel uneasy and vigilant. They speculated that the Spartans were introduced to phase out some of the older formations, and suspected that the Spartans were destined to replace them. Sigismund's knockout punch against Fred had, in a way, saved face for the veterans.
In hushed tones, a few veterans even expressed a trace of sarcasm, as if to mask their own unrecognized anxiety.
Meanwhile, the Empire's Fist soldiers seemed uninterested—either they'd already foreseen the Empire's future plans, or they simply enjoyed watching the spectacle, treating the trial as nothing more than a show.
The elven warriors, observing from the side, remained solemn. Their eyes conveyed silent concern for Fred. Particularly, the female elves—some of whom were over three hundred years old—felt a surge of maternal instinct at the sight of Fred sprawled and unconscious, eager to step in and offer assistance.
But before any could act, an Empire's Fist soldier clad in titanium armor swiftly moved forward, lifting Fred and escorting him out of the training area for medical attention.
Despite Fred's swift defeat severely dampening morale, the Spartans knew they couldn't afford to give up.
Soon enough, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the stage.
A Spartan warrior, designated 092, stepped onto the stage with silent determination.
"Ah, courage is commendable," Sigismund remarked openly.
Yet he remained nonchalant, merely standing as he observed Spartan 092 and the gathering Spartans, then continued:
"If any of you can withstand ten rounds under my blows, I will assign your unit as the vanguard for the Tatooine assault."
He paused, then added with a smile directed at Spartan 092, "I know ten rounds might be too much for you all. So, if you prefer, try a one-versus-three or one-versus-five challenge—I won't object. Either way, if any one of you lasts for ten rounds, I will honor my promise."
The Spartans, previously subdued and dispirited, were instantly roused by Sigismund's provocative challenge.
After all, his arrogance was hard to ignore!
It was undeniable that in many respects the Astartes were superior to the Spartans. But Sigismund's offer—1v3 or 1v5—was an outright dismissal of their capabilities.
Remember, the Spartans were not only strong individually, they were also experts at coordinated teamwork.
If they combined their might against him—especially in a scenario devoid of Astartes with Terminator Armor and without long-range weaponry—they were confident they could prevail.
The atmosphere in the training area grew palpably tense, as if an unseen storm were gathering.
All eyes, whether on the ongoing brawls of the Empire's Fist or among the support troops and elven warriors during their weight training, fixed on the central stage, forming a tight circle around the impending duel.
Everyone was eager to see if these relatively unproven "new kids" truly had what it took to face Sigismund.
"No thanks," declared Spartan 092, Jerome, in a firm, measured tone, as he rejected Sigismund's offer.
Though Sigismund's challenge might seem generous, Jerome was determined not to rely on sheer numbers to win.
Whoosh!
In an instant, Jerome lunged forward like a lightning bolt, delivering a punch aimed squarely at Sigismund's face.
To the onlookers, Jerome's speed left a blur, almost an afterimage, making it nearly impossible to track his movements.
Yet, to Sigismund, even that speed was sluggish. With calm precision, Sigismund executed a standard dodge, effortlessly evading Jerome's direct punch, then stepping back to avoid his swinging blow.
Then his counterattack struck swiftly—a whip-like kick aimed at Jerome's abdomen.
Buzz—Bang!
The resounding crash of a shattered shield and clashing metal echoed through the training area.
Thud!
Jerome's body, as if severed from its mooring, was flung off the stage and crashed heavily onto the floor. His limbs sprawled lifelessly, and his face fell into unconsciousness like a toppled statue.
Fortunately, Sigismund controlled his strike well enough to spare Jerome's helmet visor. Any damage could be repaired later by the onboard engineers, particularly the dwarf craftsmen.
Observing their comrade's swift defeat, the Spartans fell silent.
Was it Sigismund's individual might, or were all members of the Empire's Fist this overwhelmingly powerful?
Faced with such an outcome, some Spartans even began to doubt their own abilities.
John, however, maintained his presence on the stage. His continued perseverance—although with less than half the rounds remaining compared to the promised ten—was the last hope for proving that the Spartans, despite the enormous resources poured into their creation by the Research and Biology Departments, were not merely decorative.
Yet, witnessing Sigismund's awe-inspiring power, most onlookers doubted the Spartans' potential.
Sigismund's strength towered like an insurmountable mountain, each of his strikes delivered with unstoppable precision.
Thus, even if John managed to hold out for a few rounds, everyone knew that one man alone could hardly fulfill the "ten-round" promise.
To truly meet the challenge, the Spartans might need to bring in additional teammates—perhaps even ten fighters—to collectively withstand ten rounds against him.
But what would that victory signify?
Increasing numbers to ten is hardly different from simply declaring success.
In the end, the support troops and Empire's Fist would likely still regard the Spartans as "useless extras"—an expensive lot that couldn't function independently.
Although most in attendance were unaware of the Spartans' division into Phases 1, 2, and 3—or that Phases 1 and 2 were "limited edition" units—it was evident that the production cost of these Spartans was astronomical—perhaps even higher than that of an Astartes.
Their Thor's Hammer power armor, nano-suits, and extensive modifications were the results of enormous investments by the Research and Biology Departments.
That's why, even without implanted gene seeds, the Spartans could rank only just below the Astartes in terms of super-soldier prowess.
As Kelly, Koer, George, and Douglas all fell in battle one after another—
Buzz—Bang!
The sound of a shield shattering and metal clashing resounded once more through the training area.
This time, however, the noise did not come from John's Thor's Hammer shield breaking, but from Sigismund's titanium power armor!
Even though, for the sake of training, both sides had their energy shield power set to the minimum—allowing them to be shattered by brute force—this blow was still shockingly powerful.
At the moment the shield shattered, a faint energy ripple spread across Sigismund's armor, a testament to the fierce intensity of the duel.
That strike not only allowed everyone present to witness firsthand the explosive power the Spartans were capable of, but it also drove home the point that the Spartans' strength was far more than skin-deep.
After all, support troops could never achieve such an effect.
Watch as John seized an opening created by his comrades, successfully maneuvering behind Sigismund to land a punch.
This prompted Sigismund to take John seriously—though it seemed that John's success was largely a matter of sheer luck.
When Sigismund turned to counterattack, John barely managed to evade, making the commander increasingly feel that his luck was almost in defiance of fate.
Because, in Sigismund's eyes, John was clearly in a "doomed situation," yet in a moment when he nearly lost his balance after being tripped by a faintly unconscious Kelly, he managed to dodge Sigismund's punch by sheer chance.
That… was unbelievably fortunate.
And in the ensuing exchange, Sigismund could even sense that his power armor, after his shield was shattered by John's hammer blow, suffered a slight malfunction—reducing his speed enough that John alone managed to endure for ten rounds.
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Reborn in America's Anti-Terror Unit (Chapter 542)
Solomon in Marvel (Chapter 924)
Becoming the Wealthiest Tycoon on the Planet (Chapter 1284)
Surgical Fruit in the American Comics Universe (Chapter 1289)
American Detective: From TV Rookie to Seasoned Cop (Chapter 1316)
American TV Writer (Chapter 1402)
I Am Hades, The Supreme GOD of the Underworld! (Chapter 570)
Reborn as Humanity's Emperor Across the Multiverse (Chapter 660)
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