Kael Armstrong was on the ground, retching blood as he clutched his stomach in pain. His eyes were wide, red veins spidering across them—the force of the punch had been too much. He was light-skinned, with short, wavy golden hair that resembled Josuke's from JoJo's Bizarre Adventure.
But right now, he was on his knees, clutching his stomach like he was about to die. Part of it was the pain. The other part was the humiliation—people were watching.
Kael had joined the Xeno Force at fourteen. He'd been here two years. His dream was to become a Xeno Force soldier and defend Earth from alien threats. But after two years, he'd realized one brutal truth: he was weak. Every combat lesson, every fight, had proved it. He couldn't even beat the girls.
"Looks like you're still pathetic," a voice rang out.
Kael looked up, anger flaring in his eyes. Chris stood there, calm and unreadable.
"Don't think you've won," Kael spat. "I'm not done yet."
Chris didn't respond. He didn't need to. The silence around him did the talking. A slow wave of laughter rolled through the courtyard—mocking, merciless. Some cadets pointed. Others clutched their sides in fake agony, mimicking Kael's collapse with twisted glee.
"Just look at yourself," Chris said calmly. "You've never won a fight against anyone here. Yet you keep challenging me and others, knowing you'll always be weak."
Kael surged forward, teeth clenched, fists tight. Anger propelled him—an eruption of bruised pride and raw frustration. The courtyard's heat blurred around him, but Chris stood clear and steady, the eye of the storm.
Kael's boots pounded against the stone, each step a warning. But Chris didn't flinch. He watched. Measured. Waited.
Then he moved.
A sharp sidestep—graceful, effortless. Kael shot past empty air.
Before Kael could turn, Chris was already on him. A quick jab to the ribs—enough to make Kael grunt. Then a straight punch to the jaw. Crisp. Precise. A one-two combo that didn't need flair—it just needed to land. Then came the spinning head kick, connecting with Kael's skull like a drum.
Kael blanked out instantly, groaning as he hit the ground again, sliding across the courtyard, face-first into the sand.
Silence fell—so quiet you could hear the wind—before a huge wave of laughter erupted from the cadets. Some were on the ground holding their stomachs, others laughing with tears in their eyes.
"Just look at that," one of them said. "My guy just got planted in the sand like a tombstone."
"My God!" another chimed in. "If only we had a phone—that knockout belongs in a meme."
"Nah, bro just got married," his friend added. "Look at him! I guess we found a new meaning to 'kiss the floor hello!'"
The laughter grew louder. Even the girls joined in, knowing they'd wiped the floor with him in past fights.
"He's truly pathetic," said Lydia, standing with her group, her eyes cold.
"He's never won a single sparring match. He's also dull in academics," she scoffed. "Hard to believe he's Dr. Armstrong's son."
Lydia had admired Dr. Armstrong, watching his research videos religiously. She'd decided that if being a Xeno soldier didn't work out, she'd become a scientist. When she learned Armstrong had a son, she expected brilliance. Instead, she found incompetence. She was disgusted. How could the great Armstrong produce such a failure?
Chris, meanwhile, walked up to Kael. Kael lifted his head, spitting out sand and coughing, panting rapidly, too afraid to stand.
Chris crouched beside him, staring. Kael glared back, hatred burning in his eyes.
"Hope you're full," Chris said with a smirk. "Eating sand fills you up, doesn't it?"
"Go fuck yourself, Chris!" Kael snarled. "You think I'm done? You can't stop me from becoming a Xeno soldier!"
Chris's eyes narrowed. He suddenly lashed out, gripping Kael's hair and slamming his head into the ground. Kael grunted in pain.
"Don't you get it?" Chris said. "You'll never become one. You're too weak. Too useless. The Force won't waste a Xenophyte on you. You're just a walking liability."
Kael gave a muffled scream as Chris dragged his face across the sand.
"Get your hands off me, you fucking bastard!" he shouted.
"That's enough," a voice rang out, cutting through the chaos.
Silence washed over the courtyard. The instructor had returned. Instantly, the cadets snapped to attention. Chris let go, allowing Kael to rise. He was covered in sand from head to toe, looking like he'd fought a sand monster and lost.
The courtyard was still—the kind of stillness that follows humiliation, when no one wants to be the first to speak. Kael leaned against a sun-warmed stone column, uniform streaked with sand, face blotched with grit and bruises. A few cadets lingered at the edges, avoiding eye contact, as if proximity to him might be contagious.
Then the silence broke—heavy, deliberate footsteps.
Captain Demos stepped into the courtyard with the air of a man who didn't ask questions—he delivered verdicts. He surveyed the scene like he was already bored, his eyes landing on Kael and staying there.
Kael looked up slowly, his face tight. Demos didn't acknowledge it. His lips pressed into a flat line.
"You look like you lost a fight with gravity," Demos said dryly, hands behind his back, boots grinding dust as he closed the gap. "You've had better days. I hope."
Kael didn't answer. He was too busy trying to look less wrecked than he felt.
Demos didn't wait. He glanced at the cadets, then delivered the words like they were part of a drill. "Commander Nyre wants you. Don't keep him waiting."
With that, he turned and walked off, his coat catching the wind, leaving Kael with bruises, sand, and the sudden weight of that summons.
Kael gritted his teeth and made his way to the commander's office, leaving behind the cadets who resumed gloating the moment the captain was gone.
"What does that bastard want now?" Kael thought bitterly. He knew whatever was coming wouldn't be pretty.