New York. NFL Headquarters, Top Floor Conference Room. Time: 10:02 AM.
The colossal countdown clock projected onto the far wall was a digital guillotine, its red digits mocking Levi's helplessness. Commissioner Roger Goodell settled deeper into his chair, a cold, predatory gleam in his eyes.
"Mr. Levi, you have eight minutes left," Goodell announced, his voice dripping with false concern. He gestured to the Lockheed Martin 5000lb punch testing machine. "The equipment is certified. You need not fear damaging it. Unless... you simply dare not strike it."
The television cameras zoomed in, their relentless red lights reflecting in Levi's dark sunglasses. The public judgment was immediate: the live stream was a flood of venom, labeling him a "soft prawn" and demanding proof that his powers were real.
Levi stared at the System prompt: Recovery Time Remaining 10 minutes 58 seconds...
He was three minutes short. Three minutes separated his invincible return from total, televised ruin. If he struck now, the result would be a humiliating 5lb reading—the strength of a baby—confirming every accusation of fraud and synthetic enhancement.
"Ahem." Levi cleared his throat, a calculated gesture of nonchalance. His body felt like lead, but his spirit was titanium. He slowly removed his sunglasses, meeting Goodell's gaze with a look of extreme, almost insulting boredom.
"Commissioner Goodell," Levi drawled, his voice steady despite the searing agony that threatened to overwhelm him. "Are you absolutely certain this machine... is adequately insured?"
Goodell frowned, his composure cracking. "What in God's name are you talking about?"
The First Stall: Financial Arrogance.
"I am talking about liability, sir," Levi explained, his tone condescending. "Last week, I shattered the bones of an elite athlete who was significantly tougher than this flimsy pile of obsolete components. If I exert my full, natural force and obliterate your sensor—causing the hydraulic fluid to ruin my custom-tailored suit—who pays for the damages?"
The sheer audacity of worrying about tailoring while facing a lifetime ban momentarily stunned the room. Goodell's face flushed scarlet. "Levi! Stop the insipid theatrics! If you break it, I will personally pay for it! If you tear down the entire building, I will cover it! Now, strike!"
Time: 10:05 AM. Five minutes left in the deadline. Eight minutes left until recovery. Still three minutes to kill.
Levi needed more time. He turned to Dr. Sophie Vance, his eyes flashing a frantic, desperate signal hidden within his arrogant expression. "Dr. Sophie," he asked, completely changing the subject, "did you happen to bring any hand cream?"
Sophie, despite her professional training, almost fainted from panic. "Hand cream? Now?"
The Second Stall: Performance Grooming.
"Maintenance, Doctor," Levi insisted, extending the hand wrapped in gauze from the previous night's glass injury. "This hand is an insured asset. Hitting such a crude, rough machine requires a proper prelude, a bit of 'foreplay,' if you will."
Understanding the silent plea, Sophie instantly transformed into an accessory to the stall. She pulled out a small tube and began a meticulously slow, dramatic massage of his bandaged hand, stretching the minute of grooming into nearly two agonizing minutes of tension. Goodell's controlled rage escalated, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Time: 10:07 AM. Three minutes left in the deadline. Six minutes left until recovery.
Goodell finally broke, slamming his fist onto the table, the sound echoing through the live microphones. "Enough! You are mocking this institution! You have three minutes left! If you do not strike, security will remove you, and your ban will be instantly announced!"
The Ultimate Humiliation
Levi took a deep, shuddering breath. He had exhausted all viable social maneuvers. There was only one option left: the most base, humiliating, yet effective stall tactic imaginable.
He suddenly clutched his stomach, his face contorted into an expression of intense, physical agony—a genuine expression, given his 1000% pain sensitivity. "Wait a moment," he groaned.
Goodell sneered. "What now? Sudden weakness? Did the drug wear off completely?"
"Urgent urination," Levi stated, his voice now conveying a mixture of public-minded regret and urgency. "I drank too much coffee leaving the apartment. You certainly wouldn't want me to soil myself on live national television, would you? That would hardly be good for the NFL's meticulously crafted image."
"You—!!" Goodell's face went white. Urination? The primal tactic of a schoolboy trying to skip class. "Hold it! I don't care if you soil the machine, just strike the damn thing!"
"No, sir. Bladder control affects core muscle engagement, leading to data errors," Levi countered, exploiting the rules with devastating calm. "You cannot deny me basic human rights."
Goodell, trapped between his rage and the threat of a massive PR backlash, checked his watch. "Fine!" he roared, grinding the word out through clenched teeth. "The restroom is next door. You have three minutes! But if you are not out, security will break the door down, and you will be banned!"
"Sophie, push me," Levi sighed in feigned relief.
"No." Goodell countered. "Let the male security guards escort you. I don't trust you."
Two massive, scowling security guards marched Levi into the adjacent washroom.
Evolution
Time: 10:09 AM.
Inside the stall, Levi was hyperventilating, the agony of the stall and the pain combining. He frantically stared at the System clock. Recovery Time Remaining: 4 minutes.
"Damn it! Still three minutes short!" He had failed the time calculation!
System! Acceleration package! Now!
[SYSTEM PROMPT: Detected Host in Extreme Danger. Option B Confirmed: Transfuse Future Luck. Consequence: Zero gear drop probability for the next three games.]
[ACCELERATION COMMENCE: Reconstruction Progress 95%... 98%... 99%...]
"The three minutes are up! Break the door!" Goodell's voice was a sound of pure, unbridled fury.
CRASH! The stall lock snapped. The door was violently kicked inward, revealing the flash of cameras and the snarling faces of the security guards.
In that single, perfect second:
[DING!]
[BODY RECONSTRUCTION COMPLETE.]
[ALL ATTRIBUTES RESTORED. CONGRATULATIONS, HOST, YOU HAVE EVOLVED TO: DIAMOND FORM!]
[HARDNESS INCREASE: 10X -> 50X!]
[STRENGTH INCREASE: 10X -> 50X!]
A golden, nuclear warmth surged through Levi's core. The weakness vanished, replaced by a terrifying, boundless energy.
The lead security guard lunged for his collar. A hand shot out—steady, diamond-hard—and seized the guard's wrist like an iron clamp.
"In such a hurry?" Levi's voice was no longer weak; it was a terrifying, magnetic roar.
He stood up from the toilet seat. No cane. No wheelchair. He stood perfectly straight, like a celestial spear.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Levi sent the 200lb security guard flying out of the restroom like a ragdoll, smashing into the hallway.
Levi stepped out, adjusting his suit collar, his face twisted into an arrogant, triumphant smile.
"Then open your dog eyes, and look clearly."