"…Oh?" he said. "I didn't expect that."
A faint shimmer of light ran along the old man's shoulders as he studied Gorath's fused body, eyes narrowing with interest instead of concern.
"Looks like you can go another round after all."
Gorath didn't answer.
He vanished.
The impact came a heartbeat later. A massive fist slammed into the old man's ribs, darkness exploding outward as the floor ruptured beneath them. The old man was driven across the room, tearing through broken desks and shattered stone before crashing into the far wall.
Gorath was already on him.
In his perfect fusion, he stood nearly three meters tall. Black, armor-like hide covered his torso and arms, etched with faint crimson veins of dark energy that pulsed like a second heartbeat. His shoulders were broad and hunched, tusks curved outward from his jaw, and his eyes burned a deep, feral red—clear, controlled, and vicious. A crown of jagged bone ridges framed his skull, and every breath left his mouth as a cloud of black mist.
This wasn't a berserk beast.
This was mastery.
A clawed arm came down like a falling pillar. Then another. Then another. Each strike carried compressed darkness that detonated on contact, hammering the old man through stone and debris.
The old man raised a hand and redirected one blow with two fingers. He shifted his shoulder and let another skim past. The third broke through his guard and hurled him airborne again, slamming him hard enough into the wall to crater it.
Gorath stepped forward, each footfall cracking the ground.
"You old bastard," he growled. "You should've stayed out of this."
Darkness spiraled around both arms, forming a dense vortex that distorted the air.
"You'll die here today."
The old man pushed himself upright, brushing dust off his sleeve as if mildly inconvenienced. His breathing remained even.
"Is that it?" he asked, genuinely curious. "Are you joking with me?"
He looked Gorath up and down once more.
"I expected more after a perfect fusion."
A small sigh escaped him.
"You've disappointed me."
Then the light around him changed.
It didn't flare wildly. It condensed.
His hunched posture straightened slightly. The lazy slump in his shoulders vanished. A faint radiance spread across his back, outlining something vast and elegant—like wings formed from concentrated sunlight, not fully visible but undeniably present. His messy gray hair lifted gently as if caught in a rising thermal, and his eyes shifted, reflecting a pale gold glow that felt ancient and endless.
For an instant, the silhouette behind him resembled a crane—long-necked, poised, radiant—its feathers like layered sun-flares folding over one another.
The Solar-Plume Crane.
Heat gathered at his fingertips, but it wasn't blazing fire. It was compressed brilliance, refined and silent.
Gorath sensed the shift and roared, launching forward with everything he had.
The old man stepped once.
[ Radiant Step — Solar Glide ]
The world seemed to skip.
Gorath's charge tore through empty space.
The old man appeared at his flank, tapping two fingers lightly against the armored hide.
[ Zenith Feather ]
A soft, almost gentle contact.
Gorath staggered half a step, confusion flashing across his face—but he forced through it, swinging backward with crushing force. The old man leaned away effortlessly, each movement minimal, precise.
Gorath roared and unleashed a full-power strike downward.
The old man vanished again.
He reappeared above Gorath this time, descending with a single extended finger.
"Honestly," he added, almost disappointed, "five stars and this is how you throw a punch?"
His finger touched the back of Gorath's neck.
[ First Light: Dawn Mark— Unique++ ]
There was no explosion.
No visible beam.
Just a thin, invisible line of condensed solar heat that pierced through armor, muscle, and darkness in absolute silence.
Gorath's eyes widened.
His massive body froze mid-motion. The crimson veins along his armor flickered violently before shattering like cracked glass. The monstrous hide split apart in silent fractures as the perfect fusion unraveled instantly.
The old man was already standing behind him.
Gorath took one slow, unsteady step.
Then another.
Darkness drained from his body.
He collapsed face-first onto the broken floor, unconscious before he fully understood what had happened.
The faint outline of radiant wings behind the old man faded. The golden glow in his eyes dimmed. His shoulders slouched again, returning to that unimpressive, slightly tired figure from before.
"…There," he muttered. "That's better."
He glanced at Jin and Lin Hao, hands slipping back into his pockets and walked toward Jin and Lin.
He stopped beside them and glanced down. Both were conscious, barely. Jin's breathing was shallow. Lin Hao was trying to push himself up and failing.
Before he could say anything, hurried footsteps echoed from the hallway outside.
Several men in black uniforms rushed in, formation tight, eyes sharp. The chief's personal bodyguards.
They took one look at the destroyed room, then at Jin and Lin Hao on the ground, and immediately shifted into guard.
One of them stepped forward, voice firm. "Sir. Move away from the students."
The old man didn't move.
He simply looked at them, hands still in his pockets.
"I wouldn't recommend pointing that tone at me," he said mildly.
The guards tensed, hands hovering near their weapons.
Just as the atmosphere tightened—
"Stop. All of you."
Teacher Han pushed past them, slightly out of breath. He stepped into the room, saw the state of the walls, the cracked floor, Gorath's unconscious body in the distance—
Then his eyes landed on the old man.
He froze.
"…Sir?"
The bodyguards glanced at him. "You know this person, Teacher Han?"
Teacher Han straightened immediately. "Of course I do. It's fine. Stand down."
They hesitated.
"He's our principal," Teacher Han added quickly. "Principal Liang Zhen."
The guards blinked.
Principal Liang scratched his cheek. "I keep telling you to stop adding 'principal' every time you say my name. Makes me sound old."
Teacher Han ignored that. "He usually stays low-profile. You might not recognize him."
One of the guards frowned slightly but lowered his stance.
Principal Liang looked at Teacher Han. "Aren't you the one who called me?" he asked. "And now you're asking when I got here."
Teacher Han coughed awkwardly. "I didn't expect you to come personally…"
Before the conversation could continue, another set of footsteps approached.
The chief entered.
His gaze swept the room once, sharp and assessing. "Is everything under control?"
He strode forward immediately. "Where is Jin? Is he safe?"
Then his eyes locked onto Jin.
He saw him on the floor and stopped, jaw tightening. "Medical team. Now."
Two guards moved instantly toward Jin and Lin Hao.
Only then did the chief notice the old man standing nearby.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. "And you are?"
Teacher Han answered before the old man could. "Chief, this is Principal Liang Zhen. He intervened."
The chief paused, then gave a short nod. "You have my thanks."
Principal Liang waved it off. "Why are you thanking me? They're students." He glanced at Jin and Lin Hao. "Looking after them is part of my job."
Principal Liang didn't elaborate. He just looked at the medical staff lifting Lin Hao onto a stretcher beside Jin.
The chief exhaled slowly. "Take them to the infirmary. Immediately."
The team moved out with the two boys.
The chief turned toward the exit, expression hardening. "I'll go to the arena myself and make things clear."
Without another word, he stepped out and headed down the corridor, moving toward the arena where the rest of the chaos was still unfolding.