077 TURNING LEFT TURNING RIGHT
Principal Misk hesitated. "What do you mean?"
"Make Damen Dark the first Defender in the upcoming School Challenge," Freeland said coldly.
"Good. He'll be humiliated after being attacked continuously by rounds and rounds of challengers."
"This Damen Dark is a genius yes… but he's still just one boy. He cant go against the entire school."
The room was in agreement.
Misk blinked. "The first Defender? But… he hasn't signed up for the challenge yet. He might not even participate."
"He'll participate once he knows he'll gain a prize from the challenge. Low class citizens like him would always jump out when he hears we are distributing scraps", Freeland added.
"But…."
Belgore slammed a heavy hand on the desk, making the principal flinch. "You will put his name up whether he signs or not. Given his pride, he won't back down from a fight. That boy needs to be reminded of his place."
Principal Misk swallowed hard.
He knew it was a trap, a cruel one, for Damen Dark but what choice did he have?
He nodded slowly. "As you wish, Mr. Belgore."
Belgore leaned back in satisfaction. "Good. Let's see how long the boy lasts when every student in the school lines up to crush him."
-----
Damen was the first to arrive at the field — he was the Defender who would open the School Challenge. Crowds of students surrounded the arena, buzzing with anticipation.
The referee raised his voice. "First challenger—Roy Scense!"
A skinny boy trudged forward, face pale, head lowered.
"Damn it… why me first?" he muttered. "Don't they know who Damen Dark is? I'm just cannon fodder—to wear him down before the real contenders show up."
Damen crossed his arms. "Hold it."
The referee blinked. "Yes?"
"Don't waste my time," Damen said coldly. "I want to fight ten at once. Bring the next nine up too."
A ripple of gasps swept through the crowd. Damen was humiliating them, treating them like they were dirt that he could swipe off ten at a time.
"That's not in accordance with the rules," the referee stammered.
Damen smirked. "Rules? If I win, I take their GenSyn quotas. If they win, they take mine. That's the whole point of this damn challenge, isn't it?"
The students murmured angrily.
"Who does he think he is?" one shouted.
"Does he think we're pigs for slaughter?" another growled.
The referee looked helplessly at Principal Misk.
The principal dabbed his forehead with a trembling hand and glanced at Freeland Veyran. Freeland gave a slow, approving nod.
Principal Misk sighed. "This is irregular… but not against the spirit of the School Challenge. Proceed as the Defender requests."
The referee stepped aside. "Bring in the next nine challengers!"
Ten students now stood opposite Damen, forming a shaky semicircle.
Damen waited, motionless.
His eyes gleamed as they inched forward. At that range, their projectiles wouldn't even scratch him. They would have to close the distance before they could reach Damen.
"You are moving too slow", Damen shouted.
Then—
"BWAH!" Damen roared suddenly, lunging half a step.
The ten students froze, stumbling over each other. Shields flickered into being. Those with ranged metas raised trembling hands.
Damen laughed out loud, mocking, and echoing across the field. "This was a fake move, and it scared cowards like you to pee your pants. Now how dare you come challenge me?"
"How dare he mocks us. We are the future of our school."
"One against Ten. That's impossible."
And then Damen was gone.
In a blur, he appeared beside the student farthest right. With a single punch, the poor boy was launched into his own teammates scattering them.
Damen hadn't even used Momentum Collapse.
Panic swept the group. Their protective circle was broken and they ran, abandoning their positions without a second thought. None wanted to end up in the infirmary like the last batch of his victims.
Damen dusted his hands, smiling. "Well then," he said lightly, "congratulations to me… I win."
-----
But Damen didn't stop after defeating ten challengers. Under the rules of the challenge, he could continue to accept challenges until he loses or decides to retire.
The next batch of ten challengers fared even worse than the first. As soon as their names were called, they raised their hands in surrender.
Damen sighed, turning to the referee. "Congratulations to me… I win," he said flatly.
The crowd erupted in laughter and groans.
Up in the viewing stand, Freeland Veyran's jaw clenched.
"Those worthless cowards! What use are they? They can't even make him sweat!" His fists slammed the railing.
The plan had been simple—send wave after wave of human meat to wear Damen down before the real contenders took him out.
But the entire strategy was collapsing.
Batch after batch ended the same way.
"Congratulations to me… I win."
"Do they think we're cannon fodder?" one student complained loudly. "Everyone knows Damen Dark's a monster! Fight him and you're screwed ten times over!"
Soon, the arena that had once been full of noise fell into uneasy silence. One by one, the names on the challenger board withdrew.
No one wanted to be the first to become the sacrificial lamb.
By the time the referee reached the hundredth name, Damen still hadn't used a single skill.
Freeland's face darkened. "Pathetic. All of them."
Finally, only about twenty or more students remained— the strongest metas in the academy.
Most of them bore the insignias of powerful houses. They had received specialized training and regular injections, the kind that made them dangerous even by adult standards.
These students didn't want to fight either. They understood the truth better than anyone: against Damen Dark, fighting was suicide.
Most students managed to enroll in the school through the patronage of the major families. This time they were required to fight the monster Damen Dark.
Their patrons demanded results or at least their effort and blood in the process.
So, when the next batch of ten was called, they stepped forward with grim faces, no longer challengers— but soldiers marching toward a battle they knew couldn't win.
----
Ten challengers stood before Damen.
These weren't the cannon fodder he had faced earlier. Most were at least F-rank metas, with several edging into E-rank. They matched him in raw power—and outnumbered him.
Worse, they were arranged in perfect formation: professional placements designed to squeeze the maximum performance out of the group.
"This formation's troublesome," Damen murmured. "If I charge head-on, their shields could stop me if I'm unlucky."
He didn't underestimate them.
Pulling out his phone, he scanned the group—analyzing meta scores, cross-referencing combat roles, isolating likely weaknesses.
"There," he whispered. "Found you."
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a bespectacled boy near the rear, his hands trembling, his legs unsteady.
The weak link, Damen thought. I'll start there.
"Come at us if you dare!" one challenger shouted.
Yet none of them advanced. They stayed cocooned together, overlapping shields, clinging to one another for protection.
Damen didn't answer.
He dashed left, his body blurring in the sunlight. The group shouted orders, scrambling to adjust and preserve their formation.
Without warning, he dashed right.
They twisted and shuffled, struggling to keep their lines intact. Damen repeated the pattern—again and again—a ghost teasing and taunting them across the arena.
From the stands, Freeland Veyran ground his teeth.
"What the hell is he doing? Why isn't he attacking? He's just running left and right!"
Damen's smirk widened.
He was forcing irregular movement, breaking their formation, disrupting their rhythm. Their coordination frayed with every step.
And then—finally—
He saw it.