“He won?”

  Suzi straightened from where she had been crouched on the rooftop ledge of Goliath High, the concrete still warm beneath her palms. The wind whipped across the roof, tugging at her uniform jacket as distant noise from the streets drifted upward, shouting, engines, the restless hum of a district on edge.

  Across from her, Akari lowered her phone.

  “I’ve confirmed it,” Akari said calmly. “Jayden Brise defeated Leviathan High’s school boss.”

  For a moment, Suzi just stared at her.

  “…You’re serious?”

  Akari nodded once. “Multiple independent sources. Visual confirmation included.”

  Suzi let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through her hair.

  “Damn… those guys were supposed to be unbeatable.”

  That wasn’t just reputation talking. In this dive, school bosses weren’t ordinary fighters elevated by ego. They were narrative anchors, enhanced parameters, reinforced authority, combat instincts sharpened beyond the average participant.

  They were meant to be walls.

  And Jayden had broken one.

  “How?” Suzi asked.

  “It is highly likely that Jayden Brise possesses a personal record,” Akari replied. “Without one, defeating a boss under current scaling would be statistically improbable.”

  Suzi clicked her tongue.

  “So he’s hiding something.”

  “Almost certainly.”

  Akari stepped closer to the edge of the rooftop, looking out over Goliath’s territory. From here, the neighboring districts were partially visible, thin trails of smoke rising in the distance, tension humming in the air like a coming storm.

  “However,” Akari continued, “he sustained critical injuries. Multiple fractures. Severe blood loss. His mobility is compromised.”

  Suzi folded her arms.

  “So he won the battle but lost the tournament.”

  “He will not be capable of challenging another boss in the immediate future,” Akari confirmed.

  Below them, students were gathering in clusters, voices buzzing.

  Even in Goliath High, the shockwave of the news had spread.

  If Leviathan’s boss could fall.

  Then none of them were untouchable.

  Suzi leaned back against a rusted air-conditioning unit, staring up at the sky.

  “Well,” she muttered, “that just made everything messy.”

  Akari turned toward her slightly. “Messy?”

  “Yeah.” Suzi gestured vaguely toward the city. “Up until now, the bosses were stabilizers. Nobody wanted to poke them because the risk wasn’t worth it. Now?”

  She gave a thin smile.

  “Now everyone’s going to start thinking they can be the next legend.”

  Akari didn’t disagree.

  “In fact,” she said, lifting her phone again, “someone already is.”

  Suzi arched a brow. “Who?”

  “Vincent Ferhorn.”

  Suzi pushed off the unit immediately.

  “Ferhorn? He’s here?”

  “In this dive, yes,” Akari replied. “He has begun dismantling Oracle High’s operational structure.”

  She pulled up several images, blurry but clear enough. Broken barricades. Fallen squad leaders. A communications room reduced to rubble.

  “He targeted their supply lines first,” Akari explained. “Then their mid-level coordinators. He is not seeking direct confrontation yet.”

  Suzi’s lips curved slightly.

  “Smart.”

  “He is destabilizing them from within. Forcing their boss to respond.”

  “And once they respond…” Suzi finished.

  “He will strike.”

  The wind gusted harder, rattling loose metal somewhere on the roof.

  Suzi walked to the ledge and looked out toward Oracle’s district. Even from here, something felt different, like pressure building before a thunderstorm.

  “He going to win?” she asked.

  Akari paused for half a second.

  “Unknown.”

  That alone made Suzi glance at her.

  “You don’t have a projection?”

  “I do,” Akari said evenly. “But Oracle High’s boss has not revealed sufficient data. Their behavioral pattern suggests strategic patience.”

  “So brain over brawn.”

  “More accurately,” Akari corrected, “information over impulse.”

  Suzi snorted softly.

  “Well, good luck to him. If he takes down another boss this fast…”

  She didn’t finish the sentence.

  She didn’t need to.

  If multiple school bosses fell in quick succession, the balance holding the simulation together would fracture.

  Stronger entities, those who had remained silent, would no longer have reason to stay hidden.

  Suzi exhaled slowly.

  “And we’re just sitting here,” she muttered.

  Akari looked at her carefully. “We are observing.”

  “Yeah, well,” Suzi said, cracking her knuckles lightly, “observing doesn’t raise rank.”

  Below them, a loud cheer erupted from the courtyard as another wave of students received the news.

  Leviathan had fallen.

  The myth of invincibility was gone.

  Suzi’s gaze sharpened.

  “If Ferhorn moves,” she said quietly, “Goliath won’t stay untouched for long.”

  Akari nodded once.

  “Agreed.”

  The rooftop fell silent for a moment as both of them stared out at the sprawling battleground of districts and alliances.

  Somewhere out there, a second pillar was about to be tested.

  And when it cracked, the entire city would feel it.

  Steam Powered Recovery – Growth

  Rank: None

  Record Size: 0

  By burning through stamina and stored nutrients, your body accelerates its natural recovery. Continued regeneration requires replenishment of nutritional reserves.

  I stared at the translucent panel hovering in front of me, the faint blue glow reflecting off the cracked mirror above my dorm sink.

  “I wasn’t expecting to get another personal record again this soon…”

  The words slipped out quietly.

  The last one had taken months of near-death battles and calculated risks. This one?

  This one had been born from desperation.

  After my fight with Arlan, Leviathan High’s school boss, my body had been a ruin. Three cracked ribs. A dislocated shoulder. Internal bruising bad enough that even breathing felt like swallowing broken glass.

  The system had already written me off.

  I had felt it, the narrative slowing around me, pushing me into recovery mode, sidelining me from the rest of the story-dive.

  And then something clicked.

  A strain.

  A grind.

  Like pistons forcing themselves into motion.

  Steam Powered Recovery.

  The first time it activated, it didn’t feel magical.

  It felt industrial.

  My body burned.

  Not metaphorically.

  Actually burned.

  Every stored calorie, every ounce of glycogen, every reserve of fat and protein, it felt like being fed into a furnace. My muscles tightened violently. My heartbeat roared in my ears. I collapsed onto the dorm floor as waves of heat surged through my bloodstream.

  It was crude.

  Violent.

  But effective.

  By morning, my ribs had fused back together.

  By noon, my shoulder rotated without resistance.

  By evening, the bruising had faded to faint yellow ghosts.

  The cost?

  I turned slowly and looked at the empty shelves.

  Every instant meal pack.

  Every protein bar.

  Every drink bottle.

  Gone.

  Even the emergency rations I had been saving.

  I rubbed the back of my neck and laughed softly.

  “How is this fair?”

  Personal records were supposed to be grounded, abilities your body could theoretically perform without magic or supernatural interference.

  Enhanced reflexes.

  Perfect memory recall.

  Muscle reinforcement through trained micro-control.

  This?

  This was my body turning itself into a combustion engine.

  No mana.

  No spells.

  Just fuel and mechanical brutality.

  It wasn’t healing in the mystical sense.

  It was forced regeneration through resource annihilation.

  And it was terrifyingly efficient.

  I flexed my fingers slowly, testing the tension in my forearm. No pain. No stiffness.

  Completely restored.

  Which meant one thing.

  I was back in the game.

  But I couldn’t be stupid about this.

  If people realized I had recovered this fast, questions would start. School bosses didn’t just walk away from mutual destruction fights. Injuries like that were supposed to bench you for weeks in-dive.

  This advantage...

  I couldn’t reveal it.

  “With this ability,” I muttered, sitting on the edge of my bed, “I can act more recklessly…”

  But not openly.

  Recklessness only worked when people thought you were desperate.

  If they thought you were invincible, they’d escalate immediately.

  No.

  I needed to control the perception.

  I stood and rolled my shoulder again, deliberately letting it droop slightly as I practiced a subtle limp.

  “I’ll start small.”

  Weaker gangs.

  Peripheral territories.

  Just enough activity to suggest I was stubbornly pushing through injury—not miraculously restored.

  I’d take fights I could win while appearing strained.

  Make them believe I was forcing myself back onto the battlefield too early.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Then-

  I’d climb.

  Slowly.

  Strategically.

  And when I inevitably faced another school boss.

  When I got crushed again.

  When the entire district believed I was finished.

  I would retreat.

  Burn everything.

  Recover overnight.

  And return.

  A repeatable cycle.

  Risk.

  Collapse.

  Rebirth.

  I glanced at the record panel again.

  Rank: None.

  Record Size: 0.

  It hadn’t even grown yet.

  Which meant this was just the base model.

  If it evolved…

  If the efficiency improved…

  If the fuel requirement decreased…

  My smile widened slightly.

  “This is broken.”

  Not flashy.

  Not cinematic.

  But broken.

  The kind of ability that wins long games.

  I grabbed my jacket from the chair and shrugged it on, keeping my posture just slightly uneven.

  Let them think I was hanging on by a thread.

  Let them underestimate the damage I could still do.

  As I reached for the dorm door, my stomach growled violently, empty, hollow, demanding repayment.

  Right.

  First step.

  Acquire fuel.

  Second step.

  Acquire influence.

  Third step.

  I opened the door and stepped into the hallway, a faint grin tugging at my lips.

  “Time to hoard the rewards.”

  Oracle High. Goliath High. Leviathan High. Nemean High. Grove High. Behemoth High.

  Six of the seven schools in the region were already devouring one another.

  Territories were shifting daily. Supply routes were being sabotaged. Mid-level commanders were disappearing overnight. Every district pulsed with the same restless tension—an open, unapologetic war for dominance.

  Only one school remained silent.

  Griffin High.

  Not because it lacked ambition.

  Not because it lacked strength.

  But because its battlefield was internal.

  The rooftop of Griffin High looked less like a campus facility and more like the aftermath of a riot.

  Broken benches lay scattered across the concrete. The rooftop door hung half off its hinges. Blood smeared the ground in dark streaks, carried by the wind into thin, drying trails.

  Groans filled the air.

  Bodies were everywhere.

  First years.

  Second years.

  Third years.

  All of them down.

  At the center of it all, Dante lay flat on his back, staring up at the gray afternoon sky.

  His chest rose and fell unevenly.

  Dante, the school boss of Griffin High.

  A prodigy.

  A natural-born fighter.

  He had carved his position through sheer ability, not manipulation. His style was efficient and brutal, a seamless blend of boxing, wrestling, and street-adapted grappling. Every movement was disciplined. Every strike calculated.

  He wasn’t just strong.

  He was reliable.

  The kind of pillar students rallied behind.

  And yet-

  He could barely lift his arm.

  “…Tch.”

  A low groan escaped him as he tried to push himself up, only for pain to flare through his ribs and force him back down.

  Across the rooftop, his strongest lieutenants were in no better condition.

  One clutched a shattered wrist.

  Another lay unconscious against a ventilation unit.

  Several first years who had rushed in halfway through the fight were sprawled near the stairwell, defeated in seconds.

  It hadn’t been close.

  It hadn’t even been chaotic.

  It had been controlled.

  Deliberate.

  Efficient.

  Footsteps echoed softly across the rooftop.

  Measured.

  Unhurried.

  The only person still standing.

  He wasn’t particularly large.

  But his frame was solid, dense muscle built for performance rather than intimidation. His uniform jacket hung open slightly, revealing a torso honed by relentless training rather than showmanship.

  A first-year.

  Duncan.

  He rolled his shoulder once, exhaling slowly as if finishing a warm-up rather than a coup.

  No heavy breathing.

  No visible panic.

  Just calm.

  Dante forced his head to turn slightly.

  “…You…”

  Duncan stopped a few feet away.

  Their eyes met.

  There was no arrogance in Duncan’s gaze.

  No rage.

  No dramatic proclamation.

  Just quiet certainty.

  “You’re strong,” Duncan said evenly.

  It wasn’t mockery.

  It was acknowledgment.

  Dante let out a bitter laugh that quickly turned into a cough.

  “First year…” he muttered. “You’re kidding me.”

  Duncan didn’t respond.

  Because there was nothing to argue.

  The rooftop told the story.

  Griffin High had imploded in a single afternoon.

  Not through outside invasion.

  Not through betrayal.

  But through challenge.

  Duncan had walked up to the rooftop alone.

  Issued his intent.

  And dismantled everyone who tried to stop him.

  Clean counters.

  Precise timing.

  Relentless pressure.

  He fought like someone who had already studied every possible outcome.

  Like someone who understood the mechanics of conflict beyond instinct.

  Dante clenched his jaw.

  “…You planned this.”

  “Yes.”

  No hesitation.

  No denial.

  Duncan crouched slightly, not to offer help, but to meet Dante at eye level.

  “Griffin can’t afford hesitation,” he said. “Not with six schools already at war.”

  Dante’s fingers twitched weakly.

  “You think you can lead better?”

  “I know I can.”

  Not louder.

  Not harsher.

  Just factual.

  The wind swept across the rooftop again, carrying the distant echo of sirens from another district, another clash somewhere between Oracle and Goliath.

  The region was already burning.

  And Griffin High had been standing still.

  Duncan stood upright once more and turned toward the stairwell.

  From this moment on, the silence surrounding Griffin would end.

  Behind him, Dante closed his eyes.

  Not in defeat.

  But in reluctant understanding.

  A first-year had just claimed the throne.

  And he had done it without theatrics.

  Without allies.

  Without external pressure.

  Just skill.

  Just will.

  As Duncan reached the rooftop door, he paused briefly.

  Below, students were already gathering, whispers spreading, shock rippling through the halls.

  Leadership in Griffin High had changed in a single afternoon.

  And beyond the campus-

  Bookkeepers across the story-dive would soon receive the update.

  Duncan.

  Newly established school boss of Griffin High.

  A variable introduced earlier than expected.

  A force unaligned with any existing faction.

  And perhaps...

  The largest obstacle yet.

  Because unlike the others who fought for territory, relics, or reputation.

  Duncan fought with direction.

  And that made him dangerous.

  Not just to the six schools at war.

  But to everyone writing the outcome of this dive.

  Openly, I started small.

  I targeted scattered crews operating on the edges of Goliath High’s territory, students acting like loan sharks with inflated confidence, errand boys who thought carrying a metal bat made them executives. I made sure to let people see me. Made sure word spread that I was active again.

  But I didn’t dominate.

  I let myself breathe hard.

  I let my shoulder hang slightly.

  I let a punch or two land before finishing things.

  The narrative needed to believe I was stubborn, not restored.

  The rumor circulating by the third day was exactly what I wanted:

  Jayden Brise is pushing himself too soon after fighting Arlan.

  Perfect.

  Then the plan derailed.

  The karaoke place was called Golden Mic. A cheap neon sign flickered above the entrance, half the letters dead. It sat squarely in Goliath High’s commercial strip, neutral ground most days, contested ground when tensions rose.

  I stepped inside expecting noise, drunken shouting, maybe a small-time skirmish.

  Instead, I walked into silence.

  Not complete silence.

  The kind that follows violence.

  Tables overturned. A flat-screen cracked down the center. Microphones snapped in half on the sticky floor.

  And in the middle of it-

  A giant.

  Messy shoulder-length hair. Thick neck. Arms like concrete beams wrapped in skin.

  Hans.

  School boss of Nemean High.

  He had one of Leviathan High’s second-years by the collar, lifting him clean off the ground with one hand.

  “Thought you could run supply lines through our side?” Hans’ voice was low, almost bored.

  The Leviathan student swung weakly at him.

  Hans didn’t dodge.

  He let the punch land against his jaw.

  Then he smiled.

  And slammed the student through a karaoke booth partition.

  Wood exploded.

  Screams erupted from the back rooms.

  My plan hadn’t included this.

  Meeting a school boss, especially one like Hans, inside Goliath territory was escalation.

  But opportunities like this didn’t repeat.

  If I backed down, word would spread.

  If I won-

  The entire balance would tilt.

  I reached into my pocket, pulled out a folded handkerchief, and tied it around my lower face.

  Hans dropped the unconscious student and rolled his shoulder lazily.

  “Another one?” he muttered.

  I stepped forward, the glass crunching under my shoes.

  “Time to get started.”

  Hans looked me up and down.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  I didn’t answer.

  I moved.

  Fast.

  Closing distance before he could set his stance.

  I aimed for the liver, sharp, precise, full torque behind the strike.

  My fist connected solidly.

  It felt like punching a sandbag reinforced with steel.

  Hans’ body shifted half an inch.

  Then his eyes sharpened.

  “Oh,” he said.

  And swung.

  I barely got my guard up in time.

  His fist slammed into my forearms.

  The impact detonated through my bones.

  I was thrown sideways, crashing into a table that splintered beneath me.

  My ears rang.

  That wasn’t a punch.

  That was structural demolition.

  Hans stepped forward casually.

  “You’re quick,” he said. “But don’t play hero in my line of sight.”

  He threw another punch.

  I rolled under it.

  The wall behind me exploded.

  Not cracked.

  Exploded.

  Plaster and brick burst outward into the alley beyond.

  So the rumors were true.

  Hans wasn’t just strong.

  He was monstrous.

  I lunged inside his reach again, short jabs to the ribs, elbow to the jaw, knee to the thigh.

  Efficient.

  Targeted.

  Hans absorbed them.

  He grunted once.

  Then grabbed my shoulder.

  Pain shot down my arm as his fingers dug in like clamps.

  He lifted me and slammed me into the floor hard enough to crater tile.

  Air blasted from my lungs.

  He tried to stomp down.

  I twisted.

  His heel shattered tile where my head had been.

  I swept his leg.

  It didn’t move.

  Instead, he backhanded me across the room.

  I hit the bar counter and felt something crack in my side.

  Ribs.

  Definitely ribs.

  I coughed, tasting iron.

  So this was the difference between a high-tier boss and Arlan.

  Arlan had been instinctual.

  Hans was pure destruction.

  He charged.

  Not rushed, charged like a battering ram.

  I grabbed a broken microphone stand and thrust it forward.

  It bent on impact with his shoulder.

  He kept coming.

  I ducked at the last second.

  He went through the bar counter.

  Wood and liquor bottles detonated.

  Alcohol splashed across the floor.

  Hans rose from the wreckage, bleeding slightly from his brow.

  He wiped it with the back of his hand and looked at the blood.

  Then laughed.

  “Finally.”

  He cracked his neck.

  “Someone who can take a hit.”

  I stood slowly.

  My breathing was heavier now.

  Not entirely acting.

  He was pushing me.

  Hard.

  I dashed forward again, this time targeting joints.

  Low kick to the knee.

  Palm strike to the chin.

  Hammerfist to the collarbone.

  I wasn’t trying to knock him out.

  I was trying to dismantle him piece by piece.

  Hans roared and grabbed a table with one hand.

  He hurled it.

  I sidestepped.

  It smashed into the stage.

  He closed distance instantly and caught me mid-step.

  This time, he didn’t slam me down.

  He drove me forward.

  Through a wall.

  The karaoke room beyond collapsed around us as drywall burst and speakers toppled.

  My back hit concrete.

  Something gave in my shoulder.

  Dislocated.

  Hans pulled back his fist.

  I saw it coming.

  I still couldn’t fully evade.

  His punch clipped my cheek and the world flashed white.

  I rolled desperately to create space.

  My vision blurred.

  He was stronger than Arlan.

  Less refined.

  But overwhelming.

  I forced my dislocated shoulder against the concrete wall and rammed it back into place.

  Agony spiked down my arm.

  I exhaled sharply.

  Focus.

  If I traded blows head-on, I’d lose.

  So I changed rhythm.

  Instead of meeting him, I retreated.

  Baited.

  Hans chased, smashing through obstacles, tearing apart the room in frustration.

  I led him toward the narrow hallway leading to the restrooms.

  Confined space.

  Limited swing arc.

  He lunged again.

  I sidestepped and drove a heel kick into the back of his knee.

  This time it buckled slightly.

  He turned, I pivoted and slammed an elbow into his temple.

  He staggered.

  Finally.

  I pressed advantage.

  Body shots. Rib hooks. Uppercut.

  Hans roared and headbutted me.

  Stars exploded across my vision.

  He grabbed me again, but this time I slipped behind him, locking one arm under his chin.

  Rear choke.

  My forearm dug deep.

  I tightened.

  Hans thrashed violently, slamming us into walls.

  My ribs screamed.

  My vision darkened.

  But I held.

  He stumbled forward, then threw himself backward.

  We crashed into a bathroom stall.

  Porcelain shattered.

  The choke loosened.

  He grabbed my wrist and twisted.

  I felt tendons strain.

  He flung me across the restroom.

  I hit the sinks and collapsed them.

  Blood ran down my face now.

  My body was failing.

  But so was his.

  His breathing had changed.

  Heavier.

  Slower recovery between bursts.

  Good.

  I spat blood and stepped forward again.

  Hans grinned through split lips.

  “You’re insane.”

  “Probably.”

  He charged one last time.

  All-in.

  No restraint.

  I met him halfway.

  At the last second, I shifted angle.

  Instead of absorbing the punch, I redirected it, guiding his momentum past me.

  His fist went through the tiled wall.

  Embedded.

  Stuck for a fraction of a second.

  That was enough.

  I stepped in.

  Twisted my hips.

  And drove a full-force elbow straight into his jaw.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  Something cracked.

  Hans ripped his arm free and swung wildly.

  I ducked under and hammered his exposed ribs.

  Then pivoted and delivered a spinning hook kick to the temple.

  His massive frame wavered.

  I didn’t stop.

  I jumped, driving my knee into his face as he fell forward.

  The impact echoed in the ruined restroom.

  Hans hit the ground.

  Hard.

  The entire building seemed to settle.

  Silence returned.

  I stood over him, swaying slightly.

  My body felt wrecked.

  Ribs fractured again.

  Left hand possibly broken.

  Vision unfocused.

  Hans groaned faintly but didn’t rise.

  I waited.

  Ten seconds.

  Twenty.

  He stayed down.

  I exhaled slowly.

  Victory.

  Barely.

  I adjusted the handkerchief on my face and stepped back into the destroyed karaoke hall.

  Sirens were approaching.

  Witnesses had scattered.

  News would spread fast.

  An unknown masked fighter defeating Nemean High’s boss inside Goliath territory.

  That would shake things.

  I glanced once more at Hans’ unmoving form.

  “You’re a monster,” I muttered quietly.

  Then I left before anyone could connect the dots.

  Each step away from the building hurt.

  But beneath the pain-

  Excitement simmered.

  This wasn’t part of the plan.

  But sometimes chaos created better opportunities than strategy.

  Now the region would shift.

  And I had just thrown the first unexpected punch.