Until they died and woke back in the lobby, they wouldn’t remember this was VR at all. And even then, the memory of what he did here would never fade.
In the real world, many would come to fear him too... Every recruits of this trial would never ever forget the terror they faced in the hands of the monster Bruce...
The atmosphere was still thick with despair when the air suddenly split.
WHOOOSH!!!
A razor-sharp whoosh screamed through the clearing, cutting across the lingering silence like a blade. Bruce’s hand snapped upward in a blur, fingers closing around the airborne object with perfect, effortless precision. The impact vibrated faintly through his palm.
He raised it.
"An arrow," he muttered, narrowing his eyes at the icy sheen that glazed its surface. Frost clung to the shaft like thin crystal veins. Cold mist seeped from its tip.
Then he noticed the rest.
The three remaining recruits, those who had been trembling and begging for their lives only seconds ago, now lay collapsed on the ground, each with a clean, brutal hole punched directly through their chests.
’The same arrow.’
Bruce let out a low sigh, though a spark of excitement flashed beneath it.
"Jean..." he whispered, a dangerous thrill humming through his chest.
Before he could track the arrow’s origin, the weapon in his hand began to tremble violently, vibrating with a pulse that wasn’t natural.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed.
A single heartbeat later,
BOOOOM!!!
The arrow exploded in his grip, erupting into a freezing shockwave that engulfed the entire clearing. A spiraling storm of frost detonated outward, blasting Bruce back in a white inferno of cold. Snow and razor-like shards spun violently through the air as the ground beneath him cracked and froze. Three thick baobab trees behind him snapped clean in half under the sheer force of the detonation, crashing to the forest floor in a shower of splintered bark and icy powder.
Far, far away, balanced effortlessly on a thick baobab branch, a girl with long, silver-white hair slowly lowered her bow. Frost still clung to her fingers. Her expression was calm, her cold eyes locked on the giant swirling cloud of frost left in the explosion’s wake.
But then, her calm fractured.
"What...?" Jean’s eyes widened. "What?!"
She sensed it a split second too late.
A hand materialized behind her.
A strike landed between her shoulder blades with the force of a battering ram.
BAM!!!
Jean’s body was launched from the branch like a falling star. She plummeted toward the earth, crashing into the ground with bone-shattering force. A crater erupted beneath her, dirt and stone exploding outward as the impact rippled through the clearing.
Dust swallowed her form instantly.
The taste of blood filled her mouth as she pushed herself upright, coughing violently. Pain flared through her ribs.
That speed...?
Did I just get speed-blitzed...?
The thought alone felt insane.
But she knew, deep in her bones, it was true.
From her perspective, the frost explosion had only just enveloped Bruce when a presence suddenly appeared behind her, silent, cold, and merciless. The next moment, she was in a crater.
She gritted her teeth and wiped blood from her lip.
That presence she sensed earlier, the silent watcher who’d vanished like mist...
’Bruce’
’Such speed...it has to be him.’ she murmured. ’No. Its definitely him...’
The smoke of her own impact still cloaked everything around her, covering her form completely. But she felt it, that suffocating pressure.
As if Bruce’s eyes pierced straight through the smoke. As if he could feel her heartbeat. As if she was already cornered prey.
Jean hated that feeling.
She refused to grovel. She refused to hide. She refused to be pitied.
So she burst out of the smoke in a blur, forcing herself into the open before the fear could smother her. If she was going to fight, she’d do it with a blade in hand, not cowering in a cloud of dust.
She flicked the weapon in her wrist, her bow collapsing smoothly, shifting and folding with a metallic click until it reformed into a sleek double-ended sword, blue light shimmering along its sharpened edges.
SHIIIING!!!
A clean metallic shing cut through the air behind her.
Her instincts screamed. She spun instantly, bringing her weapon up to guard...
CLANG!!!
The impact shook the entire battlefield, sparks bursting as metal collided with raw force. Her arms trembled from the shock.
But she remained standing.
She blocked it.
Her eyes widened, disbelief flickering across her face.
"What...?" Her voice cracked. "How...?"
This was the same man who sent her crashing into the earth with a single hit. The same monster who carved through two dozen Awakened without slowing. The same demon who cut her arrow.
Yet now... she was matching him?
She was still alive?
Her heart pounded.
’Don’t tell me...’
She lifted her gaze and saw him clearly for the first time.
Bruce stood there, calm and composed. His jet-black hair fell slightly over his eyes, his half-burnt coat hung open enough to reveal the sculpted muscle beneath. Frost shimmered faintly along his shoulder.
His expression, relaxed yet unreadable, made her chest tighten with something sharp.
"So... that’s how you want it," she said quietly. Her grip tightened on her weapon. "This is the game you’re playing."
Bruce remained silent.
Jean’s pride burned hot in her veins. She set her jaw and launched herself forward with cold fury, blades sweeping toward him with sharp, graceful precision.
She struck first.
The left end of her sword sliced upward toward his ribs in a clean diagonal arc. Bruce shifted back half an inch, letting it pass effortlessly. She spun on her heel, the opposite end whistling through the air toward his neck.
Bruce parried it with the flat of his dagger.
Jean didn’t slow.
She pressed forward, feet slamming into the dirt as she launched into a flowing assault, left slash, right stab, reverse spin, upward thrust, side sweep. Her movements were cold, quick, disciplined. Years of training honed her strikes to perfection.
Bruce blocked every one. Calmly. Precisely. Almost elegantly.
Sometimes he guided her blade aside with the lightest motion. Sometimes he redirected her momentum with an almost casual shift. Sometimes he simply stepped aside, graceful and fluid, as though dancing with her fury.
Her technique was beautiful. Her form razor-sharp.
And he handled it all with the calm interest of someone observing art.
Jean’s breaths grew faster. Sweat gathered at her jawline.
’Is this why...? Is he interested in my technique? Is that why he reduced his strength to match mine...? Is that why he’s going easy on me?!’