Ultron sat at the corner of the wide dojo, half-lidded eyes fixed on the unmoving shadow across from him. His posture was relaxed, but his attention was far from idle. He wasn't here to make friends.
Today's schedule was simple: raw ability assessments. After that, the "Sleepers" would be divided into squads for training—some even assigned personal tutors.
At the moment, everyone was taking turns punching a reinforced testing machine to gauge their physical power. Ultron had already taken his turn.
Score: 18.
No one had surpassed it. Not even Nephis, the cold and deadly girl who held the number one rank. Her punch had registered at 16.
That was… until him.
The so-called Prince Charming of the Academy, Caster, stepped forward—smiling like he owned the world—and slammed his fist into the machine with ridiculous speed. The metal frame groaned under the impact, lights flashing.
Score: 21.
Gasps filled the room. A few students clapped. Others stared. Admiring eyes followed Caster as he bowed, then casually stepped back into line.
The instructor simply nodded. "Not bad. Now we move to sparring. I need two volunteers."
Nephis was the first to move, calm and silent, stepping into the ring with the grace of someone walking to dinner rather than a duel.
A few seconds later, a massive, muscle-bound Sleeper followed and took position across from her.
"The rules are simple," the instructor said. "Force your opponent to touch the floor or leave the ring. Use whatever techniques or abilities you see fit."
Ultron hadn't cared—until he watched the giant of a man get thrown through the air like a rag doll.
A perfect hip toss. Five seconds of flight time. Slam.
The girl didn't even adjust her stance.
"Oh," Ultron murmured, finally peeling his gaze away from the corner. "Interesting."
What followed wasn't a fight. It was a dismantling. A massacre, performed with silent precision. No matter how many challengers stepped forward—Sleepers, Legacies, muscle-heads—they fell. One after another.
She wasn't faster. She wasn't stronger.
She was just better.
"Skill," Ultron thought. 'She's compensating with sheer skill. Fluid, refined, surgical. She's a machine.'
But even machines had limits.
'Skill takes you far,' he thought. 'But get strong enough, and technique breaks. Bleed her out. Overwhelm her. Or…'
He let the thought trail, a faint grin twitching at the corner of his mouth.
'…just beat the shit out of her.'
He began analyzing. Looking for cracks. Weaknesses. Openings.
Nothing.
Too clean. Too precise. No wasted movement. Her techniques weren't good for a teenager—they were good for a veteran killer.
"I'll probably need to use my Aspect Ability," he admitted to himself.
"Next!" the instructor called.
Ultron stood.
His turn.
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The air between them tightened like a drawn bowstring.
Ultron stood relaxed, unmoved. His arms hung at his sides like dead weights, fingers half-curled. No stance. No flourish. Just empty space where a soul should be.
Nephis dropped into position—lead foot sliding forward, back foot angled. Knees bent. Her weight was centered, breathing steady. Arms raised into a tight, high guard. Elbows tucked. Hands loose, palms open. She looked composed, like a dancer before the music.
The instructor raised a hand."Begin."
Nephis moved first.
A sharp sidestep, then a sudden, explosive lunge forward—no wasted motion. She used a modified irimi entry, slicing through his reach zone with a snapping palm strike aimed for his collarbone.
Ultron didn't flinch.Her palm slammed into his chest—thump—but it felt like striking a steel beam. Her fingers flexed instinctively, feeling the unnatural hardness beneath the fabric.
Then—
Ultron copied the entry.
She didn't realize it immediately, but his next movement mirrored her own—same sidestep, same foot angle, same forward weight shift.
His palm came crashing toward her with triple the force.
She barely blocked.Forearm slammed against forearm. Her bones shuddered under the impact.
She spun away, ducked low, and swept at his ankle—a tight, technical de ashi harai sweep meant to off-balance without commitment.
Ultron jumped. Just enough.
He shouldn't have known how.
He came down with a front kick, copied straight from a different fighter's sparring bout earlier—snapped at her midsection like a piston.
Nephis absorbed it with a twist of her hip—redirecting the force down and away from her spine. But even redirected, the blow knocked her back two steps.
She reset.
He advanced. No stance. No rhythm. Just raw movement, adapting with every second.
She struck again—a shomen ate (frontal palm thrust) toward his face, followed by a rapid inward tegatana knife-hand strike aimed at his neck.
He leaned back from the first—copied the movement mid-air—and returned the same knife-hand blow instantly.
Snap.
It cracked into her bicep. Nerves fired like electricity.
She retaliated with a spinning elbow—ushiro hiji ate—but his head was already ducked. He had learned her tell. He was reading her rhythm, memorizing it.
Then he moved.
Not elegant. Not trained. Just violent.
He shot forward like a blunt weapon with legs—low stance, lifted her by the waist with both arms and slammed her back-first toward the ground.
She twisted mid-air, using a modified ukemi breakfall technique—twisting her spine and shoulder to roll with the motion. Her back almost touched the floor.
She landed on her side, feet catching the ring's edge. Safe.
But only just.
Nephis's breath hitched.
He shouldn't be able to adapt like this. Not this fast.Every move she used, he turned into a lesson.And then a weapon.
Still, she wasn't done.
She exploded up, using her core to flip forward. Her knee struck toward his face—a tobi hiza geri.
He caught it.
Just caught it—like catching a medicine ball. His fingers dug into her thigh.
Then he lifted her.
Nephis slammed her fists into his temple—once, twice—forcing him to release her mid-lift. She flipped back and landed in a three-point stance, breathing heavier now.
Ultron straightened.
Still no stance. Still calm. His left hand was twitching—subtle adjustments. Data being processed. His internal processor was matching what she did. Reconstructing it.
She was fighting herself.
No—not quite.She was fighting herself with metal arms and no morality.
She needed to end this fast.
She dropped low—sokuto geri (side-blade kick) to his knee joint.He stepped back. Not out of instinct. Out of imitation. He'd seen her use that same movement to avoid strikes earlier.
He countered with a backfist. She ducked under.He copied her duck and followed it with a sweeping hammerfist that clipped her shoulder—crack.
Pain shot down her arm.
She spun, aiming for a kote gaeshi wrist lock—but his wrist didn't bend like it should. It was metal.
He twisted his whole arm, swung her up by her own grip, and headbutted her.
Crunch.
Blood. Her nose. Broken.
She staggered.
He took one step forward, ducked under her stunned swing, and tackled her—not to pin, but to end.
He grabbed her by the waist again and turned his body—a perfect textbook ura nage (rear throw) he had never been taught.
Her feet left the ground.
SLAM.
Her back hit the floor. Flat.
The room went dead quiet.
The instructor blinked, raised a hand slowly.
"Stop. That's it."
Ultron stood over her. His breathing steady. His eyes empty.
He had done it. Not through grace. Not through elegance.But through violence, weight, and the terrifying ability to learn like a virus.
Nephis lay on the mat, chest rising and falling. Blood running from her nose. Eyes wide.Not in pain.
In shock.
He hadn't just beaten her.
He had used her to do it.
Ultron tilted his head slightly, looking down at her bleeding, shocked face.
His mouth curved in a small, cold smile.
"don't just lay there," he said in a dry voice "move. There's still prince charming I need to fight."