Michael spent the next few hours in the silent training room, not leaving, but consolidating. The raw power of a Rank 3 Super Soldier was a foreign and exhilarating sensation. He methodically circulated the potent genetic energy through his newly perfected pathways, guided by the flawless instructions of Aethelred's Primal Codex. Each cycle was a revelation, strengthening his body and deepening his control. The 10,000x multiplier was a constant, silent partner, refining every particle of energy he absorbed, making his foundation unimaginably solid for his rank.
His previous injuries, the ones Caleb had so generously gifted him, were now nothing more than a faint memory. His F-Rank Regeneration, bolstered by the massive reserves of pure energy now at its disposal, had worked overtime. While the talent itself was still weak, the sheer quality and quantity of fuel he could now feed it made it perform a hundred times better than before.
He tested his strength, a simple punch against the room's reinforced training dummy. The metal creaked and groaned under the impact, a small but visible dent forming on its surface. Before, he would have been lucky to make it rattle. Now, he could damage it with a casual blow. The difference was like night and day.
It was then that the familiar, arrogant voices echoed from the hallway, followed by the hiss of the training room door sliding open.
"I'm telling you, there's no way that cockroach is still conscious," Caleb Thorne's voice sneered as he stepped inside, flanked by his usual sycophants. "I probably broke every bone in his body. Let's go see the mess he made. Maybe we can get a janitor bot to—"
Caleb's words died in his throat.
Instead of the broken, bleeding mess they expected to find, they saw Michael standing in the center of the room. His tattered combat suit hung loosely on his frame, but he was upright, his posture radiating a calm and unnerving confidence. The bloodstains on the floor were still there, but the man who had shed them looked completely unharmed.
"Azazel?" one of the lackeys stammered, his eyes wide with disbelief. "How are you... standing?"
Caleb quickly recovered from his shock, his expression twisting into a furious scowl. The sight of Michael, not just alive but seemingly defiant, was a direct insult to his authority. "So the cockroach has some fight left in him after all. Did you pop a combat stimulant, trash? Or did you waste a precious one-time healing artifact? It doesn't matter. I'll just have to break you all over again."
With a roar, Caleb activated his own talent, a C-Rank ability called [Kinetic Burst], which wreathed his fists in a shimmering aura of force. He charged forward, aiming to end this farce in a single, brutal punch.
Michael watched him come, his expression unreadable. To him, the Rank 2 Super Soldier's charge seemed almost comically slow. He could see every flex of Caleb's muscles, every flicker of the kinetic energy around his fist, every flaw in his reckless approach.
Just as Caleb's fist was about to connect, Michael moved. He didn't use Phase Shift. He didn't use a grand, flashy skill. He simply took a single, precise step to the side. Caleb's punch whistled past him, missing by a hair's breadth.
Before Caleb could rebalance, Michael's hand shot out. It wasn't a punch, but an open palm strike, executed with the flawless form of his mastered combat art. It connected with Caleb's extended elbow.
"Crack!"
A sickening snap echoed through the room. Caleb screamed, a high-pitched shriek of agony as his arm bent at an unnatural angle. The kinetic aura around his fist dissipated instantly.
"W-What the—" The other two lackeys were frozen in shock, unable to process what they had just witnessed.
Michael didn't give them time to think. He flowed forward, his movements a blur of perfect efficiency. He disarmed the first lackey with a quick twist of the wrist, sending his practice sword clattering to the floor, and followed it with a sharp kick to the man's knee, shattering the joint. As the man crumpled, Michael pivoted, his new High-Frequency Resonance Blade a black streak in the air. He didn't use the cutting edge; he simply used the flat of the blade to slam into the side of the final student's head.
The blow was precise, non-lethal, and utterly debilitating. The student dropped like a sack of rocks, out cold before he even hit the ground.
In less than ten seconds, it was over. Caleb was on the floor, clutching his broken arm and sobbing in a mixture of pain and disbelief. His friends were similarly incapacitated, their limbs twisted at grotesque angles.
Michael stood over them, his breathing even, his expression cold. He looked down at Caleb, the so-called genius who had tormented him for years. "This is where *you* belong," Michael said, his voice quiet but carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Stay down, trash."
He turned and walked away, leaving the broken bullies in a heap on the floor. He had paid them back for their cruelty, and he hadn't even broken a sweat. The balance of power at Ares Combat Academy had just been irrevocably shattered.