Chapter 200: Chapter 200— Johnmark VS Bright II

The arena had gone silent after Bright descended from the observation section.

Not the tense silence before violence. The curious silence of a crowd that didn’t know what to expect. Most students had never seen Bright fight. He was just another outpost recruit to them—competent maybe, but unremarkable.

Johnmark studied him with focused intensity as Bright entered the sparring ring, recalculating now that he had a clear view of his challenger.

Instructor Vex stepped forward from his supervisory position. He knew who Bright was. Knew what he was capable of, even if most students didn’t. His expression remained professionally neutral, but his attention had sharpened.

“Combatants ready?” He called.

Both nodded.

“Begin.”

—–

Neither moved immediately.

Johnmark waited with the patience of someone who understood his own core mechanics perfectly. Let them come to you. Let them hit first. Charge the absorption reserves before counterattacking.

Twenty consecutive opponents had fallen into exactly that trap.

Bright didn’t rush forward. He simply observed, his spatial awareness mapping the arena with unconscious precision. Johnmark’s stance. Weight distribution. The subtle tension in his shoulders that suggested coiled readiness rather than relaxation.

Then Bright moved.

It wasn’t a charge. Just a measured advance, closing the distance with his precise footwork. His katana remained at his side, not yet raised, giving nothing away about his intended approach.

Johnmark’s stance shifted slightly—preparing to receive an attack, body angled to absorb maximum force.

Bright’s blade came up in a clean arc.

The strike was precise. Controlled. Aimed at Johnmark’s shoulder with the kind of technical accuracy that came from months of forge-work studying angles and force application.

Steel met flesh.

The impact rang through the courtyard—

But instead of staggering back, Johnmark inhaled sharply.

His shoulders rolled forward slightly, as if catching something mid-air.

And he smiled.

Bright withdrew immediately, danger sense screaming wrongness before his conscious mind processed what had happened.

The sound was wrong.

Not the clean ring of steel striking a reinforced body. It was something else. Something that felt swallowed.

The recoil through his blade felt strange too. Like striking water instead of solid matter—the force dispersing rather than rebounding.

Johnmark rotated his shoulder experimentally. “Good technique. Clean strike.” He took a step forward, and Bright noticed his movement was smoother now. Less cautious. “Try again.”

Bright circled instead of engaging directly.

His danger sense was quiet as there was no immediate threat but his analytical mind was processing rapidly.

The hit landed. Definitely landed. But he absorbed the kinetic force somehow. Which means…

Johnmark didn’t wait for Bright to finish his assessment. He closed the distance with surprising speed, throwing a heavy straight punch aimed at Bright’s torso.

Bright parried with the flat of his blade, redirecting rather than blocking directly.

The force of Johnmark’s strike vibrated through the steel, but Bright’s absolute void physique reinforced his grip enough to maintain control. He pivoted, using Johnmark’s momentum against him, and scored a shallow cut across his opponent’s extended forearm.

Again, that strange sensation.

The blade connected. Drew blood. But something about the impact felt incomplete, as if the kinetic energy had been siphoned away mid-strike.

Johnmark pulled back, glancing at the cut with academic interest rather than pain. “You’re testing me. Smart.” He settled back into a stance. “But you’re going to have to commit eventually.”

—–

Bright attacked again, this time with a three-strike combination. A high slash, a low sweep and a thrust.

All three connected.

All three felt wrong.

And this time, when Bright withdrew, Johnmark didn’t just smile.

He moved.

The air around his fist compressed visibly as he released the stored energy in a devastating straight punch aimed at Bright’s center mass.

Bright’s danger sense screamed.

He pivoted hard as his blade came up in a defensive position—

The impact didn’t hit him directly. Just clipped his guard.

But the force was catastrophic.

Steel shrieked. The vibration traveled up his arms like lightning through a conductor. His dimensional barrier flickered visible for a fraction of a second as it absorbed the residual shockwave, and even with that protection his feet skidded backward three meters across the arena floor.

The tiles beneath where he’d been standing cracked in a spiderweb pattern.

The crowd gasped.

Bright’s arms trembled. His fingers felt numb where they gripped his katana. That single redirected blow had contained more force than all three of his strikes combined.

He doesn’t just absorb kinetic energy. He stores it. And releases it amplified.

Johnmark was breathing harder now, but his expression showed pure satisfaction. “There it is. Now you understand.” He advanced, and his footwork was different than before—smoother, more confident, requiring less visible effort. “Every hit you land makes me stronger. Every exchange charges my reserves. The longer this fight goes, the worse it gets for you.”

He wasn’t wrong.

Bright could feel it in the way Johnmark moved now. The initial caution had evaporated. His stance was heavier but paradoxically more fluid. Combat Momentum building with each exchange, making his movements more efficient, more inevitable.

He becomes more dangerous the longer the fight lasts. I become more dangerous the more information I gather.

But can I gather information fast enough before he overwhelms me?

Bright shifted his approach.

No more testing strikes. No more feeding kinetic energy into a system designed to weaponize it.

He needed precision over power.

—–

Johnmark charged.

Not recklessly. But with the confidence of someone who understood his advantages and intended to leverage them. He threw combinations now, forcing Bright to engage defensively.

Each blocked strike charged his absorption further.

Each parry added to his reserves.

The combat momentum was building. His movements flowed from one attack to the next without reset, without wasted motion. He was accelerating.

Bright’s danger sense was constant now. Not screaming. Just maintaining a steady pressure, warning him of trajectories, alerting him to micro-adjustments in Johnmark’s positioning.

He couldn’t block everything. Couldn’t parry every strike without feeding more energy into Johnmark’s growing battery.

So he stopped trying.

Bright let a punch whistle past his head, moving his torso just enough that the fist displaced air but connected with nothing.

There was Zero kinetic transfer.

Johnmark’s eyes narrowed. “Running now are we?”

“Just adapting.”

The next combination came faster. Johnmark was forcing the engagement now, using his structural reinforcement to tank any counterstrikes while pressing forward relentlessly.

But Bright wasn’t countering with force anymore.

When Johnmark threw a heavy right hook, Bright didn’t block. He tapped the inside of Johnmark’s elbow with the flat of his blade mid-swing, disrupting the trajectory without generating a significant impact.

When Johnmark followed with a low kick, Bright stepped into it rather than away, catching the leg against his shin at the last moment when the momentum had already dissipated.

It was a minimal kinetic transfer.

And Johnmark felt it. His expression shifted from confident to analytical.

“You figured it out faster than the others,” he acknowledged, resetting his stance. “But you can’t avoid me forever. Eventually you have to commit.”

“Do I?”

Bright’s katana extended.

Four meters of reach, deployed mid-strike, catching Johnmark across the ribs from a distance that should have been safe.

It wasn’t a heavy blow. Just the blade’s own momentum, guided by bright’s spatial awareness, cutting shallow but precise.

The wound bled. The strike hadn’t carried enough force to significantly charge Johnmark’s absorption.

Johnmark looked down at the cut, then back at Bright with something approaching respect. “Clever weapon. But reach tricks won’t save you when I close the distance properly.”

He was right.

And he proved it by charging again, this time with enough explosive power that Bright’s danger sense flared white-hot.

Bright moved foward closing the distance before Johnmark could build momentum, getting inside the optimal range for heavy strikes. At close range, Johnmark couldn’t generate the kind of devastating blows his core ability amplified best.

But Johnmark adapted too.

He grappled.

His hand clamped onto Bright’s wrist with strength enhanced by his structural reinforcement.

“Got you,” Johnmark said.

Then he released everything he’d stored.

—–

The force detonated between them.

It was a point-blank range with no room to dodge.

Bright’s dimensional barrier flared visible—a translucent shimmer above his skin as it filtered the kinetic shockwave. His spatial body core reinforced his structure against forces that should have shattered bone.

But even with both defensive systems active, the impact drove him backward.

His feet left the ground entirely. He flew three meters before hitting the arena floor hard enough that the tiles cracked beneath him.

The crowd was screaming now. Some in excitement. Some in concern.

Bright’s ears were ringing. His chest felt like someone had struck it with a siege hammer. Blood trickled from his nose where the pressure wave had ruptured small vessels.

But he was conscious.

He was standing.

And Johnmark looked surprised.

“What…” Johnmark stared at Bright like he was examining an impossible equation. “That should have broken ribs. At minimum. You’re still…” He trailed off, recalculating everything he thought he knew about his opponent’s durability.

Bright wiped blood from his upper lip and said nothing.

His dimensional barrier was flickering. The sustained kinetic assault had taxed it harder than anything since the Tier 2 Shroud deployment. His arms ached. His danger sense was still echoing warnings about Johnmark’s stored reserves.

But his mind was clear.

He can’t absorb what doesn’t hit him. He can’t amplify what he doesn’t charge. And right now, he’s frustrated because I’m not fighting the way he expects.

So let’s make him more frustrated.

Bright attacked.

He closed the distance again, blade work shifting to techniques he had gathered in Grim Hollow—a more primal time of his development, targeting joints and tendons, attacking balance rather than durability, as that were the only choices a fledgling had to topple beast that could literally end them.

The flat of his blade struck Johnmark’s knee from the side. It was not enough force to damage the structurally reinforced joint, but enough to disrupt his stance.

A shallow cut was made across the back of Johnmark’s hand, severing nothing critical but making his grip weaker.

A tap against his inner elbow, numbing the nerve cluster there temporarily.

None of the strikes carried significant kinetic force.

All of them were irritating.

Johnmark’s expression shifted from confident to genuinely annoyed. “You’re not even trying to win. You’re just—”

“Controlling the engagement,” Bright finished.

He wasn’t winning. Not yet. But he wasn’t losing either.

And the longer he lasted without feeding Johnmark’s core ability, the more options opened up.

—–

Johnmark realized what was happening.

“You’re stalling.” He stopped attacking, standing in the center of the arena with blood dripping from a dozen shallow cuts that meant nothing to his structural reinforcement. “Waiting for me to exhaust my stored energy without giving me more to absorb.”

“Yes.”

“Smart.” Johnmark’s respect was genuine. “But I don’t need to wait for you to make mistakes.”

He charged this time with overwhelming momentum.

His Combat Momentum core had been building throughout the fight. Every exchange, every strike, every movement flowing into the next without reset. Now he unleashed it fully.

He became a battering ram.

Bright’s danger sense was pinging constantly. He dodged. Parried minimally. Redirected where possible. But Johnmark was forcing collisions now, using his reinforced body as a weapon itself.

A shoulder check sent Bright stumbling.

An elbow strike grazed his temple despite his attempt to evade.

Johnmark wasn’t trying to land devastating blows anymore. He was trying to make contact. Any contact. Maintaining his momentum while preventing Bright from establishing distance or control.

The arena tiles were cracking under the force of his footwork. Dust rose in clouds where his strikes missed Bright and hit stone instead.

He was accelerating.

His movements were no longer labored.

They were inevitable.

Bright felt it—the way Johnmark’s presence was expanding, overwhelming the arena space, making evasion progressively more difficult.

I can’t sustain this. My barrier is flickering. My arms are tired. He’s building momentum faster than I can counter it.

I need to end this. Now.

Bright made a decision.

—–

The arena had stone pillars at its corners—decorative elements that also served as structural support for the observation sections above.

Bright maneuvered toward one of them, letting Johnmark’s momentum carry him forward in pursuit.

Johnmark saw the positioning. Recognized the tactical setup.

And didn’t care.

He released everything.

All the stored kinetic energy from two dozen strikes and parries. Every ounce of absorbed force, amplified through his core ability, channeled into a single devastating punch aimed at Bright’s center mass.

The air screamed.

Bright’s danger sense went white.

He stepped aside.

It wasn’t teleportation. Just perfect timing, as his spatial awareness tracked Johnmark’s strike trajectory with absolute precision, and his danger sense guidied his micro-movements that placed him exactly where the fist wouldn’t be.

The punch missed Bright by centimeters.

It didn’t miss the stone pillar behind him.

The impact was apocalyptic.

Stone exploded. The pillar shattered. Fragments of masonry flew in all directions as centuries-old architecture crumbled under forces it was never designed to withstand.

The observation section above groaned ominously.

And Johnmark, his entire body committed to the strike, his momentum carrying him forward into the destruction he’d created, lost his footing as the ground beneath him destabilized.

Bright moved.

His katana extended to full length mid-thrust.

The blade found Johnmark’s throat—not deeply, just enough pressure to draw blood, the tip resting against his carotid artery.

First blood.

Johnmark froze, eyes wide, realizing what had just happened.

The arena was silent except for falling stone dust.

“Yield,” Bright said quietly.

Johnmark stared at him for a long moment. Then laughed—surprised and impressed.

“I yield.”

Bright withdrew his blade and stepped back.

Instructor Vex’s voice cut through the settling dust. “Match concluded. Winner: Bright Morgan.”

The crowd erupted, but Bright barely heard it.

His arms were shaking. His dimensional barrier had completely flickered out. His lungs burned with every breath. Blood still trickled from his nose.

Victory had cost him everything he had.

But it was victory nonetheless.

As Bright turned to leave the arena, exhaustion making each step deliberate, he caught Duncan’s expression in the crowd.

Pride mixed with concern.

And beneath it, the unspoken question: How much did that actually take out of you?

More than Bright wanted to admit, although not physically though.

But the outpost recruits wouldn’t be easy prey anymore.

Sometimes that mattered more than personal cost.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep