Chapter 202: celebration

Sherlock stood there, visibly frustrated. His eyes locked onto Tongen, who simply stared back with a calm smile.

There had been no way—at least, that’s what Sherlock believed. No possible way Atlas could defeat Elon.

What gave him confidence was Elon’s ability. With control over air, Elon should have been faster, swifter, and far more precise in manipulating his power. Air was not simply a force—it was omnipresent, invisible, something that could be shaped into pressure, into current, into a wall or a blade depending on the user’s will. And Elon had trained that will to a fine edge. Even after learning about Atlas’ ability, Sherlock was certain Elon had the advantage. The math had been simple in his mind. The variables had all pointed in one direction.

But reality proved otherwise.

Atlas had won.

Sherlock let the silence sit for a moment longer than was comfortable. His jaw tightened. He had been so sure—not just confident, but certain in the way that a man is certain about something he’s staked his reputation on. And that certainty now sat in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold.

He stepped forward, his voice firm but lacking satisfaction.

“In this final round… the winner is Atlas.”

Everyone could tell—he wasn’t pleased.

The words carried none of the enthusiasm an announcer might bring. No lift at the end, no warmth behind them. Just a statement, delivered with the controlled restraint of someone who understood how to lose without breaking. Sherlock had been a professional long enough to know that much—disappointment was acceptable. Public crumbling was not.

He walked up to Atlas, then glanced at Tongen.

“About the deal… do I really have to wear a gown when I train them next time?”

Tongen’s smile widened.

“A deal is a deal. We uphold it.”

Sherlock exhaled slowly through his nose. He looked at Atlas for a moment—really looked at him—the way someone does when they’re recalculating. There was something about the boy that didn’t fit neatly into any category Sherlock kept in his head. He filed that thought away without comment, the way he filed most things that didn’t have immediate answers.

After a bit more conversation, the tension slowly faded. The students began talking among themselves, enjoying the moment and each other’s company. The air shifted—lighter now, easier to breathe in. Someone laughed, and then someone else did, and gradually the courtyard found its rhythm again.

Eventually, it was time to leave.

Sherlock gathered his students. They could tell he was disappointed, even though he said nothing. His face had settled into something neutral, but neutrality from Sherlock always communicated more than frustration would from someone else. His students had learned to read the small things—the set of his shoulders, the way he looked past them rather than at them. This wasn’t the reaction they had expected from him. Some part of them had hoped for analysis, critique, something actionable. Instead they got quiet. Still, Sherlock knew there was nothing he could do now—only train them harder and make them stronger.

Nothing more. Nothing less.

On the other side, Tongen was in high spirits, celebrating with his students.

He moved among them naturally, easy in the way that people are easy when things have gone exactly as hoped—or better than hoped. He clapped shoulders, pointed out moments worth remembering, let himself be present in the win without performing it.

Mira was the only one feeling a bit down after losing her fight, but Jelo and Atlas quickly lifted her mood, encouraging her and reminding her of her strength. Atlas kept his tone light, deflecting her embarrassment into something she could laugh at. Jelo was more direct—he told her plainly that she had done well, and the simplicity of it carried more weight than elaborate reassurance would have.

Tongen watched them, pride clear in his eyes.

He said nothing at first. Sometimes the most honest response to something worth seeing was to simply watch it and let it be.

“Honestly, I didn’t expect Atlas to win,” he admitted. “But he pushed far beyond his limits.”

He paused, thinking—turning the match over in his mind the way he might turn a coin, examining each side.

“It’s one thing to know your limits and accept them… and another thing to know them—and still push past them.”

It was something even Tongen didn’t fully understand.

He had seen supers burn themselves out chasing that edge. He had seen others stop just short of it, convinced that discipline meant restraint and restraint meant never testing the wall. Both were wrong in different ways. What Atlas had done was something rarer—he had felt where his ceiling was, acknowledged it, and then refused to treat it as permanent. He had pushed through it not with ignorance, but with intention.

Atlas had gone beyond his limits in a way he had never seen before. He kept getting stronger… again and again. Each time Tongen thought the boy had found the floor, he discovered there was further to fall—and further to climb back up.

At that moment, Tongen realized something—if Atlas continued like this, he would become a truly exceptional super. Not because of talent alone, but because of what sat underneath the talent. Some quality of will that most people burned through early and never recovered.

Still, the one who impressed him the most was Jelo.

The way Jelo used his abilities—his timing, his strategy, his control—it all stood out. He hadn’t fought with raw power. He had fought with understanding, as though he’d already thought three exchanges ahead before the first one began. One could easily compare him to some professional supers. Not the most experienced ones, but enough to show he belonged among them. The comparison wasn’t flattery. It was observation.

Tongen had seen enough to know the difference between a student performing well and a student who had started to think like something more than a student. Jelo was beginning to cross that line. Maybe he didn’t know it yet. Tongen decided he’d let him figure it out on his own—it meant more that way.

Tongen knew Jelo had immense potential. There was no doubt—he would become someone important.

Tongen clapped his hands and smiled.

“This calls for a celebration. I’m treating you all!”

They all headed to a restaurant—far more luxurious than the last one they had visited.

The difference was immediate and obvious—higher ceilings, softer lighting, the kind of quiet that expensive places wore like a second decor. It felt almost absurd for the four of them, still carrying the dust and energy of the courtyard, but none of them particularly cared.

“Order anything you want,” Tongen said.

Jelo didn’t hesitate. He ordered everything he could think of—main dishes, desserts, more desserts. He scanned the menu with the focus of someone conducting a serious assessment and flagged down the server twice. He didn’t care what anyone thought. This was his moment, and he was going to enjoy it.

Atlas followed suit, ordering just as much. The two of them compared choices briefly, debated one dish, then ordered both.

Mira, however, kept things simple, choosing only what she needed. There was something almost dignified about it—the way she folded the menu closed and set it down like the decision had been easy. Tongen did the same, watching his students with quiet amusement.

Soon, the table was filled with food, laughter, and conversation.

They ate, joked, and celebrated—enjoying the victory together.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep