"This is going to be a different kind of battle. Ha-ha! Great matchup," Agent Jim chuckled, clearly amused.

"What do you mean, Agent Jim?" Samuel asked, his tone serious.

The uncertainty surrounding the previous fight—and now Agent Black—had thrown him off. He hadn't even known second-generation demons existed, let alone that some could hide their abilities. Uncertainty was always the most dangerous variable.

"Agent Jones is a special case," Jim explained. "Due to his condition, he can see sounds and taste them. Hyper-synesthetic. Meanwhile, Agent Black is a demon agent who can pull her opponents into her illusion world. This is going to be a battle of wit and perception."

Jim smirked. "If it were anyone else, she could probably win with a few tricks. But Jones… he can tell the difference between illusion and reality. He's one of a kind."

"So you think Agent Jones can win this?" Danny chimed in, intrigued by both opponents.

"That's only if it stays a mental battle. If they go physical…" Jim paused and flashed a grin. "Agent Jones will lose in three seconds."

Agent Jones and Agent Black stepped into the ring.

"Match begins," Agent Vick called out.

Samuel looked back at Jim, a question forming on his lips.

"Watch the match," Jim said, without looking at him. "You'll understand."

Inside the ring, the agents stood ten paces apart.

Neither moved.

Neither blinked.

For five solid minutes, they stared—locked in perfect, chilling stillness.

Samuel and Danny fidgeted, growing impatient. "Is this some kind of staring contest?" Samuel whispered.

Jim glanced at them and raised a finger to his lips. Stay quiet.

Nine minutes.

Nine minutes of sheer silence.

And then, without warning, Agent Black appeared in front of Agent Jones—so fast it was like she'd warped.

She smiled sweetly.

And with a casual flick of her slender finger, she tapped his forehead.

Jones flinched, as if waking from a dream.

But it was too late.

The simple flick launched the six-foot-tall man backward—clean off his feet, out of the ring, and straight onto the mat.

"Agent Jones is out. Winner: Agent Black," Vick announced flatly.

Danny blinked. "Wait… what just happened?"

"I'll explain later," Jim said, already walking toward the draw jar. "It's my turn."

Samuel and Danny stood dumbfounded. There was no explosion. No spectacle. Just one flick—and one fallen elite.

Jim returned, grinning ear to ear. "Samuel. Hahaha—buddy. Looks like you're my prey today!"

He turned and walked toward the ring without waiting for a reply.

"Match Three: Agent Jim vs. Recruit Samuel," Vick called. Then, with a teasing grin: "Jim, control your strength. Don't break the boy."

Under his breath, Vick muttered, "Come on, Samuel… show me what you've got."

Samuel, still reeling from Agent Black's battle, was caught off guard—but only for a moment. He inhaled slowly… and smiled.

"Well," he said softly, "I guess it's my turn now."

He stepped forward—measured, calm, steady.

As he climbed into the ring, his voice whispered inside his mind.

"Hell's Order. Analyze the opponent."

Analysis complete. Opponent base stats:

Strength: 3.5x baseline Stamina: 1.4x baseline Speed: 1.5x baseline

Status: Opponent possesses superhuman strength slightly above yours. However, your speed and stamina are sufficient to match in close quarters.

Would you like to activate Battle Assist Mode?

Samuel blinked. "Battle Assist Mode?" he echoed in surprise.

Affirmative. Your body is now capable of receiving basic Battle Assist Mode protocols for combat scenarios. Would you like to proceed?

Standing at the center of the sparring ring, Samuel let a grin curl at the edge of his lips.

"Alright… let's enter Battle Assist Mode."

Confirmed. Uploading basic Hell Martial Arts to host memory. Executing Battle Assist Mode.

ZAP.

A surge of electricity lit up his nervous system like a lightning strike. His jaw clenched, fists tightened—but he didn't make a sound. He was getting used to Hell Order's brand of high-voltage education.

"Let the match begin," Agent Vick announced, stepping back.

Around the ring, agents leaned in with anticipation. Agent Jim was well known—hell, feared—for his brute strength. Some secretly hoped to see the rookie get flattened. Others simply pitied the boy for drawing Mad Jim's name.

Agent Michael leaned toward Agent Zack. "Three minutes tops. He's gonna tap."

Zack smirked. "He's fast, I'll give him that—but speed's pointless in front of raw power."

"I wouldn't be so sure…" Danny suddenly cut in. Though standing a few feet away, his words landed sharp. "Don't underestimate my friend."

Telepathically linked to Samuel, Danny could sense it—change. Major internal restructuring. This wasn't the same boy who woke up screaming from electricity this morning. Samuel had stepped into something new.

In the center of the ring, Agent Jim stood tall.

"Buddy," he warned, grinning, "I've got super strength. So I'm keeping it under 50%. I don't wanna hurt you—but I won't hold back."

"It's fine, brother," Samuel replied with a casual shrug. "You can go all out. We Hell Enforcers aren't fragile. Give me your best... then maybe you'll understand us better."

And then—shift.

Samuel's aura changed.

The stillness of a predator. His arms moved slowly, deliberately, into a stance that looked somewhere between Taichi... and storm-born martial precision.

He looked like someone who could stop a bullet with two fingers.

Jim blinked. "Is that… Kung Fu?"

"No," Samuel replied softly. "Martial Art of Hell."

Jim didn't hesitate.

He launched forward, erupting into a flurry of punches. Fast. Forceful. Focused.

In thirty seconds—over fifty punches. Each one could shatter brick. Max speed. Max pressure.

Samuel didn't budge.

His feet remained glued to the floor like he was grown from it.

Only his hands moved—blurring through the air, blocking every hit with frightening precision. Left. Right. Cross. Hook. Uppercut. All denied. Not dodged. Stopped.

To Samuel, everything was moving in slow motion.

Hell's Order tagged each incoming strike, highlighting weaknesses in Agent Jim's form, his balance, his breath rhythm.

Samuel didn't counter.

He didn't need to.

He was enjoying this.

The faint smile curling on his lips said everything.

Then Jim pulled back, planting both feet like stone. His entire form coiled.

This was it.

He unleashed everything into one final punch—weight, muscle, fury compressed into a single shockwave of force.

Samuel raised both palms—open, relaxed—and caught the strike.

Boom.

The ring trembled. Samuel was pushed back—three whole steps.

For the first time since the match began, he had to move.

Jim's eyes lit up. "Damn, you're good. Nobody's ever taken a full-powered punch from me head-on like that. That was awesome! Your style—what is that? Kung Fu?"

Samuel grinned.

"Nope. I told you."

"It's the Martial Art of Hell."

He stepped forward—eyes sharp, energy crackling.

"I've taken your barrage. Now it's your turn."

He dashed forward.

To Be Continued.