CHAPTER 170: PLAYING

The air inside the F-Class combat hall buzzed with anticipation. The floor shimmered with the polished gleam of polished tiles and high-tech padding, the walls embedded with energy-absorbing panels to accommodate the raw strength of even the most unstable students. Today was a test fight class, a staple of the superhero training regime. But for many, especially the girls, today was something far more special—Elius was here.

The moment he entered the room, a hush fell like a soft veil over the gathered students—only to be torn away in an explosion of squeals and shrieks.

"He’s here!"

"Look at his hair—it’s like gold spun from the heavens!"

"No way, is he wearing a civilian shirt and still looking that perfect?"

"He’s walking like a prince! A real one!"

Girls rushed across the polished floors like waves crashing toward a divine shore. Their eyes sparkled with infatuation, some teetering on the edge of hysteria, hands clutched to their chests as if containing a wild animal.

Elius didn’t flinch. He moved through the crowd with ease, neither shrinking from their gazes nor pushing anyone away. There was a calm in him, an ease with the attention, as if their desperate cries were a soft background song to the slow rhythm of his steps. His golden-blonde hair, glowing faintly under the training room’s lights, shimmered as he walked past them.

"Oh my god, look at how his uniform fits him—he makes it look like designer wear!"

"His eyes—they’re like galaxies!"

Even a few male students paused, flushed and confused, stealing glances they couldn’t explain. Others grit their teeth, their chins raised, clearly struggling with the wave of adoration the newcomer had summoned.

And Elius... simply offered a smile. A small, knowing smile that made three girls faint on the spot.

He settled down near the far end of the hall, stretching lazily, his movements graceful and unhurried. Several girls collapsed beside him just to be close, ignoring the stares of everyone else. When he took off his jacket to roll up his sleeves, the collective gasp could’ve shattered windows.

"He’s literally sculpted. Is this even allowed?"

"I think I’m dying."

Across the hall, however, resentment stirred.

A cluster of male students—third-years with well-trained bodies and confident strides—gathered. Their leader, a broad-shouldered young man with lightning bolt tattoos crackling faintly on his cheeks, narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t used to being ignored. Not in this school. Especially not by the girls who had once cheered for him the loudest.

"Tch," he scoffed. "It’s just hair and some glow. Let’s see if he can even throw a punch."

"You’re gonna challenge him, Roy?" another boy asked, looking nervously at Elius.

Roy’s lips curled into a sneer. "Why not? He thinks he’s a god? Time to bring him down."

When the instructor barked for volunteers, Roy’s hand shot up like lightning. "I challenge... the pretty boy."

The room went silent again. Elius stood slowly, dusting off invisible particles from his shoulder. His golden gaze lifted to meet Roy’s. He said nothing at first. Just walked to the center ring, each step deliberate. The crowd parted like it was part of some ancient choreography.

The girls gasped. "He’s gonna fight?!"

"I hope he doesn’t get hurt!"

"Wait—what if he breaks Roy in two?"

Elius didn’t change stance. He stood tall, relaxed, arms by his sides. Roy stormed forward, cracking his knuckles.

"I don’t care who you are," Roy growled. "I’m gonna send you flying."

Elius tilted his head slightly. "That would be entertaining."

The duel began.

Roy launched forward, fast and brutal, his fists humming with stored voltage. He aimed a charged punch right for Elius’s jaw, but—

Elius stepped to the side.

Simple. Elegant. As if he knew the attack before it even formed.

Another punch, a sweeping kick, a barrage of jabs—Roy unleashed his fury, but Elius was a phantom. He glided around the attacks with almost lazy grace. Not a single blow connected. His expression never changed. His breath never quickened. Each dodge looked more like dance than battle.

"He’s not even trying," someone whispered.

"He’s just... toying with Roy."

Roy snarled, swinging wide and forcing Elius to duck low. His fist tore through empty space, and before he could react, Elius had already slipped behind him.

"Is this it?" Elius asked softly, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Are you done?"

Roy screamed and jumped, blasting the ground with an electric pulse to launch himself at Elius with all his power.

But Elius simply leaned sideways.

And Roy flew past him like a misguided missile.

Elius turned his back to him. "You bore me."

The crowd lost it.

"OH MY GOD!"

"He turned his back during the fight!"

"He’s a god!"

Some students clutched their hearts. One girl actually fainted into another’s arms.

Roy got up again, sweat drenching his forehead. His breathing ragged, his voltage faltering.

"No more games!" he yelled, and with a guttural scream, began charging all his Qi into a final desperate strike. A ball of crackling plasma formed in his palm. "EAT THIS!"

Elius exhaled, as if inconvenienced by the theatrics. His stance changed at last. His feet grounded. His eyes glowed faintly—gold mixing with shimmering blue. His palm opened as if reaching into the invisible.

And then...

BOOM.

Spiritual energy erupted around him like a swirling tempest. The air cracked. The very light bent toward his figure. From the depths of his core, a spiral of refined spiritual Qi surged forward, condensing in his hand into a spear of light. It burned—not with heat, but with majesty.

He whispered something inaudible.

And then he moved.

Not with speed, but with inevitability.

One step. A second.

Then he slammed the gathered energy directly into the charging Roy.

A thunderous echo rang through the room, but no blast followed. No blood. Just a pulse—a quake of force that collapsed Roy’s knees and sent him tumbling backward, unconscious, foam forming at the corner of his lips.

Silence.

Utter, complete silence.

And then, the girls screamed.

"HE’S SO COOL!"

"HE DIDN’T EVEN HURT HIM BADLY!"

"HE’S MERCIFUL! A GOD OF BATTLE!"

Elius simply walked off the mat, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves, completely untouched.

He returned to his seat. Crossed his legs. Closed his eyes for a moment, like a lion settling down after batting away a fly.

The boys didn’t speak. Not out of fear—but respect. Whatever jealousy they had, it had been crushed under the sheer dominance Elius displayed without even trying.

When the class ended, the instructor didn’t even try to comment.

Elius stood again, graceful and poised, and walked out of the hall. The crowd followed, whispering, gasping, sighing.

And the name "Elius"—though unofficial—began spreading through the halls like wildfire.