Vorg, Zendo, and Michael all turned toward Sylar after witnessing Arthur's overwhelming display of marksmanship. It was the first time anyone had clearly surpassed Sylar in any combat task, and each of them wondered how he would react.
They had seen geniuses before—people so gifted that they became self-centered, arrogant, even delusional when faced with someone better than themselves. Many would cling to excuses just to protect the fragile image of superiority they'd built.
But Sylar said nothing. He didn't sneer, didn't force a smile, didn't offer any backhanded comment.
Instead, his expression was simple: a genuine smile and eyes burning with fighting spirit.
Sylar had no doubts—Arthur was better than him when it came to marksmanship. Yet that didn't discourage him. Finding a stronger opponent wasn't a curse; it was a blessing.
A wise man learns more from his enemies than a fool from his friends.
Arthur's skill didn't wound Sylar's pride—it fueled him. It pushed him. Whether he eventually surpassed Arthur didn't matter. What mattered was growth, the pursuit of mastery, and the peace that came from knowing you were moving forward.
Vorg noticed and allowed himself a small smile. Zendo and Michael exchanged quiet nods of respect. Sylar's reaction proved why he stood at the top.
One more pair of eyes watched the scene.
He was a surprisingly handsome young man with short brown hair and a thin scar running vertically beneath one eye.
The young man's name was Pierce, and he was ranked sixth among the recruits. His expression was calm, serious, and almost intimidating.
Yet when he saw Sylar and the others receiving personal instruction from Captain Lancel, a strange, unfamiliar feeling stirred in his chest. Something unpleasant. Something he had never experienced before.
"Pay attention!"
The sharp shout of an instructor snapped Pierce back to reality. He lowered his gaze in embarrassment, the annoyance inside him twisting stronger.
Sylar didn't notice—his attention was locked entirely on Captain Lancel.
Once the training with the Stormlance Hypervelocity Rifle was complete, the group moved on to the Dawnfire Hybrid Sidearm.
Once again, Lancel taught them every detail—how to grip it, how to balance its recoil, and how to transition fluidly between long-range fire and close-quarters strikes. Sylar absorbed every word, pushing himself to the absolute limit so he could wield the weapon at its fullest potential.
Close-quarters maneuvers were emphasized heavily. Despite the Dawnfire's range, its true purpose was short-distance combat—fast, lethal, decisive.
When that training ended, the recruits' eyes naturally drifted to the Longspear Titanstrike Sniper System. The image of Captain Lancel obliterating a target beyond their line of sight with a single shot was carved into their memories. They wanted that weapon. They wanted that power.
But fate had other plans.
"The Longspear Titanstrike is a specialized system," Captain Lancel said, cutting through their excitement like a blade. "You must surpass the Star Crucible first. Only those with exceptional aptitude will ever train with it."
Their hopes were shattered instantly, but Lancel didn't give them time to sulk. He turned to the other instructors, silently asking for their evaluations.
When all of them shook their heads, he faced the group once more. "It seems you are still the top five."
Sylar and the others straightened sharply, unable to hide the pride swelling in their chests. None of them were arrogant enough to boast—but pride in one's achievement was not a sin.
"Follow me."
Not a single one wasted a second, immediately trailing behind Captain Lancel. He led them to a corner of the stronghold where a display of cold weapons awaited—combat knives, swords, axes, and countless lethal tools forged for war.
"Firearms form the backbone of a Shooting Star," Lancel explained, "but cold weapons are just as important. They never run out of ammunition, and they allow us to channel the full power of our bodies into a single, lethal motion."
Then, without warning, Captain Lancel moved.
His knife danced through the air with flawless precision, each strike fast enough to blur, each motion ending in a perfect guard. The transitions were smooth, the angles lethal, not a single opening left for an opponent. The demonstration left all five young men awestruck.
"He's… better than Birk," Sylar breathed.
Birk—the massive, bear-like Shooting Star who had trained Sylar on the ship—was incredible. Yet Captain Lancel was sharper, faster, colder. An apex predator.
After sheathing the blade, Lancel continued, "If you become one of us, you will wield cold weapons forged with the most advanced technology of the Kingdom of Man—blades sharp enough to pierce the flesh of a Grade 2 lifeform as easily as cutting butter."
Sylar and the others clenched their fists, desire burning hot in their veins.
"These standard practice weapons will suffice for now," Lancel said. "I assume you received basic training with cold weapons before arriving here?"
Sylar and the others nodded immediately.
"Good." Captain Lancel turned to Sylar. "Choose your weapon."
Sylar didn't hesitate. He reached for a combat knife.
Lancel retrieved an identical one. Then he looked Sylar straight in the eyes, his voice turning cold and absolute. "Attack. Use everything you have. Aim to kill."
Sylar blinked, surprised—but only for a moment. He nodded once, lowered his stance, and surged forward with full intent.
Vorg, Zendo, Michael, and Arthur all nodded in approval as they watched Sylar's movements.
Sylar's stance was firm, allowing him to channel all his strength into each strike of his combat knife. Every movement targeted a vital point with impressive speed and precision. But not once did the blade reach Captain Lancel. The old man didn't even shift his footing—he remained rooted to the ground, effortlessly dodging, redirecting, and deflecting every attack Sylar launched.
Of course, he wasn't only defending.
"Lower your shoulder during the upward strike."
"Control your breathing—exhale at the end of the motion."
"Twist your wrist only at the last second."
Captain Lancel's voice cut through the air like a metronome, each instruction timed perfectly with Sylar's movements. He pointed out every flaw, every inefficiency, correcting the boy in real time. And Sylar absorbed it all.
With each exchange, Sylar's mastery over the combat knife sharpened. His footwork grew steadier, his angles cleaner, his control smoother.
After nearly an hour of nonstop sparring, Captain Lancel finally shifted from defense to offense. With a single decisive movement, his knife clashed against Sylar's, and the impact tore the weapon clean out of the boy's hand.
Sylar stepped back, eyes widening—he had improved tremendously, yet the gap between him and the veteran was still an abyss.
But that realization didn't discourage him. Instead, a smile returned to his face—smaller, but brighter. He was growing. That was enough.
"Good," Captain Lancel said simply. He gestured for Sylar to step back, then turned toward the next recruit.
Zendo approached without hesitation and selected a sword. Lancel mirrored him, picking the same weapon. When their spar began, Zendo revealed surprising skill—his coordination and reflexes were exceptional, almost matching Sylar's level by the end of the hour.
Next came Vorg, who selected a halberd. His control was impressive, powerful yet fluid. His skill fell just a breath behind Sylar and Zendo, but his strength and unusual bone structure made his strikes heavy and unyielding.
After Vorg, Michael stepped forward with a small smile. He glanced at the group, then chose a combat knife.
As soon as the match began, the reason for his confidence became clear. Though he had performed the poorest in marksmanship, Michael excelled with cold weapons. His movements flowed with natural intuition, and his talent flourished even further while learning directly from Captain Lancel. By the end, he stood clearly above Sylar, Zendo, and Vorg in close-quarters combat.
When he returned to the group, a wide grin cut across his face—he had proven himself worthy of his position.
Finally, Arthur approached. He selected a sword. While his coordination was solid, his combat skill with blades was nowhere near the perfection he had displayed with rifles and guns. He was good—just not extraordinary this time.
"You can rest now," Captain Lancel announced after finishing with Arthur. "There are only two challenges left. Save your strength."
The old captain walked away, leaving the five youths standing together. Sylar glanced at them; they returned the look.
While he had formed a genuine friendship only with Vorg so far, training side by side had naturally drawn them closer as a group. None of them bothered to find different places to rest—they simply collapsed onto the ground and closed their eyes, breathing deeply as fatigue washed over them.
Hours passed before the rest of the recruits finished their training. Once again, the ranking list appeared. Many names shifted, with several recruits climbing thanks to their newfound skills in firearms and cold weapons.
But the top five did not change.
A proud smile stretched across Sylar's face as he saw his name still in the first position. Proof that his hard work, discipline, and relentless drive were paying off.
But he didn't dwell on it—not when Captain Lancel stepped forward and scanned the gathered recruits with sharp, assessing eyes.
"The next challenge," the captain said, voice steady, "will be the last one conducted inside the stronghold."
Every recruit straightened immediately, faces hardening, eyes sharpening.
"What comes next is simple," Lancel continued.
"You will fight until one of you rises above all others."