Immediately, all the recruits adopted solemn expressions as they gazed at one another. If a massive battle royale were to take place, casualties would be inevitable.
Just as tension reached its peak, Captain Lancel's voice echoed through the stronghold once more. "The battles will be tournament-style. One on one. You will rely only on your bodies and mutations, no genetic abilities allowed. The first to fall to the ground loses."
A wave of relieved sighs rippled across the stronghold. A tournament was still dangerous, of course—every person present possessed overwhelming physical abilities, and a direct blow could still cause serious injury or death. But at least it wasn't a chaotic free-for-all.
An instructor approached, carrying a large wooden box with a small hole at the top. The opening was barely big enough for a hand, and completely blocked visibility, even for those with enhanced senses.
"Step forward and draw a number," the instructor ordered. "It will determine the order of your matches. Direct elimination. If a battle lasts longer than five minutes, both fighters lose."
Sylar narrowed his eyes—and he wasn't the only one. With direct elimination, luck would be a massive factor. Whoever faced him first would almost certainly be eliminated, even if that person was stronger than others who might advance much further.
Likewise, someone could reach the later rounds purely by drawing weaker opponents.
Captain Lancel caught their expressions and spoke again, his voice carrying the weight of experience. "A soldier should never place their hopes in luck. Preparation, discipline, hard work—these are the pillars of your profession. But only a fool denies that luck plays a role in life. You must not rely on it, but you must always be ready to seize good luck… and overcome bad luck."
Sylar nodded at those words. During his time in the Arcade, his survival came from pushing his body and determination beyond their limits. But when he was fleeing the Symbiarch, it had been pure luck that placed machines in his path—machines that bought him enough time to form a strategy and kill the abomination.
A familiar interface flickered to life before his eyes.
[Quest #007: Win first place in the recruit tournament.
[Mission Grade: 3.
[Status: ACTIVE.
[Reward: 10,000 XP]
As Sylar returned from his brief dive into memory, excitement glowed in his eyes. He had no idea what the final trial of the Star Crucible would be, but he knew it would be brutal. Every improvement he earned before then would matter.
Captain Lancel did not linger on the discussion. He simply gestured for the recruits to proceed. One by one, they approached the box and drew a folded slip of paper.
Soon after, five makeshift arenas—simple white circles marked on the ground—were established, each supervised by an instructor.
No time was wasted. The battles began at once.
It didn't take long for Sylar's first-round match to arrive, and to his surprise, he recognized his opponent.
Standing across from him was the same man he had kicked in the groin during the dodgeball trial. The young man's name was Marcus, and he stared at Sylar with disbelief, silently cursing his luck.
He had already suffered for underestimating Sylar once. That kick during the dodgeball trial had nearly incapacitated him. And now he had to fight the same person again.
Marcus didn't delude himself; he knew he couldn't win. What truly terrified him was the possibility that Sylar might use this as a chance to take him out permanently.
"Fight!"
The instructor's voice gave no room for hesitation.
Sylar moved first—so fast that Marcus barely had time to tense his muscles. A split second later, he found himself flat on his back, staring at the sky.
He quickly checked his body, patting himself in alarm, then let out a long breath of relief when he realized he was unharmed.
Rising to his feet, Marcus looked at Sylar for a moment before performing a small bow. "Thank you."
There was no doubt in his mind that Sylar could have seriously injured him if he wished. The restraint deserved gratitude.
Sylar simply nodded back. He wasn't forgiving, but he wasn't a senseless killer either.
When it came to Apostles, abominations, or thinking machines, he would strike without hesitation. But when facing other humans—especially future soldiers who might one day fight beside him—he could show lenience. Of course, if someone truly enraged him, he wouldn't hesitate to retaliate.
"An eye for an eye."
Simple. Fair. Effective.
More than six hundred recruits were participating, so the first round took over five hours to finish. Immediately afterward, the second round began.
Sylar's next opponent was a tall young man with unusually long limbs and impressive agility. His name was Luigi, ranked somewhere in the top thirty. Unlike Marcus, Luigi would require real effort.
"Begin!"
The instant the word left the instructor's mouth, Sylar and Luigi exploded into motion. Their movements created sonic booms, and their figures clashed in the center of the white ring, blurring in and out of sight.
The speed of the battle drew the attention of nearly every recruit waiting for their turn. Gasps of awe and disbelief spread through the crowd.
But it didn't last long.
Fifteen seconds later, Luigi crashed into the ground with a hard thud. Blood dripped from his lips, and a clear fist-shaped bruise was already forming on his chest.
It was a painful wound, but not a lethal one. Luigi groaned on the ground, clutching his bruised chest, while Sylar stood a few steps away—perfectly composed, perfectly steady, with only a superficial scratch marking his skin.
Sylar didn't speak to him. Not out of scorn but respect. There were no words from the winner to the loser in a challenge.
Instead, his attention shifted to another arena, where an instructor knelt beside a fallen recruit. The young man's skull was cracked open, blood pooling beneath him. He was no longer breathing.
"He's dead," Sylar muttered.
He had seen death many times before; the sight did not shake him. What mattered more was the person responsible.
The killer stood calmly at the edge of the arena: Pierce, the recruit ranked sixth. There were no rules against killing, so the instructor simply declared the match finished, removed the corpse, and commanded the next fighters forward.
The tournament marched on without pause.
Sylar's third-round opponent was a low-ranked recruit, and the match ended quickly. But that round also brought a surprising duel: Arthur versus Michael.
In a contest involving firearms, things might have gone differently, but in close combat Michael's superior technique ruled. After a fierce exchange, he forced Arthur to the ground and advanced.
The fourth and fifth rounds passed swiftly for Sylar. He continued to dominate with ease. But when round six began, Sylar's expression sharpened. His new opponent was none other than Pierce.
The moment the pairing was announced, murmurs rose throughout the stronghold. Pierce had fought with ruthless abandon from the very start. Sylar, in contrast, fought with control—focused on winning, not killing.
Pierce's eyes glowed with manic excitement. This was his chance: to prove his superiority, to silence the nagging voices in his mind, to show everyone what he truly was.
"Begin!"
Pierce vanished instantly, exploding into motion with blistering speed. Sonic booms cracked through the air as he ricocheted across the arena, his movements so fast they left ghostly afterimages. He moved with reckless enthusiasm, delighting in the attention of the watching recruits.
On the other hand, Sylar did not move at all.
He stood tall and calm, breathing evenly, his eyes steady and serene. His focus was absolute—unaffected by Pierce's theatrics. When Pierce realized Sylar wasn't reacting, his thrill only intensified. More eyes turned toward him. More whispers. More awe.
Finally, Pierce gathered all his momentum and appeared behind Sylar and lunged forward with everything he had.
The blow was aimed directly at the base of the skull, where spine and brain met—a lethal strike. Pierce's fist was tightened so the joint of his middle finger protruded forward like a blade, turning the punch into a piercing attack.
But just as his strike was about to land—
Sylar's fist crashed down on Pierce's head like a hammer.
The ground trembled. Bones cracked sharply, the sound echoing across the stronghold. Pierce's body slammed into the ground, limbs twitching before falling still. Blood seeped down the side of his head, though he continued to breathe—a testament to his resilience.
Sylar's eyes were cold as he looked at the unconscious man.
Pierce had aimed to kill. Sylar simply returned the intention and struck with all his strength.
Before any darker thought could form, an instructor rushed in, lifted Pierce's limp body, and carried him away. Sylar didn't watch him leave. Instead, he turned to another arena where Volg and Michael were locked in a brutal exchange.
Their fight was impressive—Michael's mastery of close combat was undeniable—but Volg's reinforced skeleton granted him overwhelming durability. Blow for blow, he endured the punishment, and by the twentieth exchange, Michael collapsed.
Round after round continued, and the eighth matchup brought one of the tournament's greatest clashes: Volg versus Zendo.
Their battle was explosive. Volg's raw power and durability collided with Zendo's feral instincts and surgical precision. In the end, Zendo emerged victorious—landing strikes into the few vulnerable points Volg's body possessed.
Finally, as the sun dipped toward the horizon and the stronghold filled with long shadows, the last battle began.
Sylar versus Zendo.
Every recruit gathered around them, forming a wide circle. Their eyes burned with excitement.
"I bet Sylar wins. His body control is insane."
"No, Zendo has this. His strikes are explosive."
Whispers spread like wildfire. They were all eliminated, but that only made them louder spectators.
Captain Lancel stood before the two finalists. Silence washed over the stronghold. The old man raised his hand—
—and lowered it.
"Fight."
The word had barely left his lips when both fighters launched forward. No tricks. No strategies. No fancy footwork. Just raw, brutal physicality. They attacked with everything they had, every punch a thunderclap, every collision sending dust spiraling upward.
Sylar knew he could approach this differently. He could lean on his Cognition, on Adaptive, on every tool he possessed. But this felt right. A pure battle. No calculations—just willpower, strength, and clarity.
There was only one goal.
Defeat the man in front of him.
Nothing else existed.
That was a goal that put his mind, his body, and his will in flawless harmony.
And then—it happened.
Sylar's eyes glowed.
A deep, dark blue light flickered to life.
Captain Lancel stiffened in shock. The instructors reacted with alarm. Even the recruits instinctively stepped back. Zendo, however, reacted with pure, primal fear. His instincts—honed through a violent upbringing on a feral world—screamed at him.
Something terrifying was coming.
He rose into the air without hesitation.
At that exact moment, Sylar's fist struck forward.
It looked no different than his previous punches. Yet the air in front of him compressed violently, creating a shockwave that blasted forward like a cannon. The ground fractured in its wake.
Captain Lancel's eyes widened in awe, and he breathed a single word.
"Logos."