Chapter 137: Iron-Body Trap
The hotel room was too nice.
Holden stood in front of a full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of an expensive black jacket. The fabric was smooth and tailored perfectly to his shoulders, but it felt completely wrong on his body.
"You look handsome," Maeve said from the doorway.
She was already dressed in a clean blue dress that their handler had given them. Her glasses were clean and her hair was brushed for once.
"I look like I’m about to ask someone to dance," Holden muttered.
"That’s the point."
Renna burst into the room without knocking. She was wearing a deep green gown that was actually quite elegant, though she had already managed to get a small stain on the hem from what looked like a pastry.
"Okay I know I said this was a murder party but I have to admit the dress is really nice and the hotel has these tiny cakes in the lobby that taste so good. I had four of them already and I’m not even sorry, also Lyra looks amazing."
"Renna. Breathe," Holden said.
She took one deep breath. "Right. Breathing. I’m breathing."
Lyra appeared behind Renna in the hallway.
Holden stopped adjusting his collar.
She was wearing a silver-white gown that literally sparkled like frost on a window. Her hair was pinned up with simple silver pins, exposing the line of her neck. She looked every bit the noble heir she was born to be, except for the cold look in her eyes that said she would freeze anyone who mentioned her parents.
"You’re staring," she said.
"Sorry. You just..." He gestured vaguely. "Look way too fancy for this whole murder party."
The corner of her mouth twitched. "Let’s go."
The Royal Gala was held in the Grand Ballroom of the Palace of Crowns.
The room was bigger than the entire Demon-Mouth Output courtyard, with a ceiling that vaulted fifty feet up, painted with scenes of ancient kings slaying monsters. Crystal chandeliers hung in rows, filling the space with warm golden light.
And it was packed.
Hundreds of nobles filled the ballroom, rocking fancy silk, velvet, and diamonds. They stood around in groups, holding glasses of wine and laughing politely at each other’s jokes. The men wore military dress uniforms with medals pinned across their chests. The women wore gowns that probably cost more than most families earned in a lifetime.
Holden could feel the power radiating through the room. Rank 3 auras flickered everywhere, some strong, some restrained. And near the back, near the raised dais where the royal throne sat empty, he felt something even heavier.
Rank 4. At least two of them.
These were the most powerful people in the kingdom, gathered in one room.
And as Team Soup stepped through the archway, every single head turned.
The string quartet in the corner kept playing for exactly two more notes before someone made a sharp hand gesture and the music died.
Silence.
Five hundred nobles stared at the five teenagers standing in the entrance. They looked at Maeve, small and serious beside her brother. At Renna, nervously fidgeting in her green dress. At Emric, standing stiffly with his hands locked behind his back. And at Lyra, shining like silver and ice, her chin held high.
Then at Holden.
The boy from the slums who had paralyzed a prince.
The whispers started immediately.
"Wait, is that him?"
"The Voss boy?"
"God, he looks like a baby."
"I heard he totally cheated with some cheap trick."
"Unbelievable. Who even invited these peasants?"
Holden heard every word. His 10,000x processor caught each whisper individually, categorized it, and filed it away. He kept his expression blank, acting like a nervous student out of his depth.
Lyra’s hand brushed against his briefly, a silent reminder to stay calm.
But he was calm. These people couldn’t touch him. Not really. They were just noise.
Then the crowd parted.
A man walked toward them through the gap, and the whispers got louder before abruptly silencing again.
The Duke was remarkably tall, standing over six feet with broad shoulders and a sharp face hardened by a lifetime of scheming.
He wore a black military dress coat with the Sterling cross embroidered in silver thread across the chest. Medals lined his left chest.
He smiled warmly, putting on a fake, fatherly grin.
"Team Soup," the Duke said, his voice carrying easily through the silent room. "What an honor to finally meet you all in person. The champions of the National Academy Wars. I must say, you look even more impressive in person than the reports suggested."
His eyes found Lyra. The smile didn’t waver, but something in it shifted. Something sharp and private.
"Daughter," he said softly. "You look well."
"Father," Lyra replied. Her tone was completely blank.
The Duke’s eyes shifted off her and locked onto Holden.
"Ah. And you must be the famous Holden Voss."
He extended his hand.
It was a simple gesture. A formal greeting between a noble and a guest.
But Holden’s 10,000x processor was already screaming.
The Duke held his hand out, palm up, looking completely casual. Yet Holden caught the tense tendons in his forearm, the precise grip setup, and a faint hum of compressed energy gathering in his palm.
A hidden trap disguised as a greeting.
If Holden took that hand as a normal Rank 1 student, the Duke’s Rank 3 power would crush every bone in his fingers before anyone realized what was happening. A public humiliation, designed to send a message to the entire room.
Lyra saw it too her jaw hardening.
Holden offered a convincing, nervous freshman smile.
"Your Grace," he said, and took the hand.
The Duke’s fingers closed like a vice.
The pressure hit instantly. Rank 3 energy flooded the Duke’s grip, tightening into a sharp point aimed right at Holden’s knuckles. The force was precise and controlled, designed to shatter bone without tearing skin.
The Duke’s fake smile widened.
Holden’s 10,000x processor calculated the exact force in the time it took a normal brain to register pain.
Twelve hundred pounds of concentrated pressure per square inch. Enough to crush the bones of a Rank 1 fighter and torture a Rank 2.
Holden channeled his Iron-Body.
He pushed it inward, down into the bones themselves. His 7-Star power flooded his skeletal structure, hardening every bone in his hand to a density that made steel look like chalk.
The Duke squeezed.
Nothing happened.
The Duke squeezed harder.
Still nothing.
Holden’s hand remained completely locked in the Duke’s grasp, hard as diamond. The Rank 3 pressure crashed against his reinforced bones and died instantly.
The Duke blinked, his eyes flashing with confusion.
He decided to push harder, pumping way more energy and force into the grip. His forearm tendons stood out like cables under his skin.
Holden’s hand didn’t budge an inch.
The problem for the Duke was the setting. This was a polite gala. He couldn’t flare his full Rank 3 aura without causing a scene and looking like a monster in front of five hundred nobles. He had to keep the pressure contained.
A faint pop sounded from the Duke’s hand as a tendon strained and started to tear under the pressure.
Sweat beaded on his temple.
Holden tilted his head, maintaining his innocent, polite grin.
"Your Grace?" he said, loud enough for the nearby nobles to hear. "Are you alright? Your grip is very weak. You should really see a doctor about those joints. My uncle had something similar. Arthritis, I think. It hits hard when you get older."
The surrounding nobles turned to look.
The Duke’s face was very carefully blank, but the sweat was spreading. Panic flickered in his eyes. He was hurting his own hand far more than Holden’s, yet he couldn’t let go without exposing his failure to the room.
"Young man," the Duke said, trying to keep his voice smooth even though it was cracking under the pressure, "I assure you I am perfectly fi"
"Because I can hold on all night if you need," Holden continued brightly. "I don’t mind at all. It’s nice to meet Lyra’s family. Even if the handshake is a little... limp."
The Duke’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. Then he yanked his hand back fast, pulling away as if touching a hot stove.
His fingers trembled slightly. Holden’s sharp eyes didn’t miss the faint tremor or the discoloration blooming under the skin from the strained tendons.
The Duke tucked his hand behind his back with a practiced motion that almost looked natural.
"A firm young man," the Duke said, his smile now a thin, strained line. "How... vigorous."
"Thank you, sir," Holden said, beaming.
Lyra stepped forward and took Holden’s arm, her fingers curling around his elbow with a grip that said she was fighting very hard not to laugh.
"If you’ll excuse us," she said coolly, "we should find our assigned table."
The Duke said nothing. He just stood there with his ruined hand hidden behind his back and his fake smile frozen in place as Team Soup walked past him into the ballroom.
The whispers started again. But this time, they sounded different.
"Did you see that?"
"The Duke’s hand was shaking."
"The boy didn’t even flinch."
"Interesting."
Holden let Lyra guide him toward their table.