Chapter 306: Record
Kael’s face soured.
He had not been trying to break anything. He had not even cared about the record a second earlier. The test was a formality, something to get through so he could sell a ring and get money. But hearing that name put a different taste in his mouth. Asher Vylan. The strongest climber. The shining bastard who had thrown him into the Hudson like garbage.
Kael rolled his shoulders once.
"Good then."
The man shook his head faintly, already bored again. To him, Kael was just another large rookie who thought muscle meant world-shaking power. Bigger men had come through this hall. Larger builds. Higher floors. Better gear. Most of them learned very quickly that the association’s testing equipment was not impressed by gym bodies or confidence. From the file, this young man had reported Floor Ten. At best, maybe he would do a thousand kilograms, perhaps more if his body was unusually strengthened. No one truly cared about the physical test anyway. Strength could grow. Mana aptitude was where futures were decided.
Kael stepped in front of the bag.
He took his stance.
His front foot settled against the floor. His fist tucked beneath his armpit, elbow drawn back. His other hand lifted toward the target in a tiger claw, guiding the line of his body. He turned half-sideways, hips loaded for the twist, shoulders relaxed in a way that looked almost too casual until one understood there was nothing casual about the structure. His breath left him slowly.
The testing hall continued around him.
Someone laughed near another station.
A staff member shuffled papers.
The monitor glanced down at his chart.
Kael punched.
His fist drove forward with a small rotation, the motion beginning from the foot, rising through the leg, twisting through the hips, carrying through the spine, shoulder, elbow, wrist, and finally into the knuckles. The gauntlets were in his inventory, so this was bare hand. No rune. No Heft. No Fire. No Stone. Just body, training, and the cruel efficiency of the Fist King’s lessons.
The punch hit the cushioned bag.
The leather twisted around his fist.
Then the hall exploded with sound.
An ear-deafening boom cracked through the entire floor. Papers flew from desks in a sudden storm. Clipboards flipped off tables. Reinforced windows rattled hard enough to make several staff members duck. Two glass cups shattered somewhere behind reception. A climber at a nearby station yelped and dropped his sword. The monitor’s chart slapped him in the face before fluttering down to the ground.
The display flashed.
9999 KG.
Kael stared at the number.
Then clicked his tongue. "Tsk. The ground is too slippery." He looked at the monitor. "Can I try again?"
The man with the chart had his glasses hanging crooked off one ear. His eyes were wide enough that boredom had been physically beaten out of him.
"Yes," he said automatically.
Then sense returned in pieces.
"No. Wait. Follow me."
He grabbed Kael by the arm, seemed to realize immediately that pulling Kael anywhere was more suggestion than force, and gestured sharply instead. Around them, staff members were standing from desks. Climbers who had been testing now stared openly. Several people from the lobby had turned toward the sound, and voices began rising.
"What was that?"
"Did something break?"
"Was that a weapon discharge?"
"Who punched?"
The monitor ignored them all and hurried toward the stairs. Kael followed. That drew even more attention, and once people saw the enormous red-haired young man being led away from the physical station, curiosity became contagious. A few staff members abandoned their desks to follow at a distance. A couple of climbers did the same, pretending badly that they had business upstairs.
The upper floor looked similar, but more serious.
Fewer stations. More space between them. Better reinforcement. The punching machines here had black leather that looked almost like obsidian stretched over steel. The frames were heavier, the floor beneath them layered with magic wards and shock-dispersal plates. Above the machines was a different bracket.
34-59F.
Kael looked at the display board.
At the top was another number.
16,771 KG.
"This is the best and strongest one we have," the monitor said, still breathing a little too fast. "It should accurately account for your strength."
A large man nearby turned from another station.
Large was a poor word.
He wore a tank top and shorts, and had more muscle than body, if that made any sense. His shoulders were absurd, his arms like tree trunks that had been taught to flex, and his neck looked like it had personally defeated several collars. He had been stretching near one of the machines, but now his attention settled on Kael with a confused frown.
"Who’s this guy?"
The monitor waved a hand. "Jerome, give us a moment. We’re testing this newbie."
Jerome looked Kael up and down. "Then why bring him here? The leather on these punching machines would break a person’s fist. It’s harder than steel."
"He already broke Vylan’s record," the monitor said.
Jerome’s frown deepened.
He looked at Kael again. "This scrawny-looking guy?"
Kael slowly turned his head toward him.
The monitor sighed. "Everyone is scrawny to you, Jerome. Just give us a moment."
Kael looked back at the display. "Who did this one?"
"Yenna," the monitor said. "She was the one who broke the record here. But she did it at Floor Fifty-Nine. Vylan was higher than that floor when this bracket was standardized, so he couldn’t try to break it."
"I see."
So that was the berserker.
Kael had heard the name before. Yenna, reported dead, and still strong enough to leave a record in the higher bracket that made people speak carefully. Sixteen thousand seven hundred seventy-one kilograms. A ridiculous number.
Kael smiled faintly.
He did not know if he could match that. Probably not. He was not at their level yet, at least not in the way the Tower measured levels. But he wanted to try.
He stepped toward the machine, then stopped.
He removed his shoes.
The monitor blinked. "What are you doing? Are you kicking this?"
"No," Kael said. "I need a better grip."
Jerome’s frown became almost offended. "How do you get a better grip with no shoes?"
Kael flexed his toes against the floor.
The surface was smooth, polished, reinforced marble layered over whatever the association used to keep high-floor climbers from punching through buildings. Good. Hard. Stable. Slippery if one treated it like normal ground.
Kael took a couple of breaths.
Same stance.
Front hand raised. Fist tucked. Body half turned. Spine aligned. Breath sinking.
Only this time, he changed one thing.
He did not punch from a standing position.
He stepped.
No, stomped.
His left foot drove forward and down. Toes spread, muscles locked, and the ball of his foot dug into the marble as if it were clay dough. The reinforced surface cracked around his toes. His hips turned a fraction later, violence traveling from the ground into his body in one continuous chain. His fist shot forward.
The second boom was louder.
The obsidian-black leather caved around his knuckles. The shock-dispersal plates under the machine flared, then flickered as if offended. The reinforced windows rattled so hard that one hairline crack appeared in the corner of the nearest pane. Several people on the stairs swore. Someone dropped a tablet. Jerome’s eyes widened.
The display climbed.
12,788 KG.
Kael withdrew his fist and looked at the number.
"Tsk."
The upper floor remained silent for half a breath.
Then the room erupted.
The staff who had followed stared at the display as if it had insulted mathematics. The climbers who had come upstairs began clapping before anyone consciously decided to do it. It spread awkwardly at first, then louder, partly from genuine shock and partly because people did not know what else to do after watching a reported rookie break into the higher bracket barehanded.
Jerome let out a low whistle. "Holy shit. Are you sure this guy is a rookie?"
"Yes," the monitor said.
Then he looked at his tablet again, as if the numbers might have changed out of pity.
"Not just a rookie."
Jerome turned. "What?"
The monitor swallowed. "A super rookie. He’s level one."
The sound in the room changed.
Clapping died in pieces.
Jerome stared. "Huh? Now you gotta be shitting me. This guy is at least level sixty. No, maybe more."
The monitor shook his head. "Nope. Level one. Tested twice. No gear on him besides those strange metal rings."
Kael’s eyes sharpened. "How did you know that?"
He sounded almost offended.
The monitor looked up, then remembered he was speaking to someone who had just punched twelve thousand kilograms into a machine meant for Floor Fifty-Nine climbers. "Level scanner at the door," he said quickly. "It immediately tells one’s level when they enter. We use it for safety, not public disclosure. We know your level the moment you enter the building."
"That feels like a breach of privacy."
"It only tells level," the monitor said. "Just in case someone becomes hostile and we need to send an appropriate response."
Jerome looked at the cracked floor around Kael’s bare foot. "Appropriate response, huh?"
The monitor gave a weak laugh. "Yes. Though your level of strength compared to your actual level might make us redesign the whole damn thing."
Kael picked up his shoes and slipped them back on.
Jerome was still staring at him. "Damn. Level one."
"Yeah," the monitor said quietly. "Once this gets out..."
"Every damn guild in this country is going to want you," Jerome finished.
He stepped forward and clapped Kael on the back.
It was the kind of friendly slap that could knock an ordinary man unconscious, delivered by a man who probably forgot walls were not meant to be leaned on with full strength.
"Shit!" Jerome immediately pulled his hand back. "I’m sorry, man!"
Then he looked at his own palm.
It hurt.
Kael glanced back at him with a faint smile. "Oh, that. Yeah."
Jerome stared. "Did you not even feel that?"
Kael’s smile widened by a degree.
Compared to his master, who had once laughed at his own joke and slapped Kael unconscious for an entire day, Jerome’s friendly hit felt like a cat pawing at his back.
"Barely."