The silence after the fight was louder than the chaos during it.
Desmond Slick stood at the edge of the combat platform, chest rising and falling with measured breath. His shirt clung to his back, drenched in sweat, and one side of his jaw was already beginning to swell from a well-placed strike. But his stance was steady.
Across from him, Hector Blackwood knelt on one knee, clutching his ribs with a grimace. One hand hovered over the mat.
Then, with teeth clenched and eyes burning with frustration, he tapped.
A clear, undeniable submission.
The room didn't erupt. It didn't cheer. It didn't boo. It just... froze. Like the collective mind of Class A needed time to reboot.
Professor Grall waited a second longer, gaze sweeping over the stunned class.
Then he raised one hand toward Desmond.
"Winner."
Desmond turned, walked off the platform, and sat quietly against the far wall. He didn't smirk. He didn't gloat. He didn't say a single thing. That silence? That was louder than anything he could've said.
And that silence unsettled them more than any shout.
"I didn't think he had it in him."
"No way Blackwood tapped. There's gotta be something fishy."
"Did he cheat?"
"He didn't even use a chip."
"He couldn't use a chip. That's the point."
The whispers circled like vultures around a carcass. Most of them couldn't make sense of what they'd just seen. Hector Blackwood was a second-generation noble, ranked in the top 30 of the first-year entrance rankings. And Desmond? No one had ever heard of the name.
A nobody just forced a Blackwood to tap out.
And that did not sit well with certain people.
Evelyn Nightshade's gaze remained fixed on Desmond. Her arms were crossed, but her fingers drummed steadily on her elbow.
That wasn't luck. That wasn't brute force.
That was control.
Meanwhile, Hector sat slumped on the bench, head down, breath still shaky. A few of his noble friends hovered nearby, unsure whether to comfort him or ignore him completely.
"You alright?" one of them ventured.
"I'm fine," Hector spat, standing suddenly. He wiped blood from the corner of his mouth and turned toward the training room exit. He didn't look back.
Professor Grall called out the next names, but most weren't listening anymore. The focus had shifted. The class dynamic, broken.
In the observation deck above, two academy staff members watched through a translucent pane of glass.
"Desmond Slick," one of them muttered. "That the kid from the Nexus Core family?"
"Yeah. Parents own that chip company. Mid-tier at best. He's got a registered Phantom-type chip."
The older man folded his arms. "That wasn't Phantom-type fighting."
"Exactly. But there's nothing else registered. Just the Phantom Charm chip."
"You think he's hiding something?"
The junior staffer hesitated. "If he is, he's hiding it well. But unofficially? That style... it didn't look normal."
"Hmm."
They watched as Desmond stood again, quiet, unreadable.
"Keep an eye on that one."
The training hall slowly emptied, but the atmosphere lingered like smoke after a fire. A dozen other sparring matches happened, but no one paid them any attention. Even those who fought next did so distracted, stealing glances toward Desmond whenever they could.
Some looked with awe.
Others, with hate.
He'd done more than win a fight.
He'd disrupted the hierarchy.
And in a place like this, that wasn't just bold—it was dangerous.
Desmond remained seated, watching. Listening. Letting the tension simmer without adding to it.
He didn't need to. The seeds were already planted.
In one of the noble dorm lounges, voices hissed like vipers.
"He humiliated Hector. In front of everyone."
"An upstart. Probably bribed his way into Class A."
"Someone like him doesn't belong here."
They weren't leaders of any official faction, not yet—but among the nobles, their word carried weight. And pride didn't bruise—it shattered.
Desmond Slick's name had entered the wrong mouths.
Outside the training room, Professor Grall paused, watching the last few students shuffle away.
He turned to the assistant recording data on a tablet. "Keep the footage from that match. Unedited."
The assistant blinked. "You think there's something off about it?"
"I think... we just saw someone hiding their true level. And not in the usual way."
Grall's eyes narrowed. "I want a report on all his background. Family. Chip records. Everything."
"Yes, sir."
Desmond didn't move until the very last student left.
Only then did he rise, stretching slightly, the stiffness of the fight settling into his muscles.
He flexed his hand. It still ached, a subtle reminder of what had just happened.
But more than that—it felt good.
Not the pain.
The control.
He walked toward the locker room, not a word spoken.
Behind him, the room remained quiet.
But the ripples had already begun to spread.
And no one, not even Desmond himself, knew how far they would reach.