Chapter 6: A Long Day
Sixth Trial: Reflex Practice
The youths were to be pelted with a variety of objects, and their task was to catch as many as possible while preventing them from hitting the ground. The test would be carried out in three rounds of five objects each, with their score based on how many they successfully caught.
Contrary to what some might have expected after witnessing Beltrán's outstanding performance in previous trials, this time his results were slightly below average. His clumsiness was evident enough to make him curse under his breath.
Fatigue has already dulled my reaction speed.
Beltrán complained inwardly. Even so, he didn't judge himself too harshly at this point. He didn't know the exact reason, but compared to humans his age from his previous world, the youths here were far more resilient and physically capable. Perhaps it was some kind of enhancement—or a consequence—of the fantastical nature of this world.
Drawing from various fantasy books he remembered from his alternate memories, combined with his own observations, Beltrán knew that the explanation behind most "superhuman" feats in this world was prana—an energy source that, in his former world, people might have called ki, mana, or life force, among many other names.
There has to be some kind of logic behind it, though.
While Beltrán lost himself in thought to distract from his growing exhaustion, the instructors began to speak. Instinctively, both he and the other students turned to look at them.
This time, the speaker was a man taller than average, with a neatly trimmed goatee and jet-black hair. His eyes were a deep brown.
"Students, as the final activity, we will hold a grappling competition under simulated combat conditions, applying principles you've learned in previous classes," the instructor explained plainly.
"Each of you will face a partner. The first to be taken down and subdued three times loses."
A bad feeling settled in Beltrán's chest.
Almost instinctively, he glanced around, meeting the gazes of several classmates. They were all staring at him with predatory looks—like vultures waiting for their prey to fall.
Confused, Beltrán's eyes suddenly met a familiar face.
A tall boy, larger and far more developed than most of the others, stared directly at him. It was Larson—one of the main bullies who had tormented him throughout the past year.
A flicker of uncertainty struck Beltrán as he saw Larson's lips curl into a subtle smile. The boy mouthed a word silently. Though Beltrán couldn't hear it, he understood it perfectly.
I'm going to kill you.
It's the last test… why would he say that? Unless he's sure we'll be paired together, it doesn't make sense for him to act like this all of a sudden.
Beltrán thought, puzzled.
Still, he refused to be intimidated. Instead, he held Larson's gaze. Months of constant harassment had filled him with more than just resentment. He wanted Larson to understand what he was conveying.
If this really is about the final test, and somehow I do get matched with him… there might be more people involved.
Beltrán had always been somewhat paranoid, and his alternate memories only amplified that trait. It made him prone to seeing conspiracies everywhere. If the circumstances favored Larson, Beltrán was convinced the match might somehow be rigged.
After a brief period of organization, the instructors began calling out names for the first round of matches. Fortunately for Beltrán, he wasn't among them, giving him time to rest and catch his breath.
Several minutes passed—though to Beltrán, it felt like an eternity—before the first round finally ended.
"Larson, step forward. Beltrán, you'll join him. You two will compete now."
Far from surprised, Beltrán simply confirmed his earlier suspicion. Somehow, Larson had known from the beginning.
Beltrán didn't know how—but he chose not to dwell on it.
Having already considered this possibility, he had thought through several scenarios. After watching the earlier matches and getting a sense of how much violence the institution would tolerate, he reached a grim conclusion:
Unless he suffered a serious injury—like a broken bone or a major concussion—his only real option would be to surrender.
He didn't even know exactly how the grading system worked for this subject, but he suspected that even skipping the match wouldn't completely ruin his score. His previous participation might compensate for it.
And yet…
Despite having every reason to withdraw, Beltrán found himself unwilling to back down.
Even knowing he could get hurt.
Maybe it was his explosive personality. Maybe it was the accumulated anger from a year of abuse.
Either way, he found himself making excuses to fight.
Letting go of caution—if only for a moment—Beltrán allowed his true feelings to surface.
He wanted revenge.
And today, he was willing to take whatever risk it required to get it.
To hell with everything else.
If he won, he believed he could send a clear message to everyone watching:
No one would mess with him again without consequences.
Beltrán, however, found something odd about all this.
Larson seemed convinced things would go just as they always had. Why was he so certain Beltrán would agree to participate?
Then it clicked.
He probably thinks my pride won't let me back down.
Beltrán smiled faintly—not out of joy, but from nervous tension. The situation was so unfavorable that, even with knowledge and experience far beyond that of any other child present, he still had no clear way to defeat Larson in a technical fight like this.
If we were teenagers, maybe I'd have a chance… but I'm not even close to that yet.
The difference was obvious.
Beltrán lacked the strength, reflexes, and endurance of someone physically developed. Larson, on the other hand, had been blessed with a body far ahead of his age, along with the confidence that naturally came with it.
Facing him head-on felt like pitting a small dog against a wolf.
Still, there was one thing Beltrán believed he had over him:
His intellect.
His ingenuity.
It wasn't that he underestimated Larson—but the boy relied far more on brute strength than strategy. Though Beltrán had never faced him alone in the past, the beatings and humiliation he'd endured had left a deep impression.
If he could exploit that weakness… victory might be possible.
"Get ready."
The fight would revolve around techniques learned in previous classes: take down your opponent, then restrain them.
Even though Beltrán had rarely been allowed to participate—either due to rejection or constant injuries—he knew the theory well. Occasionally, he had practiced alone.
It wasn't much… but it was something.
A small window of opportunity.
"Begin!"
Larson didn't hesitate for even a second.
He shot forward.
Beltrán felt his body instinctively urge him to step back. For a split second, nerves made him hesitate—advance or retreat?
That hesitation was all Larson needed.
He closed the distance instantly, grabbing Beltrán by the waist while driving his shoulder into his abdomen. The impact didn't knock the air out of him, but the pain was sharp and deep.
Grinning widely, Larson twisted his body and lifted Beltrán into the air.
Beltrán knew he couldn't escape.
So he didn't waste energy trying.
Instead, he focused on the most important part of any takedown:
The landing.
His alternate memories offered no practical combat experience, but Beltrán had still learned—through both classes and repeated beatings—that a bad fall could take you out instantly.
So he adjusted his body midair, trying to avoid hitting his back directly.
Even so, the impact hurt.
Badly.
His body shook, his bones aching as dizziness hit him.
Damn it! The difference between us is too big!
Panic crept in.
Larson didn't stop. He created distance, circling to restrain him properly—clearly aiming to secure his arms and pin him down.
If that happened, it would be over.
As Larson lunged again, reaching for his wrists—
Beltrán reacted.
His legs shot upward.
"Argh—!"
His foot struck Larson's face.
The impact was fast and unexpected. Larson, already moving forward with momentum, couldn't stop in time.
Beltrán extended his leg fully, planting his other foot against Larson's chest and redirecting all that forward force—
Throwing him backward.
For a moment, everything froze.
Students and teachers alike stared as Larson was sent flying, crashing hard onto his back with a heavy thud that echoed across the training ground.
Even Beltrán was stunned.
What the hell just happened?
Was it luck?
Instinct?
Had he replicated something he'd seen before?
He didn't know.
But he had survived.
Reacting quickly, Beltrán pushed himself to his feet, ready to capitalize while Larson was still dazed—
But a large hand grabbed his shoulder, stopping him cold.
"Point for Larson!" the instructor announced.
Beltrán froze.
"You struck your opponent. That's forbidden. Only takedowns and restraints are allowed."
Letting me fight this gorilla with a child's brain should be the real crime…
Irritated, Beltrán glanced at Larson, who was slowly getting up. A thin line of blood ran from his nose, quickly wiped away as he glared back with a frown.
Whispers spread among the students.
Someone is definitely backing this idiot.
Beltrán looked at the instructor.
He appeared relatively young, with crimson eyes and dark blue hair, his face almost too refined. Considering the academy's prestige, it seemed strange that someone would favor a boy like Larson—who, as far as Beltrán knew, came from a commoner family.
Grinding his teeth, Beltrán suppressed his frustration.
Technically, the instructor was right—he had broken the rules.
But considering the force of Larson's attack, if he had allowed himself to be restrained, he might have ended up seriously injured.
Still… arguing would only make things worse.