Shvet Daitya

“I—I will kill you!” Yash’s eyes widened, veins bulging across his forehead, pupils burning like wildfire.

“I will f*cking kill you!” His roar cracked the air, raw and animalistic.

The instructor only smirked, tilting his head.

“Oh… the kid’s raging now.”

Yash lunged, hand just inches from his face—

—but the instructor stepped back, snapping a front kick so fast it seemed as if time itself had skipped. Yash barely twisted away, stumbling. The instructor’s hands remained calmly in his pockets, like this was nothing more than a stroll.

Yash staggered back, not because he wanted to, but because his battered body forced him. His mind was drowned in red haze, pure rage, with no room for strategy.

Suddenly, the instructor dashed forward. His movement was sharp, predatory. He seized Yash’s right arm and drove a brutal kick into his stomach.

A spray of blood burst from Yash’s lips, painting the floor. His vision blurred as the instructor’s fingers coiled around his throat, lifting him off the ground like a ragdoll.

“Screaming won’t make you strong,” the instructor said, voice flat and bored. His eyes were devoid of any emotion. “This isn’t a game.”

On the sidelines, 206 shouted, voice trembling but loud:

“Your friend isn’t dead, 102! Don’t lose your cool!”

“Huh? So 206 is still conscious? Pathetic, but still better than you, 102.” The instructor sneered. “If you want to kill me this badly, why not try making a stra—”

Yash sank his teeth into the instructor’s hand. The bite wasn’t deep, but the pain was enough to make him flinch. The grip loosened.

With a desperate twist, Yash shoved him back with a kick. The instructor blocked effortlessly, but Yash dropped to the ground, coughing blood, free at last.

His legs shook as he forced himself upright. His lips split in a snarl, blood dripping from his chin.

“Why don’t you both shut the f*ck up…” His voice was hoarse, cracking into something feral. “And fight already.”

He spat blood to the side. His eyes burned black with hatred.

“I’ll f*cking kill you.”

The instructor’s smirk cracked, his calm mask slipping into anger.

“You disgusting brat! You stained my suit. Let me beat some manners into that thick skull of yours.”

They charged.

Yash threw a savage overhand hook. The instructor leaned left, dodging effortlessly—

—but Yash’s left knee rocketed upward toward his face.

The instructor blocked with his elbow, instantly countering with a hook to Yash’s liver.

But Yash caught it.

Their arms locked, muscles straining, a violent clash of force.

“I thought you were a boxer,” the instructor said with a cold chuckle. “But you know Muay Thai too.”

Yash didn’t reply. His face was twisted, beastlike. He lashed out with a side kick, the force cracking the floor beneath him. The instructor slipped back, narrowly dodging.

“Die already! Die! DIE!” Yash’s voice broke into a relentless chant, more howl than words.

Council Chamber.

Councilman: “You were right… maybe your wolf among the sheep will win.”

W: “But this maybe is what is out of my control , A25. He carries rumors from his village. The boy who slaughtered his own family. The one who defeated every gangster in his district. They called him the demon of his land… 'Shvet Daitya'. He is an A rank only cause he joined recently.”

The chamber fell silent. The weight of those words made even the veterans shift uncomfortably.

Back in the arena, hope flickered in the eyes of the trainees. Their battered bodies stirred with one desperate thought: maybe Yash can win.

But in the next instant, that fragile hope was crushed.

The instructor blurred forward, too fast to follow. Yash threw a cross, teeth bared, but the instructor spun past it and slammed a brutal kick into his face. His head cracked against the floor. The sound silenced the arena.

Hope shattered with him.

A faint darkness seeped from the instructor’s body, cold and suffocating.

Still… somehow… Yash’s body twitched. He tried to rise again, like a corpse refusing to stay dead.

“Hah. I’m not buying this sh*t.” The instructor stomped his face once. Twice. Thrice. Each strike echoed like a hammer. Yash went limp.

“You give me the same vibes as that masked one.”

The instructor crouched, voice low and cruel.

“Impressive, though. You lasted this long without even knowing how to use D Aura.”

Suddenly, chaos erupted.

80, 75, and 73 attacked at once.

The instructor pivoted sharply. 80 yanked his hair, 75 trapped his leg, and 73 swung.

But instructor snapped a jab.

70 charged from behind, and 73 tried again—

—but the instructor’s counters were merciless. A elbow to 70. A side kick that sent 73 another sprawling. He slammed 80 into 75 like breaking twigs.

Then—impact.

A kick struck his back. For the first time, his eyes widened.

A horn blared.

The computerized voice echoed, cold and mechanical:

[Condition to pass the trial has been met. Trainee 203 has landed a clean blow on Instructor A25.

According to regulations, the entire batch is deemed to have passed.]

The timer froze.

The instructor turned, staring at 203.

“I thought 206 was the strategist… but I forgot. You were the one who gave the first orders. You used everyone as pawns, substitutes… just to hit my blind spot. Cruel, huh?”

He turned and exhaled, the calm mask returning.

“You can fall now. I know you’re forcing yourself—your body can’t withstand my D Aura.”

203 collapsed, unconscious.

The instructor looked back towards and whispered "for your friend huh"

The instructor vanished into the thin air.

The computerized voice filled the arena once more:

[Trial complete. All trainees of Batch B are now qualified to become Shards.]

—END OF THE CHAPTER—

End notes:

Shvet – A Sanskrit word meaning white or pure.

Daitya – In Hindu mythology, Daityas are a race of powerful beings, often portrayed as demons or titans, descendants of the sage Kashyap and Diti. They are associated with immense strength, fearlessness, and opposition to the gods (Devas).