Super.Dawg
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Chapter 195
🕑 Added 2025-12-19 10:12:01 +0000 UTCThe crowd erupted the moment the announcer returned, his voice rolling across the coliseum like thunder striking stone.
“The last battle of the day!”
The words did not fade. They hung, vibrating in Kana’s chest. One of those days, she truly hated her [High Awareness].
She drew in a slow breath, relaxing herself, removing unwanted thoughts. Every piece of equipment sat exactly where it should. Metallic red plates guarded her shoulders, hips, legs, chest, neck, even the line of her jaw. They gleamed dully under the arena sunlight, layered not for show but for survival. Flexible enough to let her move. Strong enough to keep her alive. The familiar weight settled her nerves, an old companion pressing against her skin.
The roar of the crowd did not lessen. It grew, rhythmic now, like a war drum beaten by thousands of hands. This was tradition. The final clash. The moment everyone remembered when winter ended and stories began.
Kana stepped forward.
The first ray of sunlight slipped through the arena’s opening and brushed her face.
Silence followed.
Not the peaceful kind. The watchful kind.
Across the sand stood her opponent.
A warrior.
Not just in title, but in presence. He wore a simple long-sleeved black shirt, no armor to speak of, as if he did not need it. His build was lean and honed, strength pulled tight rather than stacked. Not the overwhelming mass of Boris or Adam, but something sharper. Taller than her. Older. His black hair was tied back in a ponytail, mirroring her own, and for a fleeting moment Kana felt scared. He was one that had been tempered to hold a sword ever since he was born.
Standing opposite him, Kana suddenly felt… small. The crowd fell silent, though she could hear their murmuring around.
She looked like a girl beside him. No bulging muscles. No visible power. Just a balanced frame and calm eyes.
[High Awareness] flared without permission. One of those days she truly hated it.
The whispers poured in.
“Are they crazy?”
“How can a small girl like her win against that strong looking man?”
“I heard she’s the gold badge holder… but she’s still too young.”
“I bet I could beat a girl like that.”
Each word brushed against her senses, sharp and careless. Judgment without weight. Confidence without understanding. She couldn’t blame them.
Kana exhaled softly.
From the outside, it did look like a mismatch. Kana sighed as they went towards the center of the arena. She looked up to him in order to meet his eyes. It does really a mismatch
From the outside, they could not see the quiet discipline beneath her stillness. The countless mornings, the scars that never showed, the instincts carved into her bones. They could not feel the tension coiled inside her like a drawn blade, waiting for the smallest opening.
Kana lifted her gaze to her opponent.
…….
Sheen had expected much after witnessing Boris and Mica clash.
That fight had carried something else. Talent. The talent kind of violence that spoke of foundations laid early and honed without mercy. They were not merely talented; they were qualified. Good enough to meet the Empire Academy’s standards. Perhaps not exceptional by imperial measures, but acceptable.
Which meant the one he was about to face could not be lesser. Unless they already gave up before the fight even started.
He knew his opponent had not participated in the group duel so he had no idea about his opponent. Sheen rolled the thought over in his mind, lips twitching.
The difference between the Empire and the Kingdom had become painfully clear these past few days of staying. The Empire forged individuals. The Kingdom assembled groups. They called it cooperation. Balance. Strategy. Something weak people do.
Sheen almost laughed.
What use was balance when each piece was fragile?
Strength was not something shared. It was something that should be owned.
During his stay, his confidence had only grown. The Kingdom did not understand it yet. Perhaps a handful did. A rare few who stood apart from the rest, uncomfortable outliers in their own system. But knowledge like this was never common. Even in the Empire, it was guarded. A truth passed through the bloodlines of powerful houses because your environment shaped your class.
Sheen’s earliest memory was not of toys or stories, but of responsibility. A wooden sword in his hands, rough and splintered, guided by the steady corrections of his father and grandfather. His stance fixed before his handwriting. His grip was corrected before his manners. By twelve, he had already mastered several sword forms, each one etched into muscle and instinct. It was a requirement, after all, to get the class [Swordmaster].
Except for his mother, every one of his siblings bore the same class.
This was how it was meant to be.
And yet here, even the Kingdom’s nobles produced a scatter of weak, unfocused classes. Talents spread thin, directionless. There were exceptions, of course. There were always exceptions. The boy with the [Esper] class who had fought Zarates had caught his attention. A rare class, poorly supported by circumstance. The girl with the gauntlets too. Brutal. Inelegant. Still, there was something feral and promising there, even in defeat.
But one name lingered longer than the rest.
“Elley York,” Sheen murmured.
A one of a kind healer. Not just competent, but powerful. The kind the Empire did not let remain outside its borders for long. He filed the thought away carefully. He would report her personally. The Emperor valued such information.
Then Sheen’s attention shifted.
His opponent emerged from the opposite tunnel.
He slowed, eyes narrowing.
A girl?
Small. Slight. Perhaps around his sister’s age. She wore an odd arrangement of armor, plates guarding only certain parts of her body, as if designed by someone who valued movement more than intimidation. Practical but looked terrible. His gaze flicked to her belt, catching the glint of daggers resting there.
Sheen stifled a yawn.
Blades?
Against him? A chuckle nearly escaped before he stopped it, swallowing the sound. No need to insult the moment, however trivial it seemed.
He exhaled instead, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
That brat [Oracle] tricked me into this, he thought. I should never have agreed to travel here.
Still, the arena waited. The crowd held its breath.
And Sheen stepped forward, utterly convinced this fight would be nothing more than a formality.
………
Sheen walked toward the center of the arena, boots crunching softly against the artificial red sand. The noise of the crowd dulled, as if the space between them swallowed sound. Each step shortened the distance, and with it, the illusion that this would be a simple match.
They stopped only a few paces apart.
That was when he saw her eyes.
Red. Not the bright, ornamental red favored by nobles who dyed for flair, but a deeper shade, layered and deliberate, as if the color had meaning beyond appearance. Beautiful, yes—but unsettling. She did not flinch at the sight of him but she was evaluating him.
And then he understood what bothered him.
She was looking up to him yet she was looking down on him.
Not physically. Something far worse. Her gaze moved over him with calm disinterest, like a craftsman judging flawed material. As if he were already accounted for. As if he were… insufficient.
Such arrogance—
His fingers twitched, instinctively reaching for his swords. The reflex was old, drilled into him long before conscious thought. A single step, a single draw, and the fight would end before it began.
But he stopped.
Not because of the rules. Not because of the risk of disqualification.
He stopped because he could feel her now.
It wasn’t bloodlust. He knew bloodlust well. This was something different. Heavier. Quieter. A pressure that settled into his bones rather than crashing against them. It reminded him, suddenly and sharply, of standing behind his grandfather during his first real lesson. Not when the old man shouted or corrected him, but when he simply stood there, presence alone demanding perfection.
That kind of weight did not come from talent alone.
It came from survival and experience.
From repetition. From battles stacked upon battles, victories paid for in pain and discipline rather than applause. From a mind that had learned when to advance, when to retreat, and when hesitation meant death.
Sheen’s breath slowed.
Impossible.
The girl before him was young. Too young. Her body was fit but bore no marks of prolonged training, no exaggerated muscle, no hardened calluses visible from a distance. This pressure could not belong to her. It had to be his imagination, or perhaps something bleeding in from elsewhere. A skill?
Or maybe she was hiding something.
The thought sharpened his focus instead of dulling it. A disguise, then. A trick. An ability meant to unsettle opponents before the first strike. Clever—but insufficient.
Sheen straightened, his spine settling into a familiar, confident alignment. The presence lingered, yes, but it did not frighten him.
If anything, it stirred a quiet excitement.
Whatever she was hiding, whatever strange weight clung to her like an unseen shadow, it would not change the outcome.
Not here.
Not against someone who had been forged for this moment.
Sheen’s lips curved faintly as he met her gaze again, steel certainty settling behind his eyes.
Let her secrets come.
She would still fall.
Sheen inclined his head in a formal bow. The girl mirrored the gesture, precise and controlled, her movements stripped of hesitation. Then, as if bound by the same silent signal, they both sprang backward, boots carving shallow scars into the red sand to open the distance between them.
The arena fell silent.
Not the expectant hush that usually preceded violence. Not the breath-held pause of gamblers and spectators counting heartbeats before blood was drawn.
This was different.
Confused silence.
Uneasy silence.
The kind that crept in when something felt wrong but no one could name why.
The unknown pressure thickened.
At first, Sheen thought it was simply his own awareness sharpening, the familiar tightening of senses before combat. But it didn’t stop there. It grew. The air felt heavier, like a storm pressing low against the land. The red sand beneath his boots seemed denser, as if the weight of the world itself had leaned closer to listen.
And then he realized.
It wasn’t only him.
His eyes took a glimpse of everyone around. Hands that had been mid-cheer now frozen. Conversations cut short. Faces tightening, brows knitting together as people shifted in their seats, uneasy without knowing the cause.
Every instinct in the arena had turned toward a single point.
Her.
The girl stood still, utterly still, yet the pressure rolled outward from her in slow, relentless waves. Not violent. Not wild. Controlled. Patient. As if she were simply allowing something vast to breathe.
Sheen swallowed.
His gaze dropped to his own hand.
It was trembling.
Not from exhaustion. Not from the cold. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, undeniable. His fingers quivered as though responding to an unseen threat long before his mind could catch up.
Understanding struck him with unsettling clarity.
Fear.
The word landed harder than any swords. Fear, the thing he had long ago felt that he forgot it. Yet here it was, slipping through the cracks.
Not fear of death.
Fear of the unknown.
Of standing before something he could not immediately define, could not neatly categorize into skill, class, or strategy. Whatever radiated from her was not an attack. It was something else entirely.
Sheen drew in a slow breath and clenched his fist until the trembling stopped, nails biting into his palm. The pressure did not fade. But neither did his resolve.
Then the horn sounded.
The sharp, metallic blast tore through the silence, a command that echoed off stone and sand alike. It signaled the beginning of violence, the moment where uncertainty would be answered not with thought, but with action.
Sheen lifted his eyes back to the girl.
The fear remained. He grinned. He would go all out from the start. I hope she’ll survive.
Post note:
How to horde powerful class 101
Kana’s aura origin/info will be shown but not yet soon.
Hope you enjoy the chap! 🙂
Comments
Neaaa
Poor guy is having a BIG wake up call
Baelor
AHHHHH the daily cliffhanger strikes again! 😭
