Chapter 73

Chapter 73:Flicker of the Golden Gaze

—BAAM!

Thud.

With a sudden, violent burst of impact, a figure was sent tumbling backward across the stone floor.

The flash of light faded to reveal a shirtless, one-armed young man thrown onto the ground, struggling to catch his breath.

Gil stared up at the dark grey ceiling above him for a moment, his breathing ragged and heavy.

His body—especially his upper torso—was covered in a patchwork of dark bruises and contusions. His lip was split and bleeding, his right eye was swollen shut into a deep shiner, his hair had grown significantly longer and messier than before, and a thin layer of stubble was beginning to shadow his jawline.

And yet, despite his battered state, his remaining sharp amber eye continued to burn with stubborn, unrelenting resolve.

After a brief pause, Gil struck the floor with his right fist.

Leaping back onto his feet with fluid agility, he locked his eye on his opponent and spat,

"Again!"

Without waiting for a reply, he charged forward once more.

Closing the distance in an instant, he threw a sharp, rising upper cut aimed at throwing his opponent off balance.

But his opponent—as evidenced by the sheer number of injuries marking Gil's body—was no easy target.

Stepping fluidly to the side, the instructor dodged the strike and counterattacked with a swift, snapping kick.

Gil had anticipated the blow, but unable to dodge mid-air, he adjusted his body, drawing his leg and remaining arm together to absorb the collision.

Thrown back once again, he didn't crash onto the floor this time; instead, he skidded along the ground, regained his footing, and immediately locked back onto his target.

His adversary—wearing a grey mask and a matching tracksuit—stared at him impassively through the narrow eyeholes. His posture was completely relaxed, waiting nonchalantly for the next attack.

Something about that effortless composure ticked Gil off.

He charged into the attack again.

Having learned his lesson from the previous exchange, he avoided jumping or launching aerial strikes, opting instead to tackle his opponent directly to the ground.

The instructor raised his foot to intercept him with a heavy kick. But once again, as if he had foreseen the counter, Gil took immediate advantage of the fact that his opponent was balancing on a single leg.

He altered his momentum mid-tackle—and planting his feet firmly against the stone, used what remained of his left shoulder to slam directly into the instructor's torso.

The maneuver succeeded.

The instructor was caught off guard, stumbling back slightly—but right at the moment the shoulder slam hit, the masked man displayed frightening skill. By leaning into the collision, he absorbed the force, pivoted smoothly, and delivered a brutal backhand strike directly to the back of Gil's head.

A sharp ringing echoed in Gil's ears as his vision blurred.

The instructor had no intention of letting him recover. Grabbing Gil by his remaining arm, he flipped him over and slammed him violently onto the floor.

The force knocked the air clean out of Gil's lungs, and he nearly bit his tongue on impact.

Yet, he didn't let out a single cry or groan.

Gritting his teeth as he fought through the dizziness, Gil forced himself back into a fighting stance and charged once more.

For the first time, the masked instructor looked him up and down—staring at Gil, who was barely able to stand straight—and asked, "Have you had enough?"

Gil answered him through tightly clenched teeth, "Oh no... this is far from over!"

Returning to his stance, he approached quickly but more cautiously this time, gauging openings and preparing his next move.

All around them, other youths in similar grey training attire observed out of the corner of their eyes while going through their own routines—some working out on conditioning gear, others sparring with one another.

Yet, despite whatever they were doing, none of them could help stealing glances at the brutal exchange unfolding near the center of the hall.

"Hey... how many times has he been beaten down now?" one captive whispered to another.

"Hmm... I stopped counting after the hundredth time. Hard to tell time in a place like this anyway."

"Yeah. But what got into him? He's been completely different ever since that day."

"Right. I think he already had a beef with the healer, and after... well, you know what happened to his arm."

"Ah, I see. Still, it's pretty stupid of him to be openly hostile toward the healer and our instructor."

"Tell me about it. It's no wonder he ends up all by himself. Even his little group—the ones he started out with—apparently preferred to cast him aside over time. But with a handicap and an attitude like his, what do you expect?"

Whispers flared up across the training grounds.

Some viewed Gil's struggle with complete indifference, others took a twisted satisfaction in watching him take a beating, while a few watched him closely, trying to decipher the motive behind his stubborn actions.

Among them, a young man with the remnants of a refined, cultivated air about him was pounding a heavy bag—punch after punch—yet kept a constant eye on Gil.

Every now and then, a calculating glint passed through his eyes as he observed Gil's movements.

Meanwhile, in a far corner of the facility, an isolated group composed of three young men and a young woman paid little attention to the spectacle near the instructor.

At least... that wasn't entirely true.

The tallest among them—Hugo, a giant of a young man with fiery red hair—seemed to be leading their workout, guiding Greg, Orphée, and Kuro through a series of tactical exercises while the heavy impacts echoed from across the room.

Kuro and Orphée focused entirely on their routine, paying no mind to the commotion. Greg, however, with his distinctive hair, couldn't help stealing glances every few moments in the middle of his set—until he was sharply reprimanded by Hugo's stern look and a cold, piercing glare from Kuro.

Immediately, Greg hung his head and refocused on his exercises, not daring to look toward Gil's side again.

Returning to the clash, Gil was once again lying face-up on the cold stone.

Covered in fresh bruises and far more battered than when he had started, his body simply refused to obey him.

No matter how hard he pushed or willed his muscles to move, aside from faint tremors, not a single limb responded.

"Seems like you've reached your limit," the instructor remarked flatly.

Having reached the same conclusion, the instructor stepped forward. A soothing white light began radiating from his hands, bringing a wave of warmth and calm as he applied his healing ability to treat Gil's injuries.

Able to move only his eye, Gil immediately began analyzing the fight that had just taken place—pinpointing where he could have improved, where his timing had lagged, what he had executed correctly, and how he could push his technique further.

Since his body refused to listen, he focused entirely on sharpening his mind.

After a short while under the healer's miraculous hands, Gil's body was restored and feeling considerably better. Standing up and stretching his shoulder to make sure nothing was amiss, he looked at the instructor and said casually

, "What about round two?"—as if he hadn't just endured a brutal beating.

Having anticipated this, the instructor sighed heavily, stood back up, and replied, "Whenever you're ready."

Staring at the instructor, seemingly trying to read something deep within his posture, Gil closed his eye for a moment.

When he reopened it, it shone with a distinct, faint golden glint.

Facing that golden gaze, the instructor felt an inexplicable, cold shiver run down his spine.

Shaking it off, he took the initiative and went on the offensive this time.

As his opponent charged, Gil's expression grew steadily calmer—bordering on cold and detached.

The instructor threw a heavy punch, but even before the motion fully initiated, Gil had already sidestepped out of the line of attack.

He immediately followed up with a sweeping kick aimed directly at his opponent's chest.

Touching only empty air, however, the instructor shifted his weight to throw Gil off balance, tackling him toward the floor—yet Gil maintained complete composure.

Taking advantage of the moment the instructor tried to pin him, Gil drove hard with his legs and rolled clear out of reach. Pushing himself up with one knee on the ground, he kept his eye locked on the instructor—his gaze glowing with an increasingly vibrant, incandescent gold.

Rising back to his feet, Gil charged straight at him, throwing a direct punch toward his face.

Yet, just as the instructor moved to dodge the strike as usual, he was shocked to find that his body wasn't obeying him—it simply wouldn't respond.

For a fraction of a split second, the instructor remained completely frozen in place, while Gil's fist closed in dangerously fast on his face!