Open Arena — Defensive Test

  Circular arena.

  Reinforced tiles, scarred by old impacts. Fine cracks, scratches, dark stains that aren’t just dirt.

  Around it: candidates forming a ring—too close, too curious. A hungry audience that didn’t pay for a ticket but still wants blood.

  Above, balconies and walkways. OPOM officers and examiners. Detached. Still.

  Eyes that don’t cheer. They measure.

  Jason stands at the center.

  Still.

  Relaxed shoulders. Focused gaze.

  He breathes like he’s about to train… not survive.

  Deep inhale. The air fills his chest like a punch.

  “Fuck… it’s my turn.”

  He doesn’t say it to be heard.

  He says it to hold himself together.

  An examiner lifts his chin just enough. The voice drops from above—flat, tasteless.

  “Defense / evasion test.”

  A pause.

  “Objective: remain standing.”

  Rules fire out like bullets.

  “No attacking.”

  “Defense only. Evasion only.”

  “KO equals failure.”

  A minimal gesture toward the center.

  “Endure until the signal.”

  Silence.

  Someone swallows.

  Then, same tone:

  “Opponent: OPOM. Grade B. Smasher class.”

  Something snaps instinctively among the candidates.

  “Holy shit…”

  “Let’s see how long the no-suit guy lasts.”

  Jason doesn’t move.

  He waits.

  The soldier enters from the opposite side.

  Full gear. Balaclava. Massive frame. Heavy boots.

  The aura is dense. Crushing. Not a special effect—real pressure. The air vibrates, like it’s holding an explosion back.

  The soldier starts circling.

  Slow.

  He studies Jason the way you study prey: no hurry. No doubt.

  Close on the soldier’s eyes: predatory. Pure calculation.

  No hatred. Just procedure.

  Then—sudden burst.

  BOOM.

  He charges like a battering ram. A mass that cuts the air and makes the floor tremble.

  Jason snaps sideways.

  The strike misses.

  The soldier brakes hard. The sole rips the concrete with a vicious scrape.

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  He doesn’t lose balance. He doesn’t lose rhythm.

  Spinning back kick.

  The boot rises toward Jason’s face.

  Jason leans back by a breath. The boot brushes past his skin.

  A shock of air.

  Skin buzzing.

  A millimeter more and he’s out.

  Then the combo.

  Straight.

  Hook.

  Uppercut.

  Spinning elbow.

  Jason closes up. Slips. Blocks. Redirects with his forearm. Shifts weight—always a step outside the full impact.

  But one punch gets through.

  Impact to the ribs.

  Pain cuts across his face for a moment. Sharp. Controlled.

  A flash—then gone.

  Inside, a dirty, crystal-clear thought.

  Fuck.

  This is OPOM level.

  Not Michael.

  But he hits hard.

  One slip… and something breaks.

  They separate by a few meters.

  Heavier breathing. Locked eyes.

  Low comments ripple through the candidates.

  “Who the hell is that?”

  “He hasn’t even armed his genetic code…”

  Jason hears everything.

  He doesn’t turn.

  —

  Second Wave

  The soldier goes again.

  Low kicks. Mid kicks.

  Heavy punches dropped like concrete blocks.

  Jason avoids the direct hits.

  Half-steps. Always.

  Just technique. Just body.

  The soldier’s aura rises.

  The pressure becomes literal—something pushing on the chest, crushing the back of the neck, telling you to stay still.

  Jason clenches his jaw and walks into it.

  Frontal charge.

  BOOM.

  Jason blocks in an X—arms crossed.

  The impact knocks him off balance.

  A straight punch shoots for his face.

  Jason redirects it down, just in time.

  Then the soldier’s hand closes on his throat.

  Grip.

  Lift.

  Jason hangs.

  Legs kicking.

  Short, angry forearm strikes into the grip—useless. The hand doesn’t budge.

  Jason wraps himself around the soldier’s arm with his whole body, like an animal refusing to fall.

  Two sharp kicks to the face.

  The soldier staggers.

  But he doesn’t let go.

  Then he loads the arm.

  Slam.

  GROUND IMPACT.

  BOOM.

  Jason’s back hits the concrete and the sound rolls through the arena.

  For a moment, his vision cuts out.

  Black.

  One beat.

  Thump.

  Then air returns. Sound returns. Pain arrives all at once.

  Jason gets up.

  Slow. Hurting.

  He stands like it’s an order, not a choice.

  Eyes lit.

  Again.

  —

  End of Test

  A metallic tone slices the air.

  BEEP.

  The soldier resets. Straightens posture like someone hit “stop.” Gives a formal bow. Walks away without a word.

  Jason remains at the center.

  Gasping.

  But standing.

  —

  OPOM Observers

  On the balcony, examiners stare down.

  Clipped exchange.

  “Impressive.”

  A tiny pause.

  “He didn’t use his power.”

  The next question comes immediately—practical, bureaucratic, cold.

  “Candidate ID?”

  Immediate answer.

  “91. Jason Raden.”

  “Genetic code: Crustacean — Shrimp.”

  Close on one expert: an eyebrow lifts.

  One word. Disbelieving. Like he just heard a joke.

  “Shrimp…?”

  Silence.

  Eyes return to Jason.

  Spotlights narrowing.

  Jason rolls his shoulders. Breathes.

  And waits.

  Still.

  Among the enhanced.

  Among monsters.

  And he didn’t fall.

  Pistol Boy.