OPOM EXAM — OFFENSIVE TEST

  The central arena looks like a colossus built to humiliate anyone who steps into it.

  Stands packed with candidates. Cold lights. A constant buzz—electric, dirty.

  At the center, the strike structure: a hyper-fortified block. Layered steel. Exposed reinforcements. Thickness beyond reason.

  Less a target… more a challenge.

  An examiner speaks. Amplified voice bouncing off the walls, vibrating in bone.

  “Now you will face a test of pure offensive power.”

  Pause. Measured. Like poison.

  “You may—and must—use your abilities to their fullest. Whatever they are.”

  He points at the structure without a flicker of doubt.

  “It is designed to withstand attacks above Grade A… enjoy.”

  A murmur runs through the stands like current.

  The candidates rotate in.

  One after another, they jump into the arena.

  Punch barrages.

  Spinning kicks.

  Electrical discharges.

  Acid jets.

  Organic projectiles.

  Every hit has a different sound.

  Every mutation, a signature.

  Every candidate, a small vanity trying to become legend.

  The structure vibrates. Shudders.

  But it doesn’t give.

  From the stands:

  “Whoa…”

  “Not bad.”

  On the OPOM balcony, the tech team doesn’t clap. They count.

  Screens everywhere. Numbers scrolling without mercy.

  70% — 60% — 87% — 45% — 90%

  A technician looks up, almost amused.

  “Damn… ninety-seven.”

  —

  Krel Sornar

  The speaker’s voice drops sharp, like a blade.

  “Second-to-last candidate: Krel Sornar.”

  The buzz dies.

  Total silence.

  Krel advances with a slow step. Head lowered. Hands clenched, like he’s holding something back—something that wants to get out and bite.

  Every step feels like a decision.

  When he lifts his eyes, the irises ignite in luminous red. Pupils thin—reptilian. Lethal.

  Activation detonates.

  His aura crashes over him like impact. Bone horns force their way out along his temples, skin splitting. Dark scales surface underneath, spreading in waves, devouring his body. His frame pulses with energy, like a prehistoric engine spooling up inside him.

  Krel roars.

  A bestial sound.

  The air vibrates and someone in the stands feels their stomach knot on instinct.

  Like standing in front of an animal that shouldn’t exist.

  Then he charges.

  Unhinged momentum. Pure fury. A pissed-off prehistoric predator unleashed at the structure.

  Frontal impact, arms crossed.

  The structure shudders violently. Tiles beneath quake. Krel hammers it—punches, kicks, claw strikes. His aura pulses, snapping off small red discharges, sporadic, whip-like.

  Savage blows in rapid fire.

  CRACK.

  The outer plating tears. Steel bends. The block deforms under the pressure of his strikes—denting, buckling where it shouldn’t.

  It doesn’t fall… but you can feel it suffering.

  When Krel stops, he drops to one knee.

  Smoke rises off his body.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Activation falls—but his eyes stay red. Predator pupils locked on the target, like he wants to finish it with his stare alone.

  On the OPOM display, a cold datum appears:

  Activation: 31%

  A supervisor murmurs, almost against his will.

  “Monstrous…”

  The structure is still standing.

  But warped. Cracked. Heavily dented in multiple places.

  Like someone punched a tank… and the tank remembered the punches.

  —

  Jason Raden

  The speaker’s voice returns.

  “Final candidate: Jason Raden.”

  Someone laughs softly. Nervous.

  “After Krel… what’s this guy gonna do?”

  “He looks like a nobody…”

  Jason steps forward.

  No suit. No implants.

  Just lean muscle and a steady gaze.

  Every step is controlled.

  But inside… a nasty heat climbs.

  He wants to show it.

  He wants them to see.

  He wants in.

  And yet he feels it instantly: if he lets go here, he doesn’t pass.

  Here, he creates a case file. A dossier. A tighter leash.

  He clenches his jaw.

  Show enough.

  Not too much.

  He plants himself in front of the structure and lowers his eyes to his hands.

  Calluses. Veins.

  A faint vibration runs through his forearm, almost imperceptible—like an insect under the skin.

  He speaks low, like it’s just for himself.

  “The power…”

  “I feel it… more mine than ever.”

  He inhales.

  And performs the ritual he knows. Not theater. Control.

  His right arm tightens and swells as something inside claims space. Muscles turn granite-hard. Veins stand out—pulsing, incandescent. Skin stretches.

  The air in front of his fist trembles. Warps.

  The ground beneath his feet quivers slightly.

  Like an invisible train approaching.

  His eyes ignite.

  Molten orange.

  Suffocating heat.

  Then the pressure hits.

  An invisible wave slams the stands. Candidates recoil on instinct, shoved back like by a giant hand. Someone raises an arm in front of their face without knowing why.

  A guy spits the words, not understanding what he’s seeing.

  “What the hell…?”

  Jason raises his fist.

  One second.

  Inside—the choice.

  Not everything.

  Only what’s necessary.

  The punch.

  A flash.

  White light.

  And then—

  POOOOOOOOM!!!

  It’s not a simple impact.

  It’s annihilation.

  A section of the structure disappears. It doesn’t collapse. It doesn’t crack. It doesn’t give.

  It’s erased.

  Fragments blast outward like bullets, screaming through the air. Dust erupts, then falls slow—dirty snow.

  The shockwave overshoots the target and slams into the wall behind it.

  Debris of every size arrives half a beat later.

  It embeds in concrete with hard, dry hits.

  Leaving scars. Craters. Black streaks.

  CRACKS.

  Lights flicker.

  Candidates staggered. Ears ringing. Someone grabs the side of their head like they’ve been shot inside it.

  Absolute silence.

  Jason stays there, arm extended.

  Motionless.

  Then the price comes.

  A cramp bites into his right forearm and climbs in jolts—bicep.

  Shoulder.

  Neck.

  The familiar bite.

  Only… it doesn’t sink in like before.

  The fatigue spike hits—yes—but it’s shorter. More manageable.

  It doesn’t kill his legs. It doesn’t steal his breath.

  Jason feels it immediately.

  It’s… less.

  Not because the strike was easy.

  Because his body is handling it better.

  A silent power-up. Unexpected.

  And dangerous… because it makes him want to open up more.

  He forces the opposite.

  Swallows without showing it. Breathes slow. Locks the shoulder.

  Lets the arm drop a millimeter—just enough to look natural.

  Neutral face.

  Like he felt nothing.

  —

  The biotech scanner at the back of his neck reads the activation.

  BEEP.

  A number appears on the supervisor’s monitor.

  Activation: 9%

  The supervisor freezes—then manages to spit out a single word.

  “…What?”

  —

  Denial

  The silence breaks into murmurs. Defensive. Almost reflexive.

  “It was already damaged…”

  “Lucky hit.”

  “After Krel… just a finishing blow.”

  But Krel doesn’t speak.

  Close-up: eyes wide. Focused.

  He’s not judging.

  He’s assessing.

  The structure still stands.

  Deformed.

  And missing a section. Annihilated. Melted and charred in places.

  An unreal silence—scarier than the blast.

  The OPOM examiners remain still.

  No one speaks.

  Jason lowers his arm.

  Breathes.

  And inside, beneath everything, there’s only one thing: the hunger to get in… and the awareness that he has to be terrifying without becoming a problem.

  Black swallows everything.

  Pistol Boy.