The crowd wasn't cheering anymore. Not really. They had fallen into a different kind of silence.
The reverent, stunned hush of an audience realizing they were watching something too rare to fully process.
On the other screen, Blake Johnson was doing well.
Very well.
His advanced mecha sprayed plasma with expert control. He had felled a frost colossus, downed two storm wyverns, and tactically retreated when overwhelmed. Every movement was trained, learned, and sharpened by thousands of hours of elite American combat drills.
But it looked like a fight.
Damien's side looked like a demonstration.
Even the beasts began to thin.
Kill Count: 888.
His movements slowed.
Not from fatigue, but from concentration. There was a strange rhythm in the air. A pressure forming behind the wave. A heavier step. A louder roar.
The simulation was escalating.
