Hand Of God

Chapter 75 Don’t judge a book by its cover

The wave of killing intent slammed into Adam like a physical force, instantly snapping him into combat mode. His eyes flooded with crimson, and an equally ferocious aura erupted from his body.

His hands twitched—ready to strike—but his gaze cleared almost immediately. He halted the motion mid-reach, then subtly turned his head just enough to break eye contact with Levin.

That tiny, effortless evasion stunned Levin.

*Impossible.*

Dodging that gaze meant Adam’s willpower—and his killing intent—were anything but ordinary. Raw power could be trained, but true killing intent? That only came from real bloodshed.

And just now, for a split second, Levin had felt it: a razor-sharp chill at his ribs, his heart, his throat. The unmistakable sensation of being locked onto by a predator.

*Was that… just my imagination?*

Before he could process it, Adam’s calm voice cut through the tension.

“I have.”

Levin’s head snapped toward him. *You’re really going there?*

The question had been rhetorical—a standard psychological probe. The next phase of the trial was designed to desensitize students to violence. After all, superhumans couldn’t stay naive forever. Between Acolytes, rogue factions, and anti-human extremists, bloodshed was inevitable. This exercise was meant to prepare them mentally for that reality.

“How many?” Levin pressed.

“A hundred or so,” Adam said, frowning slightly as he tilted his head. “Didn’t count exactly, but it was… a lot.”

The casual admission hit like a bomb.

Levin went dead silent, then turned sharply to his assistant. “Who *is* this kid? Did we vet him?”

“Is this some damn criminal we accidentally enrolled? What kind of student racks up a body count like that?!”

The assistant hurried over and whispered rapidly into his ear, summarizing Adam’s file.

“He was involved in the Acolyte engagement during the assessment-free admission trial. Credited with significant combat contributions.”

Levin’s brow furrowed as he studied Adam anew.

*Don’t judge a book by its cover, huh?*

This sleepy-eyed kid—who’d looked like he was about to doze off standing up—was actually a seasoned killer?

A hundred Acolytes in a single day? That wasn’t student work. That was elite operative territory.

Yet Adam’s skin was smooth, unmarked by scars. No sign of the brutal battles he claimed to have fought.

Baffled but intrigued, Levin straightened and fixed Adam with a serious look.

“So… you’re no rookie.”

“But tell me—do you truly have the mental fortitude for this path? Are you ready to fight without fear… even to die heroically if needed?”

“No,” Adam replied instantly.

“Why would I sacrifice myself? If someone’s gotta die, I’d rather it be my enemy.”

Levin blinked. At this age—when most kids were spouting grand ideals about duty and honor—that answer was refreshingly, almost shockingly pragmatic.

“What if your enemy is vastly stronger than you?”

“Then I run.”

Levin’s eyes widened. “And what if you’re on a mission? What if civilians are counting on you? Would you abandon them?!”

“Is my life worth less than theirs?” Adam shot back. “Throwing my life away isn’t noble—it’s irresponsible.”

Levin was momentarily speechless.

*…Damn it. That actually makes sense.*

After a beat, the corner of his mouth twitched—just barely—into something almost like approval.

Attitude like that was rare… and valuable. Superhumans with rigid ideologies were easy prey for Deity-level manipulation. But someone who valued their own survival? Harder to break.

Then, without warning, Levin flipped his wrist. Two unsharpened black training daggers appeared in his hands.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he said, tossing one to Adam. “No superpowers. Just raw reflexes, body control, and instinct.”

Adam caught the blade and hesitated. He remembered the Opening Ceremony—how he’d nearly slit his sparring partner’s throat before anyone could stop him. He shook his head slightly.

“I don’t really know how to ‘spar.’ Not safely, anyway.”

“I get it, kid,” Levin said, cracking his knuckles. “With me? No holding back. We go full lethal—just without the actual killing.”

His eyes blazed crimson again, and this time, the killing intent surged tenfold, crashing over Adam like a tidal wave.

Adam didn’t flinch. His own aura snapped into place—savage, focused, utterly devoid of restraint.

They moved at the same instant.

Steel flashed. Both daggers shot straight for the other’s throat—faster than the eye could follow.

Adam, used to trading wounds for kills, realized too late: Levin wasn’t like the others. He couldn’t brute-force through this.

At the last millisecond, Adam twisted his wrist, deflecting the strike, then drove his own blade toward Levin’s left heart.

Levin mirrored him perfectly—exploiting the same opening, aiming for the same fatal point, with zero hesitation.

What followed was a storm of motion—two whirlwinds of lethal precision colliding again and again.

Neck. Groin. Temples. Heart. Base of the skull. Spine.

Every strike targeted a kill zone. No feints. No mercy.

Most students watched in awe, dazzled by the speed and intensity—though truthfully, many were just glad for the extra rest time.

But the bespectacled assistant? Her palms were slick with sweat.

*These two aren’t sparring—they’re trying to murder each other.*

The blades weren’t sharpened, but at this speed, one slip could still be catastrophic.

Adam’s eyes burned with feral aggression. Levin’s were ice-cold, calculating. To each, the other was a mortal enemy.

Then—misstep.

They froze.

Levin’s left hand clamped down on Adam’s wrist, stopping the thrust. His right dagger pressed firmly against Adam’s Adam’s apple.

A slow, satisfied grin spread across Levin’s face.

“You were 0.1 seconds too slow. And you miscalculated the weapon’s effective length.”

“But to last this long against me? You’re—”

“I disagree,” Adam cut in.

Levin paused, confused—then looked down.

Frost coated Adam’s blade, extending its reach by ten centimeters. The icy tip now pressed dead-center into Levin’s chest.

Levin: …

“That’s cheating,” he growled. “I said no superpowers.”

“You set that rule,” Adam replied evenly. “I never agreed to it.”