Solo Cultivating in Superhero Academy
Chapter 111: Target Locker

Chapter 111: Target Locker

A pause.

A hum of data being processed.

Then, it said the name:

"Target Locker."

Elius tilted his head slightly, his swords spinning lazily behind him like the petals of a silver lotus.

He smiled faintly.

"Bring it on."

And thus, the next battle was about to begin.

The moment the mechanical voice finished announcing the name "Target Locker," the atmosphere in the arena shifted.

The lights above flickered once, humming, and the towering black door groaned open once more.

Elius leaned forward slightly on his floating sword, curious.

Out of the dark doorway stepped...

a man.

Just a man.

Not a monster, not a hulking beast, not some otherworldly creature —

just an ordinary-looking fatherly figure.

He wore a simple, buttoned-up shirt tucked into casual slacks, and a worn leather belt with an old-fashioned buckle.

He had tired eyes, a clean-shaven jawline, and a faint, lingering scent of cigarette smoke.

He could have been a tired accountant, a friendly neighbor, or someone’s dad coming home after a long shift.

But the moment the man opened his mouth, the mundane illusion shattered.

"I am Target Locker," the man said plainly, his voice carrying a strange weight, like a sword hidden beneath silk.

He stepped forward, hands calmly in his pockets, giving Elius a casual look as if they were about to discuss weekend barbecue plans.

"Kid," he said, voice low, "erect your best defense. And hope... pray... that it holds until the clock runs out."

Elius narrowed his eyes, cocking his head slightly.

"Defense?" he repeated with a smirk. "What makes you think I need to defend against anything?"

Target Locker didn’t react to the arrogance.

He merely shrugged, his manner almost too casual for the deadly air filling the arena.

"You can attack if you want," the man said mildly. "You can dance. You can fly around. You can summon a thousand swords."

He tilted his head thoughtfully.

"But if your defense isn’t solid..."

He paused.

A chilling smile ghosted across his lips.

"You’ll crumble, kid. You won’t last thirty seconds."

Elius couldn’t help himself.

He laughed, loud and sharp.

"Are you trying to scare me or help me?" he taunted, twirling a flying sword lazily between two fingers. "You’re acting more like an old man warning me not to cross the street without looking both ways."

The man smiled wider, but it was a tired smile, like someone who had seen too many kids run into traffic anyway.

"Just giving advice," Target Locker said simply. "Use your time wisely. Build your defense while the timer hasn’t started yet."

Elius raised an eyebrow.

"And why would you warn an enemy?" he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Planning to make yourself look better by giving me a handicap?"

"No," the man said, shrugging again, seemingly unaffected. "It’s just boring if it ends too fast."

He took another slow step forward.

"Kid," he said, voice dropping an octave, becoming something heavier, denser, "you don’t understand. I’m telling you, for your sake. Build it. Reinforce it. Make it as strong as you can. Because when the clock starts..."

He spread his hands, palms up, as if offering a terrible, inevitable truth.

"I won’t be stopping. Not even for a second."

Elius twirled another sword between his fingers, unconvinced.

"I think I’ll manage," he said, smirking again. "Thanks for the unsolicited advice though, old man."

The man simply smiled once more —

a patient, resigned smile —

and fell silent.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t explain.

He didn’t elaborate.

He just stood there, hands still tucked loosely in his pockets, staring at Elius like someone watching a particularly stubborn teenager ignore every life lesson he’d ever been given.

The silence stretched out endlessly.

Elius, refusing to look rattled, kept floating lazily above the broken ground, swords orbiting him like metallic planets.

He didn’t build any walls.

He didn’t erect any barriers.

He didn’t weave any defensive formations.

He simply waited —

proud, defiant.

The mechanical voice crackled again overhead:

> "Match Start."

And immediately —

before Elius could even blink —

Target Locker changed.

It was as if reality ripped open around him.

One moment he was a tired-looking father.

The next, he was a creature of pure, primal menace.

His body expanded outward, muscles tearing through his clothes, bones cracking and snapping into new monstrous shapes.

White fur burst from his skin like fire through dry paper, spreading instantly across every inch of his flesh.

His face elongated into a fearsome muzzle, filled with rows of dagger-like teeth.

Long, curved claws glinted in the artificial light as his hands transformed into monstrous paws.

Power rippled from his new form like heatwaves from a desert.

In the blink of an eye, a towering white tiger humanoid stood where the ordinary man had been.

Massive.

Predatory.

Calm.

Target Locker — no, the creature that was Target Locker — didn’t rush.

Didn’t roar.

Didn’t growl.

He simply stood there, arms folded across his broad chest, a picture of arrogant, impenetrable calm.

His icy blue eyes, sharp as razors, locked onto Elius with the kind of disdain a predator might reserve for a particularly annoying housecat.

Elius, undeterred, smirked again.

"Guess talking time’s over," he muttered.

Without another word, he pointed a finger forward.

A flying sword shot toward the humanoid tiger like a streak of silver lightning, aiming directly at his throat.

It was fast —

faster than the eye could follow —

sharp enough to pierce reinforced steel.

But the white tiger didn’t even flinch.

With a lazy twist of his wrist —

almost contemptuous —

he sidestepped the incoming blade with minimal movement, letting it whistle past his ear by less than an inch.

The sword slammed into the arena wall far behind him, embedding itself deep with a loud KR-CHUNK.

The tiger yawned, baring a mouthful of gleaming teeth.

"Kid," he said casually, "last chance. Build your defense. Otherwise this’ll be over in a blink."

Elius only narrowed his eyes, sending two more swords at him, this time from different angles —

one low, one high.

Again, the tiger barely moved.

He swayed to the side —

almost dancing —

and both swords zipped past harmlessly.

He even smirked.

"I’m warning you because this is boring," the tiger said, his deep voice dripping with a mixture of disappointment and predatory amusement. "Put up a fight, or this will be nothing but a waste."

Elius gritted his teeth.

Without a word, he commanded another sword to dart forward —

this time zigzagging wildly to throw off the tiger’s timing.

But this time, Target Locker didn’t even bother dodging.

As the flying sword zipped toward him, faster and more unpredictable than ever before—

the white tiger simply lifted one massive paw...

and with a flick of his wrist, he swatted the sword out of the air like it was nothing more than a bothersome insect.

CRACK!

The sword spun out of control, bouncing harmlessly across the floor, leaving gouges in the cracked concrete.

Elius’s eyes widened slightly.

This...

this wasn’t normal.

This wasn’t just evasion.

This wasn’t brute strength.

This was something else entirely.

And the tiger —

still relaxed, still infuriatingly casual —

tilted his head, cracking his neck slowly.

"I’m starting to get bored, kid," he rumbled, sharp teeth flashing.

Elius clenched his fists.

He realized, too late,

this was no ordinary opponent.