Solo Cultivating in Superhero Academy
Chapter 129: Let’s talk

Chapter 129: Let’s talk

The floor erupted, groaned, and heaved as if it were alive.

Slabs of reinforced alloy curled upward, writhing like serpents, warping unnaturally beneath his palm.

The entire room shifted on its axis, metal screeching against itself, as if something deep underground was pushing it upward.

This wasn’t just spiritual Qi.

This wasn’t just power.

This was Monkaar’s supposed martial technique that Elius stole—a brutal, ancient earth-warping combat style long thought lost, known for turning entire battlefields into uneven death zones. And now? It was Elius’s.

From every corner of the chamber, jagged platforms launched skyward, erupting like teeth from a beast’s jaw.

The sudden chaos blinded them, shards of steel whistling through the air. The moment their eyes blinked, the beatdown began.

Crack!

Zhark lunged forward first, bolts of lightning snapping from his arms. His elemental surge crackled through the warped space, boosted by Elius’s party bond—arcs of plasma curving toward Elius with wild intent. But Elius’s swords moved first.

Three blades whirled past him in an arc that bent gravity. One blade cut the bolt in half. Another curved toward Zhark’s shoulder. The third?

SLAM!

It struck his stomach—but it didn’t cut. It threw.

Zhark was launched into one of the bent platforms. The impact left a thunderous dent, lightning scattering in all directions like sparks from a broken engine.

He gasped. That wasn’t just spiritual energy—it was anti-electric. Elius had adapted.

Fraven raised both hands, his fingers twitching in violent rhythm. Hundreds of telekinetic grips grabbed pieces of the terrain, turning the battlefield into a chaotic hurricane of debris.

Spinning blades, crushed panels, twisted floor plates—all of it flung with precise force.

Elius didn’t dodge.

He walked forward.

Each step was shielded by two rotating swords. His clone moved behind him, matching pace.

Between the two of them, the ten swords spun like a cyclone of death, vaporizing each incoming piece of metal midair.

Fraven grunted, sweat pouring from his temple. His mind was burning calories faster than his body could supply. But even at his peak?

It wasn’t enough.

Elius closed the gap in a flash, stepping through a flying slab of metal as if it were made of mist. His draconic arm extended—

SMASH!

One punch to Fraven’s chest sent the telekinetic genius spiraling backward, crashing into a jagged spire of warped floor.

His back cracked against it, eyes wide, mouth open, trying to scream—but air wouldn’t come.

Elius turned next—already mid-step.

Shania had already activated her illusions. Copies of herself, Fraven, and Zhark moved at hyperspeed.

Identities blurred, faces swapped, colors inverted, and even Elius’s clone hesitated as the battlefield flooded with false bodies.

But Elius? He closed his eyes.

He didn’t need to see anymore.

He could feel them.

Their spiritual fingerprints.

He focused on the weakest illusion—barely perceptible to an ordinary Esper, but to him? It was a blinking beacon.

He thrust his dragon claw forward—

WHIP!

One sword curved like a predator’s fang and sliced through the fake Fraven’s midsection. The illusion shattered.

Another two swords pierced a fake Shania, which screamed as it popped like vapor.

Finally, he turned toward the real one. She’d tried to hide behind a projection of herself—clever, really.

But her spiritual aura couldn’t lie.

He lunged and grabbed her by the wrist.

With a spin that defied physics, he flung her into a levitating boulder of steel, then chained her leg with spiritual Qi—rooting her in place.

Three down.

Only Keith remained.

But Elius didn’t strike.

Not yet.

He turned back toward the others.

"Your power is boosted by your party," he muttered aloud, flexing his fingers. "It’s not just your base skill—it’s the bond that lifts you. You fight better together."

He smiled again.

"I’ll fix that."

With a deep breath, Elius raised both hands.

The ground responded.

From every direction, streams of sand-like particles began to rise.

Not real sand—this was fragmented steel and powdered alloy, ground down by his flying swords into a fine dust. But it moved like sand, flowed like it, wrapped like it.

Elius’s Sand Tomb was ready.

He focused first on Zhark.

The lightning user tried to escape, but the terrain betrayed him. Spires wrapped around his ankles.

Sand surged over him like a rushing tide. He screamed as it pinned his arms, neck, and face.

The dust infiltrated his mouth, nose, ears—until only a muffled crackling could be heard inside the tomb.

Next came Fraven.

He raised his telekinesis again, pushing the sand outward. But Elius smiled grimly.

This sand wasn’t light.

It was reinforced with condensed spiritual Qi, warped by his Earth-walking martial discipline.

It was heavy—denser than stone.

It crashed over Fraven like an avalanche. Even as he tried to lift it, his arms broke under the strain. The more he resisted, the harder it fell. Until finally, he too disappeared under a suffocating dome.

Then Shania.

She cried out, her illusions scattering, trying to fool the approaching sand. But the sand moved according to spirit signatures—it was immune to sight.

It wrapped around her legs, wrists, chest. A dozen layers encased her. Her screams turned into muffled echoes as the final wave smothered her completely.

Three tombs now stood—tall, pulsing, humming with locked spiritual energy. They vibrated as the captives struggled inside, but none could break free.

Elius took a deep breath, chest rising and falling slowly.

He looked toward the last one.

Keith.

Still standing.

Still untouched.

Elius stared at him for a long time.

Then he spoke, voice quiet but heavy with venom.

"Now you’re all alone."

Suddenly, Keith’s eyes sharpened.

The moment of hesitation passed like a fading cloud.

His muscles coiled. He drew in a long, even breath, then shifted his weight to his right leg, the toes of his left boot scraping slightly as they pivoted. His arms lifted—not in the stance of a conventional Esper, but that of a seasoned brawler.

Elbows tucked tight. Fists low and centered. Spine straight. A stance built not for flair, but endurance. Survival.

Elius tilted his head and let out a sudden, amused bark of laughter.

"Really?" he said, chuckling. "That’s the stance you’re going with?"

Keith furrowed his brow but didn’t answer.

Elius laughed harder, clapping his hands together once, the metallic echo bouncing off the warped and jagged walls of the broken chamber. "Oh, come on. You serious? You actually think I’m still fighting?"

Keith didn’t respond. His focus remained, but his right brow twitched—confused.

Then Elius raised his hand and with a flick of his fingers, the clone behind him dissipated into glowing motes of light.

The five flying swords that once floated ominously in formation shimmered and scattered, vanishing like embers in the wind. The room grew still, save for the soft hum of sealed tombs behind him.

Keith’s shoulders slackened, but only slightly. His stance held.

Elius smiled.

"Sit down," he said.

Keith blinked, his mouth twitching just slightly. "What?"

"Sit down," Elius repeated, almost casual now. "Unless you want me to beat you too."

There was no arrogance in his tone. Just weariness. And some kind of... quiet finality.

Keith eyed him suspiciously. Then, after a long silence, he exhaled through his nose and—reluctantly—lowered his guard.

He walked a few paces, then sat down on a broken slab of curled steel, hands resting on his knees, posture alert. His breath was slow. Watchful.

Elius, meanwhile, simply crouched where he stood, arms draped loosely over his knees, his eyes never leaving Keith’s face.

A tense silence stretched between them.

"...Why aren’t you talking?" Elius asked, breaking it at last.

Keith glanced at him, then away again. "...Not fond of it."

"Huh," Elius said, smirking. "Figures."

Another pause.

Keith’s voice came again, quieter. "What do you want?"

Elius didn’t answer immediately. He simply looked at Keith. Studied him. As if trying to decode something etched behind his eyes.

Meanwhile, Keith’s mind stirred. Thoughts whirled beneath the surface of his stony exterior.

He remembered the attack.

Those flying swords. The way they moved. The way they cut.

Each one had struck with a force that defied the logic of simple spiritual weaponry. The moment Elius unleashed them, it was as if the air turned hostile, reality bent slightly around the gleam of metal. Keith had dodged most of them, absorbed some with his augmented muscles, but...

But one had cut across his ribs. Another grazed his shoulder. The third landed square against his spine and sent tremors through every bone in his body.

He remembered the heat in his lungs.

The dull ache in his bones.

The way the pressure forced him to hold his breath for too long.

He remembered the dragon arm. The spiraling red-and-black glow of it. How it had swiped horizontally like a whip—and shattered the ground near his feet.

He had held back in that fight. He didn’t want to kill.

But Elius? Keith had felt it—he had held back even more.

Each blow had the subtle restraint of a person trained to suppress their true capacity. Like a dragon batting playfully at a wolf cub.

And Keith had taken mental snapshots of every move.

The angles.

The rotation of the wrists.

The rhythm of sword deployment—diagonal, vertical, spiral, and reverse-return formations.

The use of wind. The vibration techniques that hummed through the floor like sonar. The Qi-reinforced footwork patterns that created pressure waves.

All of it was committed to memory.

Every flash of sword light.

Every tightening of muscles.

Every subtle intent behind each strike.

But even with all that, Keith knew...

He couldn’t win.

Not in a real fight. Not if Elius stopped holding back.

"You’re still thinking about the fight?" Elius suddenly asked, grin curling up on one side. "You memorized it, didn’t you?"

Keith’s eye twitched.

Elius barked a dry laugh. "Haha! You actually took pictures in your head. Classic."

Keith frowned. "You’re perceptive."

Elius shrugged. "It’s a talent."

A moment passed.

Then Elius leaned forward, hands clasped. His tone shifted—serious. "Can I ask you something?"

Keith didn’t reply, but Elius asked anyway.

"...Did you ever meet your father during eighteen years?"