Chapter 108: Scud Armor

Chapter 108: Scud ArmorHe twirled his silver microphone, rolling it between his fingers before placing a hand against his ear. "Go on, kid. Tell me how you’re feeling!"

Nothing.


Randalp opened his mouth, but no words came out.

The Crafter snapped his fingers. "Oh, right! That whole silent audience thing. Let’s fix that for our contestant!"

A pulse of energy rippled through the air, and Randalp gasped slightly as his voice suddenly worked again. He looked stunned, clearly uncomfortable being singled out in front of everyone.

"...I just want to get through this."

The Announcer laughed. "Oh, we’ve got a real talker here, huh? Military and you don’t have a single war cry for me?"

Randalp clenched his jaw but said nothing.

His Ikona flickered beside him—a floating construct of layered, shifting plates surrounding a single glowing core. The plates pulsed every few seconds, their movement slow and rhythmic, like breathing.

The Announcer grinned, leaning forward. "No tough words? No threats? No ’I’m going to crush my opponent into dust’? Nothing?"

Randalp exhaled, looking at the ground for a second before muttering, "I don’t care about winning. I just want to live."



A low, buzzing chime emitted from his Ikona, and for a second, it almost sounded like a chuckle.

The Announcer raised an eyebrow. "Oho! And what does your little friend have to say about that?"

Randalp sighed. "...Shut it, Tock."

The Announcer pointed at him, laughing. "Now that’s the kind of dynamic I like to see!"

Elias scanned the arena again, eyes moving across still forms and silenced mouths. His gaze slid past faces he didn’t recognize, Ikona floating or flickering beside their hosts—each one uniquely built, uniquely armed.

And then—yellow.

A sharp flash of it.

Kikaru.

Elias locked on and started moving, boots hitting the stone with soft, steady taps.

The Announcer’s voice boomed behind him, still riding the high of his own theatrics. "Let’s not waste momentum—how about we spin that wheel again!"

The screen behind him surged back to life, cycling through images.

Dozens of faces.

Faster.

Faster.

Then it stopped.

The air didn’t move.

Vincent Ruiz.

Elias halted mid-step.

Kikaru’s body stiffened across the platform.

The screen flashed again—bold red font, sharper than the one before.

Affiliation: Anti Military (Fugitive Status)

Hometown: Brook-Dale

Ikona: An animal-based entity that can communicate with Vincent, enhance his physical abilities and grip, amplify his weapons, manipulate earth, and even reforge lost limbs using molten stone.

Personal Status: Confirmed Survivor

The Announcer’s laugh cut through everything. "Ohhh, this is just perfect, a battle of opposing sides!"

Elias clenched his fists.

I didn’t think we’d see this one again—not after he got cooked alive and dragged out like trash.

Kikaru turned, just slightly. Her eyes met Elias’s. No words. Just unease.

The screen updated again.

A single line of glowing text stretched across it.



Status Update: Acquired an additional shard.

Elias’s heart sank, and Kikaru’s did the same.

They both knew.

It had to have belonged to Colby.

The Announcer spun, nearly losing his mic before catching it again. "Yes—yes! That’s the part! Right there! You all catching this? Our star Vincent didn’t just crawl out of that crater—he crawled out stronger!"

The lights above the arena shifted.

The floor rumbled.

A beam of pale energy cracked down into the center of the ring—twisting into shape, solidifying into a body.

Vincent Ruiz materialized.

Steam curled up from the impact zone, the sand glassing where the beam had touched down. His form settled—slouched, scarred, unmoving.

The left side of his body was half-covered in burns, skin tight and rough from damage that never fully healed. His right shoulder and arm were sleeved in a hardened shell, like cracked volcanic armor—scorched black with glowing seams where heat still lived beneath the surface.

He wore no expression.

No pride. No anger. Just presence.

And hovering beside him—Nosey.

The small, bug-like Ikona drifted near his shoulder, one of its chitin plates still mismatched and unpolished. Its wings buzzed once, then folded shut.

The Announcer was grinning before the light even faded. "There he is! Back from the ashes! The man, the myth, the walking warning sign—Vincent Ruiz!"

He stepped closer to the edge of the platform, twisting the mic in his fingers like it was part of his nervous system.

"Survived an elite squad strike. Took a blade taking his hand off. Got torched by a girl who freezes the air around her a few years ago and just now survived being exploded by gun powder—and he still wouldn’t stay down."

He pointed directly at Vincent. "Tell me, what kept you alive?"

Vincent stared up at him. His voice came out low and flat. "Didn’t finish what I started."

The Announcer raised a brow. "Still chasing your mission?"

"Still breathing."

Nosey tilted sideways and muttered just loud enough to be caught, "Means leave him alone."

The Announcer laughed, full-bodied. "Right. Business as usual."

He turned toward the audience. "Now, I know what you’re thinking—how’s a burned-up ex-hunter like this still dangerous?"

The monitors flared again.

Status Update: Acquired an additional shard.

The air felt heavier.

The Announcer spun, arms wide. "That’s how. That’s exactly how! You all feel that drop in your gut? That was fear, folks. And it should be. He’s not just back—he’s better."

Vincent didn’t flinch.

Elias’s eyes locked on him. Across from him, Kikaru hadn’t moved.



No one needed to speak. They knew what this was.

The platform beneath Vincent shifted forward, aligning across from Randalp’s.

The arena began its reset—flattening, adjusting terrain, forming the neutral combat zone.

Randalp stepped forward. Nosey hovered still.

Vincent just waited.

Silent.

Ready.

The Announcer tapped the side of his mic. "Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got something special lined up for this round."

The lights dimmed slightly. Thesand floor stilled.

"This won’t be your typical slugfest. No, no. The training wheels are off. From here on out—every match will activate Shard Combat Protocols."

He twirled the mic once, catching it smoothly.

"For those of you living under a rock—this means no more just blasting raw energy from your shards and hoping for the best. We’re diving straight into what makes a true shard user dangerous."