Biocores: The Legendary Weapon Designer-Chapter 91: Exhibition Match

The rest of the night passed without incident.

Akron managed to finalize a deal with Magnus for the end of the month, securing both funding and a potential mission chain. Morale, after teetering on the edge, finally began to stabilize. Althea even laughed a few times real ones, not the hollow kind she used to keep people at bay.

The Witch’s victory shifted the atmosphere entirely. Where tension had reigned, now there was drunken joy, collective catharsis. Shouts echoed, tables clattered with celebratory slams, and the Harvester Hall pulsed like the beating heart of the citadel.

But Nioh sat still.

A quiet observer in a storm of noise.

While others drank and relived every explosive moment of the ranking match, he was somewhere else—replaying the day, dissecting every detail. The mission had been a success on the surface. But buried beneath the victory were choices. Messy ones. Ones he couldn’t walk back.

The immediate threat was gone, yes. But retribution? That was always patient. It wore committee robes and fake smiles.

He hadn’t yet reached the level where murder could be justified as "tactical repositioning" on a report.

And as an anomaly, he was already a liability. His leash was thinner than most.

Just as he exhaled, ready to shelve the thoughts, his comms buzzed with a short message:

"Warden Hall vs Harvester Hall match. Tomorrow. 9 PM."

He smirked.

The memory came back easily, those smug Warden Seeds that stopped him in the War Hall. Brimming with entitlement and self-righteousness. He hadn’t even replied to their taunt then. But now?

He cracked his knuckles, then typed his response:

"Best of 3. Two singles. One team match. I’ll give you a handicap. I won’t use any weapon."

There was no delay in the answer:

"Accepted."

He forwarded the message to Akron and Althea, then slipped out of the Hall with silent steps.

"Do you feel it too?" he asked aloud to no one.

A familiar presence stirred. Ekoh.

"Yes," the voice responded, deep and resonant within his thoughts.

"What are my chances right now?"

"None."

Nioh laughed. Not a laugh of joy. Something sharper.

"It’s okay. I’ll take my time... slowly tighten the trap. Until the mouse has nowhere to go."

The next morning, Nioh stood in his training chamber, half-dressed, sweat clinging to his back, his body moving through sharp, fluid motions. His attention was split between his routine and the steady scroll of headlines on his device.

Aquila had moved fast. The Aeros Family had launched a full media sweep. The research logs were now being discussed publicly. The atrocities were exposed. Committees were forming. Analysts and anchors debated the implications, and civilians were calling for reform.

For once, it felt like something might actually change.

Justice, however delayed was coming.

As he stretched, the lab door hissed open.

Akron entered, as he always did, uninvited, arms crossed and brows furrowed.

"Why did you leave without saying goodbye last night?" he demanded, voice tinged with annoyance.

"Had a theory I needed to test. You know how it is."

"And the match?"

"Ran into some Warden Hall kids. Thought it was a good chance to practice team synergy. We didn’t really coordinate during the mission, too much chaos."

Akron tilted his head, thoughtful.

"Want me to get some intel? My sister can pull data from their Hall’s internal ranks."

"Nah," Nioh waved him off. "Stakes are too low. Let’s just have fun with it."

He paused, eyeing Akron curiously.

"But while we’re on it been meaning to ask you something."

"Yeah?"

"Why is your mecha form female? I’ve never seen a cross-gender transformation. What’s your Biocore?"

Akron froze. His face went full crimson, eyes wide like he’d been caught naked on a live broadcast.

"You—"

He stuttered, shook his head, then stormed out of the lab without another word.

Nioh stood still, genuinely confused.

"What’s with the overreaction?" he muttered.

"This is strictly for research purposes."

Ekoh’s voice returned, dry and unimpressed.

"You’re really hopeless."

Then silence again.

Nioh scratched the back of his head, frowning.

He genuinely didn’t get it. But no matter. The match was tonight, and it was time to see just how well, or how poorly, they worked together.

-

The ambiance in the Combat Hall was electric—loud, alive, and crackling with anticipation. A full roster of fights was scheduled for the night, and the crowd could feel it in their bones. Rows of seats had already filled to capacity, occupied by Conqueror Seeds from all three divisions : Pathfinders, Wardens, and Harvesters each group proud, loud, and eager to see blood spilled.

Overhead, the metallic voice of the announcer echoed across the domed ceiling:

"Tonight’s matches are stacked! But none more awaited than the showdown between Harvester Hall and Warden Hall!"

Murmurs surged like a wave across the stands.

"This is rich," one Warden Seed scoffed, leaning forward with a smirk. "Harvester Seeds taking on Wardens? Are they looking to retire early?"

"Apparently, this new batch is different," another replied. "Rumor says they pulled ten million off their first mission."

"Please. That’s not strength, It’s dice-rolling with your life. Anyone can throw themselves into suicidal missions and get lucky."

"Better than hiding behind training dummies all day. Let’s see how you Wardens handle real chaos."

A Pathfinder nearby interjected, tone mocking:

"If we weren’t the only ones with spine, we’d have Pathfinders challenging the anomaly too."

"Yeah, how come only the Wardens are stepping up to defend the Citadel’s honor?"

A veteran Warden turned toward the speaker with a dry glare.

"You know who his mentor is, right? Conqueror Grimmes. You wanna look for trouble? Be my guest. But don’t drag the rest of us into an early grave."

Silence followed. Grimmes’ name hit like a death knell. Everyone had heard the stories—his brutality, the blood-soaked missions, his disregard for law or mercy. He was war incarnate. The perfect match for an anomaly like Nioh.

Then came the buzz of movement.

Eyes turned to the high balconies as key figures arrived, each taking their reserved thrones of authority.

"Look. The top brass from Warden Hall are here."

"Magnus—from the Order of the Crow."

"He’s so dashing..."

"Lithaa too, from Titan Force. Didn’t her brother join the Harvesters? I don’t get it."

"Aquila and Neil from the Alliance just walked in as well. They wouldn’t bother showing up unless they were very interested in the anomaly."

Speculation buzzed in the crowd like static before a storm.

"Who do you think they’ll send from the Wardens?"

"Hard to say. Lot of rising stars in the Warden Hall lately."

Meanwhile, the monarch bloodlines the elite Conqueror scions sat quietly in their designated corners, robed in power and expectation, sipping drinks and watching the lower seeds tear each other apart.

Then the lights dimmed and a spotlight swept across the stage.

The announcer’s voice boomed:

"The moment you’ve been waiting for—Harvester Hall versus Warden Hall! We now welcome our challengers to the stage!"

A blast of steam hissed from the floor vents as five warriors strode into the arena, each clad in sleek tactical gear, black and gunmetal gray. Their weapons were strapped tight against their backs and hips—rifles, stun blades, and high-pressure mag guns.

The crowd erupted. Some cheering, others booing.

These were Warden Seeds trained to be the Citadel’s frontline defenders. Grim. Disciplined. Lethal.

Each footfall echoed with purpose.

Their leader stepped slightly ahead, scanning the audience with a sharp gaze and cool indifference.

Now all that was left was to see who would walk in from the Harvester side... and whether the anomaly would keep his promise to fight without a single weapon.

Unceremoniously, the trio emerged from the shadowed arch of the entrance tunnel, drawing eyes and murmurs as soon as they stepped into the light.

First came Akron, the smallest of the three, his frame lean to the point of fragility, almost boyish in nature. His round glasses gleamed under the arena lights, giving him an intellectual edge that contrasted with the fight gear he wore—plain military shorts, combat boots, and a form-fitting vest that barely clung to his narrow shoulders. His expression was unreadable, the kind of cold confidence that said: I don’t need brawn to break you apart.

Next to him stood Althea, a striking figure in every sense. Slightly taller than Akron, she radiated an effortless boldness, her stance proud, almost flirtatious. She wore her signature provocative attire—something between a street brawler’s gear and a high-fashion war dancer. Her tight-fitting bodysuit was adorned with subtle traces of circuitry that pulsed faintly beneath the skin. Pitch-black curls cascaded down her back like liquid shadow, bouncing as she walked. Her gaze was sharp, playful—but behind her smoky eyes was a predator waiting to strike.

Then, with a quiet tension behind them, came Nioh.

Trailing a step back like a wolf deciding whether the hunt was worth it, he moved like a figure out of a dream—or a nightmare. He wore a sleek, skin-tight leather fighting suit that clung to his sculpted form, with a white fur coat draped lazily across his shoulders, untouched by the dirt and noise of the arena. His ashen-gray hair was tied up neatly with a single black hair needle, and a set of black headphones rested like a crown across the back of his head, anchoring the entire look in eerie silence.

Even with no weapons visible, his presence was sharp—like standing too close to a cold forge right before it ignites.