Biocores: The Legendary Weapon Designer-Chapter 94: Team Match

Even seasoned fighters faltered with the balance stolen by the dissonance.

Nioh had turned the arena into a soundscape of war.

And he was the composer

The arena roared like a beast unchained, surging with excitement as the six warriors clashed in three separate duels, their energies colliding like storms on a warpath. Stone and steel sang, and elemental forces ignited the air with tension. At the heart of the chaos, the three members of the Fangs stood defiant against the nobility’s chosen—squires groomed by monarchs themselves. ƒгeewebnovёl.com

Akron met Nuggart head-on like a charging beast.

The stage groaned beneath their weight as they collided—fist against hammer, muscle against might. Nuggart swung her colossal weapon down in a deadly arc, and Akron caught it with both arms, bracing his legs into the ground like rooted stone. The impact cracked the floor around him, but he didn’t budge.

"Not bad," Nuggart growled, eyes wide with excitement.

"Likewise," Akron grinned, his knuckles bleeding but unshaken.

She twisted, aiming a sweep at his ribs. Akron ducked low, letting the hammer whistle above him, then surged forward with a brutal shoulder charge. Nuggart staggered back, but responded with a rising uppercut swing that forced him to leap back with a grunt.

They danced that way, titans clad in flesh and steel. Every blow shook the stadium, each strike a thunderclap of intent. Akron fought with precise brutality—calculated strikes, tight footwork, complete control. But Nuggart fought like a living landslide, unpredictable and relentless.

Realizing he needed an opening, Akron suddenly feinted left—then kicked the ground, sending a loose tile flying up like a slab of shrapnel.

At that moment, a sonic pulse ripped through the air. Nioh, watching from the sidelines, had calculated the exact trajectory and timing. His voice, laced with biocore resonance, struck the tile midair, accelerating it like a bullet.

It slammed into Nuggart’s hammer, knocking it slightly off-course.

Akron took full advantage—closing the distance, slipping under her guard, and landing a vicious uppercut to her chin. Her head snapped back and she stumbled, the first clear hit of the match.

But she recovered instantly, her eyes burning. "Good move," she admitted. "Now let’s turn it up."

Across the battlefield, Althea faced Rupert.

It was beauty meeting elegance, violence cloaked in grace.

Rupert moved like a breeze—light on his feet, his rapier trailing thin threads of wind with every motion. Each lunge was calculated, each step a counterpoint in a deadly dance. Althea, by contrast, was raw efficiency. Her limbs shifted, transformed. Metal crept across her arms, forming blades, claws, and shields in a seamless rhythm.

He dashed in, blade piercing forward like lightning. Althea turned, her arm morphing into a curved edge that parried the strike with a shower of sparks. She spun low, her legs twisting into segmented whips that lashed out toward Rupert’s knees.

He hopped back, wind cushioning his retreat, then snapped his rapier forward with a flurry of elegant jabs. Althea blocked most, but one grazed her shoulder, slicing clean through the cloth.

"Not bad for a noble," she hissed.

"Not bad for a weapon," Rupert replied, smirking.

Althea’s eyes narrowed. With a hiss of shifting metal, both arms transformed into twin cannons.

From across the stage, Nioh let out a short, sharp sound—barely audible, yet targeted. The signal.

Althea fired.

Compressed bursts of sound-enhanced projectiles launched from her arms. Rupert leapt and twisted, deflecting some, dodging others—but one scraped across his thigh, tearing fabric and drawing blood.

Wind surged around him instinctively, flaring his cape like wings. "You fight dirty."

"I fight to win."

They charged at each other again—her limbs shifting into razor-sharp talons, his rapier glowing with wind runes. Sparks and blades collided midair in a whirlwind of violence and artistry.

Meanwhile, at the center of the chaos, Nioh stood against Uncle William and Emilio.

It was like facing a fortress and a flood.

Emilio’s runes circled above, glowing a deep cerulean. Jets of water coiled and twisted like serpents, crashing toward Nioh from every angle. Uncle William stood firm at the front, his golden shield pulsing with light, ready to absorb anything that slipped past.

Nioh was everywhere and nowhere—his body moved with unnatural precision. Sonic booms tore from his mouth and hands, disrupting the water’s trajectory mid-flight. He bounced between pressure points on the ground, launching himself over waves and under strikes, voice rising and falling in a symphony of battle.

One water jet nearly hit him, but he bent backward impossibly, the stream singing past his face.

Emilio changed tactics—his runes flickered, and frost began to spread from the ground up. Ice crawled up the pillars and across the tiles, seeking to trap Nioh in place.

Uncle William charged.

Shield-first, he rammed into Nioh like a battering ram. The golden energy shimmered on contact, slamming through the sound barriers Nioh tried to raise.

He skidded back, boots tearing a trail in the frozen ground. Blood traced his lips.

Nioh coughed, grinning. "Nice one, Uncle."

He crouched low, biocore pulsing violently. Golden runes shimmered across his spine, vibrating in harmony with his core. Then he roared.

It wasn’t a scream—it was a command.

Sound exploded outward like a sunburst, targeted and refined. Uncle William raised his shield—but the pressure hit like a comet. It didn’t pierce—it pushed. The sheer force lifted William off his feet, sending him flying into a nearby column.

At the same time, Emilio’s frost closed in.

Nioh clapped his hands together, creating a hyper-compressed shockwave that cracked the ice into spiderwebs.

But Emilio was relentless—he raised both hands, and a massive geyser of water spiraled upward before crashing down like a divine punishment.

Nioh crossed his arms and shouted, his voice vibrating through every drop.

It slowed.

It didn’t stop, but the sound waves disrupted the impact—turning what should’ve been a crushing blow into a knockback.

He fell to one knee, panting. Around him, the battlefield was chaos.

Akron and Nuggart were locked in a brutal grapple, sweat and blood dripping from their bodies as neither gave ground.

Althea and Rupert moved like twin hurricanes—slashing, dodging, redirecting, bleeding. Her right leg had transformed into a spinning blade, while his rapier was now wreathed in a tornado of slicing wind.

Emilio prepared a final spell.

William picked up his shield, golden lines surging brighter than ever.

Nioh wiped blood from his mouth, eyes wild. He stood. Ready.

And then—everything stopped.

A new heat blanketed the arena.

From the stands, a lazy voice echoed, laced with smoke and mystery.

"That’s enough," she said.

A pillar of fire erupted between the fighters, dividing the stage in two.

A woman walked through the flames, untouched. She wore a flowing robe of scorched crimson, her black hair braided with bone beads, and a staff topped with a serpent’s skull in one hand.

The Witch.

"You’ve all had your fun," she said, tone amused yet sharp. "But the play is over."

Her staff tapped the ground. A wall of fire surged across the entire stage, separating all combatants.

Spectators gasped. The nobles didn’t move. Even the monarch descendants remained seated.

Only the Witch dared command such attention.

"You," she pointed to Nioh, "have proven your point. Your pride is intact."

Her gaze swept the nobles. "And you—still hold your dignity. Barely."

She smiled, but there was no kindness in it.

"This is the line," she whispered, voice like cinders. "Cross it, and the flames won’t stop at theatrics."

No one challenged her.

The fire died down, leaving only embers floating like falling stars.

Nioh, Althea, and Akron regrouped. They were battered, bruised, but still standing.

Across the stage, Rupert sheathed his rapier. Nuggart cracked her neck. Emilio put his wand away. Uncle William nodded solemnly.

A draw.

But not just any draw—it was a warning. A declaration. A reminder of the raw, untamed power that roamed within the walls of the academy.

As the Witch turned to leave, she left behind one final statement:

"Let this be the end of the act."

And like that, the flames disappeared.

The arena stood still—scarred, silent, and unforgettable.

The crowd didn’t cheer at first. They were too stunned. Too awed.

But then, like a dam breaking, thunderous applause filled the hall. A storm of voices, applause, roars, and shouts of disbelief and excitement.

The nobility had been challenged—and held their ground.

The Fangs had fought against four years-level squires—and did not fall.

The Witch raised her hand once more. "All of you. Exit the stage. This night... belongs to history."

Nioh turned once, glancing at his opponents.

Then at his comrades.

Then at the crowd. Before departing the stage under the cheer of the crowd.