My Charity System made me too OP

Then—his fist flew forward.

CRACK—BAOOM!

He punched the very air, using Resonant Overdrive to channel stored kinetic sound into a concussive blast. The wave struck Whispercoil mid-note, sending her spiraling across the arena.

But she recovered.

She sang again—this time a discordant harmony that reversed gravity in a blink, sending Leon floating upward as if drowning in invisible water.

He countered by snapping his elbow back, releasing stored kinetic force from earlier in the duel. The pulse broke the effect and hurled him downward—straight toward Whispercoil.

He twisted in midair, a Shell Reverb-pivot turning his fall into a diving strike.

BOOM!

He slammed into her, and the platform cracked under the impact. The vibrations detonated under her skin—enough to short her resonance. Her spiraled mask fractured.

A final note trembled from her lips—weak, fading—then silence.

Leon stood over her as the vibrations settled. No cheering this time. Just reverent quiet.

A single word whispered over the arena comm:

"Victory: Challenger Leon. Rank 55—Cleared."

Whispercoil, still conscious, raised one hand and touched her chest, signaling acknowledgment.

"You...harmonized...without needing a song," she murmured.

Leon simply nodded, catching his breath. "I had a good teacher. Pain."

Roselia, watching from the balcony, smiled. "He really is addicted to punching things now."

After the battle with Whispercoil, Leon stepped out of the arena slowly, each footfall still resonating faintly from the soundwaves humming through his bones. The Obsidian Ant crowd didn't cheer in the typical explosive way—they simply rose and bowed their heads in quiet honor. Among their people, a battle like that wasn't just a fight.

It was a conversation between warriors.

Outside the arena, the elder guide from before—a towering ant with jagged antennae and a voice like crushed gravel—met Leon at the threshold.

"You carry sound in your soul now," he said solemnly. "Few adapt the Shell Reverb this quickly. Fewer still survive Whispercoil."

Leon gave a weary nod, rolling his left shoulder, which still buzzed faintly from the harmonic backlash. "It wasn't easy. Every note was a blade."

The elder extended a hand, and within it glowed a new fragment—an obsidian sliver pulsing faintly with red-blue resonance.

"This is your reward. The next part of the Shell Reverb art. You've earned Subform: Shatter Echo."

Leon raised an eyebrow. "Subform?"

The elder nodded. "You've learned to absorb and redirect force—but this… allows you to fracture an opponent's rhythm. Every third strike you store in Shell Reverb can now be re-emitted as a disruptive echo. Instead of releasing raw force, you'll detune your enemy—break their stance, their breath, their very balance."

He placed the shard in Leon's palm.

[Shell Reverb Subform Unlocked: Shatter Echo.]

Shell Reverb Mastery: 51%

Leon felt the knowledge flood into him, not in words—but in motion. His mind played out sequences of combat—shifting footwork, misplaced weight, vulnerable echoes in a breathing rhythm. It wasn't just about hitting harder anymore. It was about breaking harmony to dominate the tempo of battle.

Roselia walked up beside him, offering a flask. "Here. Energy broth. You look like you just got steamrolled by a choir."

Leon chuckled as he drank. "I might've. Whispercoil fights with full orchestras."

Milim bounced up behind them, eyes wide. "That was amazing! Your fist made a sound boom! Can you teach me that?!"

Leon smirked. "Once you can dodge sound blades and stay on beat for five minutes, maybe."

They shared a light laugh as the group moved through the obsidian walkways toward their reserved inn within the ant capital.

Naval, walking calmly, murmured, "The deeper we go, the stranger and sharper these techniques become. These aren't just martial arts. They're philosophies, entire worldviews formed into combat."

Leon glanced toward the skyline of the deep obsidian city, glowing veins of magma far above like a burning net in the rock.

"Then it's a good thing we're fast learners."

As they entered the inn—carved into a cliffside, draped in shimmering resonance silk and guarded by golems of stone and lava—they took the time to rest. Eat. Meditate. Study the memory glyphs they'd gathered.

Outside, the 54th Arena prepared for the next challenge. Rumors whispered of a champion who fought with no visible motion at all. Only faint pulses. Ripples.

Leon lay on the meditation mat, hands behind his head, thinking.

Shatter Echo... Shell Reverb's getting sharper.

He smiled faintly.

And he was only getting started.

The next morning in the obsidian-walled inn, the ambient tremors of deep-earth resonance barely stirred the air. The team was quiet, each member wrapped in their own thoughts. Leon sat on the edge of the balcony, legs crossed, watching molten light thread its way through the distant stone arteries of the subterranean world.

Roselia approached, her steps soft. She didn't speak—just handed him a small dish of spiced root stew. He nodded his thanks, then took a long breath.

"Today's opponent," she said, leaning against the railing, "isn't like the others."

Leon turned to her. "You've read ahead?"

She nodded. "They call him Mirrosh the Still. Champion of Floor 54. The Ants say he never moves. He fights with... stillness. A perfect shell, they say. Any motion against him, if not perfect, echoes back amplified."

Leon's eyes narrowed. "So he's like... a mirror?"

"Exactly. But worse. His shell redirects not just force, but intent. Fighters get confused. They punch him, but the next thing they know, they're attacking themselves. Or they fall into their own rhythm and collapse."

Leon stood, flexing his fingers. "So a battle against reflection."

Roselia gave a half-smile. "Or revelation."

Downstairs, the team prepared. Naval was meditating near a lava basin, absorbing geothermal heat into her body to sharpen her elemental awareness. Roman practiced breath strikes into a slab of rock, trying to disrupt it with internal force rather than breaking its surface. Milim had already vanished—she preferred exploring new floors before each fight, claiming it helped her stay "chaotically aligned."

An hour later, the group marched into Arena 54.

It was silent.

No roaring crowd. No announcer. No runic sparks.

The platform this time was a smooth obsidian circle surrounded by black mirrors—walls so polished they reflected not just the image, but the aura of those who entered.