The Weapon Genius: Anything I Hold Can Kill

The wheel spun again.

Names blurred past, a flicker of letters and echoes of meaning that no one had time to register. The arena felt suspended—held in breathless anticipation as the system's great roulette chose the next ones to shed blood under its gaze.

Then it stopped.

[Contestant Selected: Park Minjae]

Jin's body stiffened.

He didn't speak. Didn't blink.

Just stared.

Minjae?

He hadn't heard that name in years.

The system moved on, calling out the second name—someone unfamiliar, barely registered. The details were a blur. Jin's focus stayed on the first.

Park Minjae.

He saw the name written again across the top of the arena's display in glowing white text.

In his mind, the memories cracked open.

University. Long nights spent drinking cheap coffee and arguing over game mechanics and whether sci-fi movies needed better physics. Minjae had been stubborn—charismatically so. A live wire with the mind of a dreamer and the attitude of someone who knew the world hadn't caught up to him yet.

Their paths had diverged. Jin had gone into a steady job, stress-laden and grounded. Minjae had vanished into startups and schemes. They lost touch. But now—

Now he was here.

When Minjae materialized in the arena, Jin barely recognized him.

Leaner. Scarred. His skin had a permanent tan, like he'd been scorched by the sun and never fully healed. His hair was shorter than Jin remembered—messy, but sharp. His expression?

Unshakable confidence. Almost manic calm.

He smiled at the cheers, not acknowledging them, but basking in something far deeper.

His opponent arrived in silence. A tall, stone-faced man with grey-laced armor rippling across his form. Not metal—something living, malleable, clinging to him like liquid steel that hardened with his movements. The kind of person who'd survive most fights not by overpowering, but by outlasting.

The Dokkaebi didn't even bother with commentary this time.

A system chime rang overhead.

[Begin.]

Minjae didn't move.

He just tilted his head and raised a single hand toward his opponent—index finger pointing straight ahead like a conductor about to cue a symphony.

Then he spoke, his voice steady and cutting.

"You're probably wondering how fast I am."

His opponent said nothing.

Minjae smiled wider. "You're probably betting on dragging this out. Phase shifting. Intangibility. Stalling me 'til I burn out."

He exhaled softly through his nose. "Good strategy."

Then his hand dropped.

"But you're not gonna make it that long."

Jin didn't realize he was leaning forward until his hand hit the railing.

There was a sound—like a heartbeat slamming through a speaker system. The arena floor trembled. Not from motion, but from pressure.

Minjae blurred forward.

He didn't vanish—he just moved so fast the afterimage broke into layers. His body twisted low, then vaulted high. The first step was enough to rattle the tiles. The second brought him within a breath of the armored man's face.

His opponent activated his skill—his chest shimmered, skin liquefying into semi-transparent mist.

But Minjae didn't aim there.

He pivoted in mid-air, spinning sideways, and struck with his heel against the side of the man's head just as he reformed.

The hit landed.

The crack echoed like a gunshot.

The man stumbled—not because of the power, but because the rhythm had been broken. And in a fight like this, rhythm was everything.

Minjae landed and slid backwards, his feet carving heat trails into the arena. He laughed softly and rolled his shoulders.

"See? Overdrive isn't just speed. It's prediction. Pressure. Possibility."

He was glowing now—faintly, like the air around him couldn't keep up.

The system was tracking something invisible. Jin could feel it. Echo had moved fast. Jisoo even faster. But this?

Minjae wasn't just fast.

He was untouchable.

The man recovered and lunged forward, forming a blade of his phase armor, extending it like a spear.

Minjae dipped under, twisted into a cartwheel, and used the momentum to kick upward into his opponent's chin. Before he even landed, he launched again.

Again.

Again.

He was bouncing off the ground, the walls, even his opponent—turning the arena into a map of frictionless assault.

It wasn't graceful.

It was relentless.

His opponent finally caught him with a shoulder check—brief, but solid. The crowd sucked in a breath as Minjae stumbled—

But he turned the stagger into a spin, used the kinetic energy, and slammed a punch into the man's gut.

The armor didn't break.

But the air did.

A shockwave burst out from the point of contact.

Minjae stepped back and adjusted the collar of his shirt. His breathing was ragged now, a little too fast. His fingers twitched. His right knee buckled slightly before he steadied himself.

Jin could see it clearly.

The toll.

Whatever Overdrive was—it wasn't a skill meant to be sustained.

It burned through stamina. Probably health. Maybe more.

But Minjae?

He smiled through it.

"Most people hit a wall," he said, walking forward slowly now. "Skill limit. Muscle fatigue. Brain lag."

His opponent tried another strike—this time a series of jabs with extending spikes from his forearms.

Minjae weaved through them—barely. The third grazed his cheek, drawing blood.

He grinned wider.

"I don't hit walls," he whispered. "I use them."

And with a yell, he surged forward again, twisting low into a slide that took him beneath the man's stance—he kicked upward, heel slamming into the base of his spine. The moment his opponent staggered, Minjae launched onto his shoulders, spun, and locked his legs around his neck.

Jin flinched.

Minjae dropped backward, twisting mid-air, and slammed the man into the ground.

Dust exploded outward.

Silence.

Then—

[Victory Registered: Park Minjae.]

The crowd erupted.

But the system hadn't spoken again.

Minjae stood slowly, wobbling a little.

He looked up, breathing hard.

Then he turned—toward the system podium.

"I won," he said. "Next match."

The words had barely left his mouth before something moved behind him.

His opponent.

Bloodied. Barely alive. But still breathing.

The man reached forward, part of his phase armor reforming into a spear-like edge.

Jin's eyes widened.

"Minjae—!"

Too late.

The blade punched through his back. Straight through the heart.

Time froze.

Minjae looked down.

The light in his body flickered once—like a bulb losing power.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to see the man behind him.

"…Smart."

Then he fell.

The crowd went silent.

The Dokkaebi's voice rang overhead.

[Rule Clarification: Victory Requires Elimination.]

[Deception is not disqualifying.]

[Eliminate, or be eliminated.]

Jin's hands closed around the edge of the railing, blood rushing in his ears.

The man collapsed a moment later.

Too injured to stand.

Too wounded to celebrate.

The arena dimmed.

The wheel began to spin again.

And in Jin's heart, a silence deeper than any roar began to settle.

The arena buzzed faintly in the background—no cheers this time. Even the Dokkaebi refrained from its usual theatrics. Just the soft hum of energy cycling through the stage, the gentle whir of the wheel clacking forward, one selection at a time.

Jin didn't look at it.

Not yet.

He stared at the blood still cooling on the stone, the jagged smear left behind when Minjae's body was dragged away by the system's constructs. There'd been no ceremony. No mourning. Just the sound of him hitting the ground—and silence.

Minjae.

He hadn't even known he was alive.

And now he was gone.

Jin's fingers tightened around the edge of the railing. His grip didn't shake. But he wasn't breathing quite right.

He hadn't seen that man in years. They hadn't parted on bad terms. Just… drifted. Like most things did when life got complicated. When work got heavier. When dreams got quieter.

He remembered Minjae's voice, full of fire in those old campus debates. Always the one to call things out before anyone else. Loud, charismatic, annoying in that way only someone who believed in everything could be.

And here?

Still loud. Still confident.

Still alone.

"I don't hit walls," he'd said. "I use them."

Jin swallowed hard.

It didn't feel right.

That kind of fire wasn't supposed to be snuffed out by a sneak attack. That kind of drive deserved better than to be killed by someone too afraid to lose properly. But this place didn't care about that. It only cared about rules. And rules here meant one thing:

Kill, or be killed.

Jin exhaled slowly. Forced himself to look up.

The wheel had slowed.

Names were coming into focus.

[Contestant Selected: Seul Hwang]

A familiar ripple of tension moved through him. His mind sharpened immediately.

Seul was here.

Still alive.

Still fighting.

He didn't know whether to be relieved or more anxious.

The second name snapped into place moments later:

[Opponent: Kaito Asano]

He didn't recognize the name.

But he recognized the way the crowd reacted.

There was a shift—not loud, but meaningful. A hum of expectation. Whispers of respect. Of wariness.

Whoever this Kaito was, he wasn't unknown. And he wasn't weak.

Jin's posture straightened as the arena pulsed with light. The floor shimmered, and with a soft flash, Seul appeared on the field. Still calm, still composed, wearing that same quiet determination like armor.

She looked up, scanning the crowd. Didn't smile. Didn't wave.

But her gaze lingered on the boxes for just a second.

He didn't know if she could see him.

But he nodded anyway.

Then, across from her, her opponent arrived.

Kaito Asano.

Lean frame. Dark robes etched with faint crimson markings. His hair fell like a curtain across one side of his face, and he stood with a relaxed stance that didn't match the cold focus in his eyes. He didn't summon a weapon. Didn't speak. He just tilted his head slightly, studying Seul like one might examine a puzzle piece they weren't sure how to fit.

Jin's brow furrowed.

His instincts stirred.

This one was different.

The system didn't announce the match. There was no need.

The air tensed. The silence stretched.

Then—

[Begin.]

The sound cracked like a whip.

And they moved.

Jin leaned forward, breath caught in his throat.

But whatever happened next—

He knew it wouldn't be simple.

Not for Seul.

Not in this place.

Not anymore.