Chapter 836

The “guidance” was about to begin.

Melanie’s fist, fueled by a torrent of shame and fury, flew toward Sloane’s face. It was a wild, desperate punch, carrying all of her remaining pride.

Sloane’s body didn’t so much dodge as it did flow. She slid back a half-step, a liquid movement of pure economy. Melanie’s knuckles sliced through the air, missing by a scant inch. The momentum of the missed punch sent Melanie stumbling forward, her balance compromised on the dusty ground.

In that single, fleeting moment of instability, Sloane closed the distance. She stepped in, her right hand moving not in a strike, but in a grasp. Her palm cupped the back of Melanie’s neck, her fingers pressing into the vulnerable space just below the skull. The movement was so smooth, so devoid of aggression, it almost looked gentle.

Then her fingers tightened.

A jolt of pure, electric pain shot down Melanie’s spine. Her nervous system screamed. Her legs turned to water, buckling beneath her.

But Sloane didn’t let her fall. The hand on her neck held her upright, a puppet master controlling the strings. As Melanie’s body went limp, Sloane’s left knee rose in a swift, precise arc. It wasn’t a full-force blow, but a controlled, punishing impact that buried itself deep in Melanie’s abdomen.

A choked, guttural sound was forced from Melanie’s lungs. Her stomach revolted, a wave of nausea so intense it made the world spin. But she couldn’t double over. The iron grip on her neck held her ramrod straight, forcing her to absorb the full, humiliating agony of the blow.

The entire sequence was a blur of brutal efficiency, a dance of absolute dominance.

Then, as quickly as it began, it was over. Sloane released her grip, shoving Melanie away like a piece of trash.

Melanie collapsed to her knees, her body convulsing as she dry-heaved into the dust. A mixture of tears, sweat, and saliva streamed down her face, a portrait of utter degradation.

The fight had lasted, at most, eight seconds.

Sloane didn’t spare a glance for the broken woman at her feet. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pristine white handkerchief, and meticulously wiped the fingers of the hand that had touched Melanie’s neck.

The gesture was more devastating than any punch. It was an act of pure, unadulterated contempt. It said, You are so beneath me, you have made me unclean.

A dead, ringing silence fell over the training field, broken only by Melanie’s ragged, suppressed sobs. The recruits were frozen, not just by the speed of the victory, but by its cold, disdainful nature.

Sloane hadn’t just won; she had won with contemptuous ease.

Her authority was no longer a question. It was a fact, carved in stone.

A cold weight settled in Caroline’s stomach. She had seen beyond the victory. She had analyzed the technique. The efficiency. The precise application of force to nerve centers. The use of an opponent’s momentum. The absolute control.