The academy was bathed in the cold glow of moonlight. The night was silent, save for the distant chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. The peaceful air stretched from the quiet dormitories to the military base, where soldiers patrolled with alert eyes. But beneath the tallest building of Military Base 4, deep underground, the stillness was broken by the sounds of thunderous impacts.
In an expansive underground dojo, the cause of the noise stood at its center—a man holding a traditional Chinese hand fan. General Zhao, his muscled form steady and calm, unleashed arcs of lightning from his fan, each bolt striking a large block of vibranium positioned in front of him. The bolts crashed against the unyielding metal, but even vibranium wasn't impervious. Cracks formed, and dents marred its once-smooth surface.
He paused, admiring his handiwork then he exhale and said. "That was fast."
