Ex-Rank Awakening: My Attacks Make Me Stronger-Chapter 86: EX . Don’t Release It

Leon lay sprawled across the neatly made bed, arms folded behind his head, one leg lazily draped over the other. The soft hum of the base outside drifted in through the ventilation system, mixing with the occasional clang of boots and distant training shouts. The mattress beneath him was firm but far better than what most military bases offered, perks of being in unit 01.

The room itself was one of four inside the shared unit accommodation, each with basic essentials: a bed, a small desk, a wardrobe, and a mounted screen for communication or entertainment. The unit’s layout resembled a small flat, with a shared bathroom and a common room where cadets could lounge, game, or argue about who forgot to do the dishes.

Technically, one of those four rooms was meant for Elizabeth, but since she wasn’t around yet, Leon had taken the liberty of claiming her space. "I’m just keeping it warm," he had said with a smirk, "She won’t mind." And truly, she wouldn’t.

He glanced at the door absentmindedly before closing his eyes for a moment.

The encounter with the combatants still lingered in his thoughts, not because it had shaken him, but because it had entertained him. The way Combatant Michael’s face twisted with suppressed rage still brought a grin to his lips.

"I wonder if I went overboard," Leon muttered, turning on his side.

A beat.

Then he chuckled and shook his head.

"Nah... it’s all for my growth."

Bullshit.

Even he knew that. He could’ve diffused things. Could’ve smiled, played nice, given them a respectful nod. But where was the fun in that?

Leon wasn’t just some overly confident kid.

He had a talent—EX-rank—and it thrived under stress. The more pressure he faced, the more he could grow, the more points he could gain. He wasn’t here to play politics. He was here to become unstoppable.

Sitting upright, he cracked his neck with a slow tilt of his head.

"That’s right... I need to grind my Attack Points for today," he muttered, standing up.

He flexed his hands, opening and closing his fists, already feeling the familiar hunger in his body.

But he paused at the doorframe.

"Still... I wonder how I’ll induce enough stress to yield more points while distributing them," he said aloud, tapping his chin.

He smirked.

"I’m sure I’ll think of something."

With that, he stepped out of the room, the door sliding shut behind him as if sealing away the calm.

Whatever came next, whether a spar, a mission, or something reckless, he welcomed it.

Because for Leon Kael, growth was war, and he planned to start one.

****

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

The sound of fists slamming into the thick leather of a punching bag echoed sharply across the training grounds like a war drum out of rhythm. Soldiers, midway through their own drills, began to glance toward the source. A few paused. Others stopped entirely.

There stood Leon Kael, shirt slightly damp with sweat, hair sticking to his forehead, and eyes fixed with a maddened focus. His fists moved like pistons, raw, fast, precise, and yet there was something... off.

"Is he okay?" one soldier muttered.

"He’s been at it for twenty minutes straight," another commented, stretching his neck to get a better look.

"Is that a new training technique? Why haven’t I heard of it?" someone else asked, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

A gruff soldier scoffed nearby and spat on the ground.

"Training style? That’s not a style, that’s just a lunatic wasting energy."

But Leon didn’t care.

The noise, the stares, the whispers, none of it mattered.

His focus was locked on control.

Each strike was deliberate, forced, and painfully restrained.

He wasn’t throwing his usual rapid-fire barrage or hitting with his full strength. Instead, he held back... not out of weakness, but out of necessity.

"Come on, just a little slower, hold it back don’t release it... yes like that!" he thought to himself, his breath steady but his muscles twitching with barely restrained power.

He had never trained like this before. Not really. In battle, he let loose. He attacked without care. But now, now he was learning discipline. Precision. Control.

Because Leon wasn’t hitting the bag just for points or control.

[+1 Attack Point]

[+1 Attack Point]

[+1 Attack Point]

[+1 Attack Point]

[+1 Attack Point]

[+1 Attack Point]

[+1 Attack Point]

The system in his body hummed with every successful, regulated blow. Each point a tiny victory. Each slow punch harder than any wild swing.

He was holding back for a completely different reason.

Leon’s jaw tightened.

"Ten credits... just to use this field. What kind of scam is this base running?"

He grit his teeth, eyes narrowing in irritation. Not from the training. Not from the effort. But from the price tag.

"Ten damn credits per hour. Who’s managing the books here, a loan shark?"

He exhaled sharply, then punched the bag again, harder this time. A small tear formed at the base of the leather.

Truth be told, Leon had more credits than most. And here he was, grumbling like a miser being asked to part with spare change.

If any of the soldiers gawking at him knew the size of his balance, they would’ve coughed up blood from pure indignation.

****

Despite his best efforts to pace himself, despite the sweat dripping from his brow, the tension in his muscles, and the whispered insults from the soldiers around him, Leon Kael just couldn’t hold back.

What was supposed to be a slow, regulated hour of training turned into an uncontrollable blitz of power.

The punching bag had already begun to wear thin. His strikes, though restrained in his mind, carried a weight and force that cracked the air with every impact. The ground beneath his feet vibrated faintly. Every jab, every hook, was a carefully managed burst of pressure, until it wasn’t.

He had lost track of time. Again.

A soft mechanical ding echoed in his head.

[Attack Points: 10,000/10,000]

He froze.

"...Already?"

Leon exhaled slowly and pulled back from the now half-torn punching bag. He looked down at his trembling fists, his knuckles red and tight from the strain.

Then he clenched them.

Tight.

Uncomfortably tight.

"I’m losing control... day by day."

It wasn’t dramatics. It wasn’t pride.

It was fact.

His power -his stats- were simply getting too high for his current rank to handle.

His body hadn’t caught up. His frame hadn’t evolved. And his soul hadn’t been reinforced to bear the weight of such power. He hadn’t noticed it at first... not until two days before the Selection, when his movements began to tear through training dummies like they were paper, when holding back became harder than fighting seriously.

"At this rate, I’ll crack my own bones before I even swing at an enemy."

Leon stepped back from the ruined bag and ran a hand through his damp white hair.

That was why he needed credits, a lot of them. Not for luxury, not for supplies. But for something far more important: Arts.

Specifically, high-grade Arts, things that could help ground his rising strength and help push him into the next rank.

"If I want to keep evolving..."

"...then I need to buy the key to unlock the next stage myself."

Leon took one last look at the torn punching bag and muttered under his breath:

"I don’t have time to waste."

Then, without another word, he turned around and walked off the training ground.

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