My Ultimate Sign-in System Made Me Invincible Chapter 490 Demolished Matt

Liam initiated another movement, and Matt braced himself—or at least, he believed he was fully prepared.

His heightened senses detected the initial shift, his mind tracking the blurred form rushing from his right. Relying on the exosuit to boost his reflexes, Matt shifted his posture and raised his arms into a defensive guard, bracing against the inevitable blow.

However, the stark reality remained: preparedness is not synonymous with adequate speed.

Liam’s fist struck Matt’s guard with surgical precision, landing exactly where his forearms were crossed in what should have been an impenetrable defensive formation.

The sheer power surged through Matt's arms and the exosuit’s reinforced chassis, slamming into his core.

While Matt’s guard remained intact, the kinetic energy demanded an outlet, resulting in his entire body being violently launched backward once more.

As he soared through the air, his flight thrusters fought to engage, aiming to neutralize his momentum and regain stability. Yet, the impact had scrambled his neural interface; his desperate, erratic thruster corrections only rendered his flight trajectory more chaotic.

He collided with the ice at an awkward angle, skipping across the frozen tundra like a stone on the surface of a pond. Each successive impact carved out small craters until his momentum finally dissipated, leaving him tumbling to a halt some seventy meters from his starting point.

“Thirty seconds elapsed,” Liam’s voice remained perfectly serene. “Four minutes and thirty seconds remain. Your guard was adequate, but you are confined to two-dimensional thinking. In three-dimensional combat, traditional blocking is insufficient. I am capable of striking from every angle, and your static guard only shields a fraction of my potential vectors.”

Matt grunted as he pushed himself up, his suit’s diagnostic feedback highlighting stress on the arm segments where he had attempted to defend. Though the suit held up, the mounting damage was becoming evident.

Activating his flight systems, he ascended into the air rather than remaining grounded. If Liam was correct regarding three-dimensional combat—which he undoubtedly was—staying on the frozen surface only rendered him a stationary target.

“Better,” Liam noted, observing Matt hovering at a twenty-meter altitude. “Utilizing vertical space. Now, let us see if you can hold it.”

Matt did not wait for his opponent to close the distance. He surged forward, leveraging the full propulsion of his exosuit to bridge the gap, his fist extending in a strike fueled by all his enhanced strength and speed.

It was a commendable maneuver. Rapid, direct, and executed with a level of technique that would have proven devastating against any mundane adversary.

Liam sidestepped with minimal effort, shifting his body just enough to let Matt’s punch whistle through thin air. Before Matt could even process the miss, Liam’s palm made light contact with his back. It was a casual flick that appeared entirely inconsequential.

However, the timing was flawless; it struck exactly when Matt’s momentum was irrevocably committed and his positioning rendered recovery impossible. That simple touch transformed into a catastrophic disruption of his flight path, sending him spiraling out of control.

As Matt tumbled, the horizon whirled in dizzying arcs and his flight alarms wailed in protest. After what felt like an age but was likely only seconds, he managed to cease the spin and returned to a stable hover, his respiration harsh within his helmet.

“One minute fifteen seconds elapsed,” Liam remarked. “Three minutes and forty-five remain. Your offensive posture is improving, but you are still prioritizing hitting me over crafting openings. Against a faster opponent, direct strikes are futile. You must employ feints, force me to commit to a defense, and then exploit the resulting gap.”

Matt’s mind absorbed the critique as his body struggled to regain a sense of equilibrium. Feints. Openings. Baiting Liam into a commitment.

He could accomplish that. Probably.

Matt charged forward again, this time curving his approach in a corkscrew pattern similar to his formation training. Midway through, he suddenly pivoted ninety degrees, as if colliding with an unseen barrier, and redirected himself toward Liam’s path.

The feint was masterful. The execution was crisp. For half a second, Matt nurtured the hope that it might succeed.

Then, Liam was simply absent.

He had retreated with such velocity that Matt’s enhanced senses barely registered the blur, creating enough distance to render the redirected attack useless. Before Matt could recalculate, Liam closed the gap he had just manufactured, appearing in Matt’s path with a speed that made their earlier supersonic maneuvers seem lethargic.

A fist slammed into Matt’s midsection with cold, calculated force.

The blow hammered the oxygen from Matt’s lungs regardless of the suit's support systems. He folded involuntarily around the punch as his autonomic responses overrode his conscious effort. He plummeted, his flight systems either deactivated or incapable of responding to the bizarre neural signals radiating from his scrambled brain.

He slammed into the ice, creating yet another crater as shards sprayed outward in a perfect radius. Matt lay prone, his suit running emergency checks as he fought to draw breath.

“Two minutes elapsed,” Liam’s voice drifted down. “Three minutes remain. The feint was well done. You are improving. However, you operate within the same speed framework as I do, which allows me to track and counter your every movement. To craft a true opening, you need to execute something I cannot predict—a difficult feat when I possess superior speed, power, and experience.”

Matt finally managed to inhale. The suit’s medical interface confirmed he was uninjured; while his body felt as though it had been pulverized by heavy machinery, his vitals remained stable. He forced himself to his feet, his movements sluggish as exhaustion seeped into his bones. It was a mental fatigue, the strain of processing combat at speeds beyond his natural capacity while being systematically dismantled by an opponent on another tier.

Matt took to the air again but refrained from an immediate assault. Instead, he retreated fifty meters, distance becoming his strategy.

“Retreating will not hasten the time,” Liam observed, his voice devoid of mockery. “Yet, tactical repositioning is wise. Recovering your breath and reassessing indicates you are thinking rather than blindly reacting to my prodding.”

Despite the fog of concussive impacts, Matt’s mind raced. Direct strikes were useless. Feints were countered before they could be exploited. Even three-dimensional movement was insufficient. He needed a wildcard. He needed something Liam could not anticipate—not a strike, but an environmental disruption.

He scanned the Antarctic horizon: the endless ice, the pale sky, the desolate void. No cover. No tactical advantages. No terrain to weaponize, except—

The ice itself.