Throwing Down the Gauntlet
“...What’s your angle?”
Rather than flaring up at Jun’s provocation, the big guy—Donald—wore a dubious look, as if convinced Jun had some other scheme in mind.
It felt like he was reading far too much into a simple taunt, but coming from him, the suspicion made a certain sense.
For the past four years, he and Leon had doggedly begged Jun to train and spar with them the way they used to. Watching someone with no physical-type ability grind his body so relentlessly and fight with such polished skill had been a massive spur for both of them. When that suddenly vanished, training and sparring lost all their fun.
Donald especially had used the fear of being overtaken if he slacked off as fuel to keep himself from drowning in the jealousy and despair Leon’s talent inspired. Jun’s absence left him feeling the loss all the more keenly. How else could a prideful bastard like him have ended up pleading?
If Leonard hadn’t taken him as a disciple and drilled him hard, he might well have wasted those years rotting in envy and hopelessness.
Jun wasn’t ignorant of any of that, yet his answer had always been the same flat refusal. He had to keep his aura awakening completely hidden—both to spare the two growing boys a crushing sense of relative deprivation, and to stop every organization under the sun from hounding him with recruitment or adoption offers.
Having been turned down again and again without knowing the reason, of course Donald assumed there was some ulterior motive.
“Ulterior motive, my ass. I’ll dump the annoying explanations on Leon—let’s just get out of here. And...”
Jun started walking toward the center of the backyard, then glanced back at Donald, who still hadn’t moved.
“It doesn’t sit right, does it? That I was the one who helped clean up the mess—not you.”
The words must have struck dead center; Donald’s body gave a visible twitch.
“...Yeah. Fuck. Conscience, my ass—what business does a guy like me have with that?”
The gratitude and guilt he’d been forcing himself to wear for the sake of conscience evaporated, replaced by the rage and inferiority he’d been keeping under wraps. Only then did the queasy feeling in Jun’s gut—brought on by that uncharacteristic face—finally settle.
Yeah. That’s more like the Donald I know.
Thud. Thud.
Donald stomped forward, fuming, and planted himself opposite Jun. Nearly as tall as Jun himself, with thickly corded muscle layered on top, he looked enormous. Add the face twisted into a scowl and he looked downright vicious—master and disciple both built like bandits, carbon copies of each other.
If I’d run into him in my past life, I might’ve looked away on the spot. No—I definitely would’ve.
While Jun was entertaining that idle thought, Donald fixed him with a fierce glare and spoke.
“You’re right. No matter how I turn it over, I just can’t accept it. Why were you the one fighting while I got protected without knowing a damn thing? Shouldn’t it have been the other way around?”
“If I tell you it wasn’t me, and explain the reasons one by one, would that be enough for you to accept it?”
“No. Absolutely not.”
Donald shook his head without a second’s hesitation. Jun snorted a laugh and crooked a finger, goading him again.
“Then come at me. I’ll make you accept it whether you like it or not.”
Grit.
“Cocky bastard. I’ll wipe that look right off your face!”
Donald exploded off the ground and charged. Even while grinding his teeth in fury, he kept both fists raised to his chin and his waist slightly bent, protecting his vitals with textbook care.
Hot-tempered as hell, yet the kid’s sharp.
“Die!”
A merciless left straight rocketed toward Jun’s face, weight thrown so far forward it looked like he hadn’t even considered a follow-up. The second Jun finished praising him, this was what he got.
Jun tilted his head just enough to slip the punch, then seized the arm with both hands and used Donald’s own momentum and speed to whip him clean over—
Whump!
“Guhk!”
—and slam him into the dirt. A textbook shoulder throw, executed to perfection.
“If you’re going to be smart, stay smart all the way through. Getting that excited over one attack? Why drop your focus? Is that what Boss taught you?”
“Damn it. Shut up.”
It had happened so fast Donald was still sprawled stupidly on the ground; the moment Jun’s scolding hit him, he spat a curse and shoved himself upright. Thanks to his trait his body looked fine, but his pupils were trembling in tiny shakes—he clearly couldn’t believe he’d been planted so easily.
“What are you waiting for? Get your head on straight and come at me properly.”
“Just shut up for a second.”
Inhale... exhale... Inhale... exhale...
Whoosh, whoosh.
Donald drew and released steady breaths. At the same time, two distinct vortices of power rose from him.
“O Light, protect this young lamb.”
A short prayer, and pure white radiance burst from his body. No matter how many times Jun saw it, the sight never quite felt real—this guy, of all people, praying to a god.
He used to be the least religious bastard I knew.
Whatever had happened, at some point he’d started praying in earnest and eventually awakened a Holy Power Core. When Leonard first passed on the news, Jun hadn’t been able to believe it. Holy Power Cores didn’t form on anything less than genuine faith.
“Hey, what are you doing? Hurry up and get a buff from the chest monster.”
“Eh, I don’t think I’ll need it.”
The aura rolling off Donald sat right between Blue and Navy. Solid growth that wouldn’t lose to any noble scion—but nowhere near Jun’s level. If he’d had some special ability Jun might have prepared a little, but Donald was a pure martial artist. Against a pure martial artist of that caliber, Jun could steamroll him one-sidedly using nothing but raw physical ability and psychic power, no aura or buffs required.
For reference, Jun’s pure physical ability was roughly on par with a Violet-rank body-enhancement psychic. There were people with equal or greater raw physiques, sure—but factoring in age, it was still staggering.
“You little shit. At least pick up a weapon!”
“Mm. Fine.”
After a brief pause Jun accepted the demand, partly for Donald’s pride and partly because the guy’s reinforced hardening trait had grown strong enough that bare fists would just hurt his own hands.
Tap!
The instant Jun pulled a blunt practice iron sword from his subspace, Donald launched again. This time the speed was markedly faster.
Whoosh! Whoosh!
One-two punches lanced in like lightning—textbook pressure, meant to herd rather than finish. Jun smiled in satisfaction even as he twisted his body the bare minimum, slipping each strike by a paper’s width. The leisure in his movements made Donald grind his teeth.
What the hell happened in four years?!
The gap that was slowly becoming visible made Donald’s blood boil. But he didn’t charge blindly like before—that would only leave him more miserable. For now he simply focused on the solid footwork and short, tight punches his master had drilled into him. Sooner or later an opening would appear. Then he’d pour every ounce of the rage he’d been holding back into one clean shot—make sure the bastard never got cocky again!
Still a long way to go. I can read exactly what you’re thinking.
Jun gave a wry smile at the thoughts blazing in Donald’s eyes. In a fight, nothing mattered more than reading the opponent’s mind while hiding your own. On the small scale it meant reading or being read on an attack; on the large scale it meant using or being used by the opponent’s offense. Exactly like right now.
Jun deliberately stepped on a nearby stone, feigning a clumsy stumble that tangled his footwork, and at the same time let the sword hand drift a little too far from his body—an inviting target. Donald’s eyes lit up as he seized the chance. Without a second’s delay came the martial artist’s specialty: the weapon strip.
Donald’s vibrating fist was a hair from smashing the flat of the blade when—
Grin.
—Jun smiled and simply let the sword drop first. Donald’s fist carved empty air.
“Wha—!”
“Is now really the time to be surprised?”
At the rebuke Donald frantically tried to recover his fist, only to fail when Jun’s hand clamped down on his arm. The moment he registered the grip, sky and earth swapped places in his vision.
Thud!
“Ugh!”
“Fundamentals matter. But you can’t cling to them too hard, either.”
Because weapons were inconvenient to carry, some assassins specialized in bare-handed combat instead of hidden blades and daggers. Their styles varied wildly, yet the moment a fight began they all went for the weapon first. Every time, Jun had reeled them in with the exact same bait and finished them cleanly. Having a subspace stuffed with weapons and solid martial skill of his own made the trick possible—but it wasn’t something only he could pull off. Donald needed to keep that firmly in mind.
“Becoming Boss’s disciple means you’re going to help Leon, right? You’ll be clashing with a lot of people from now on, so remember this. Got it?”
“...Got it. Damn it.”
Two shoulder throws had hammered the gap home; Donald seethed but still nodded. Prideful as he was, he knew when to yield—he’d taken the lesson properly.
“Then shall we wrap this up?”
Jun picked up the fallen iron sword, dusted the dirt off, and spoke—
“Or do you want a turn too?”
—and leveled the tip at Leon, who had somehow drifted close.
“...”
Shing∼
Leon wordlessly drew his own sword. That was answer enough.