Not Enough Effort
Three times. That was all. The number of exchanges they had traded. Just three.
For anyone else, it would have been less than a warm-up.
But in those three exchanges alone, Ian once again realized the gulf between himself and Kyle.
As expected… I’m still far off. Far, far too far.
His former self would have bristled with wounded pride and charged right back in. That much was certain. He would have done so and more. He would never have accepted defeat.
All because of that paltry pride, that self-regard. Yes—because of those things.
“Are you done?”
At Kyle’s question from in front of him, Ian shook his head.
He now knew his own level with painful clarity. He had also felt, bone-deep, the height of the mountain he still longed to climb.
His past self would have clenched his teeth and thrown himself forward again. Not anymore.
He understood that would be foolish. Mere arrogance. The empty bravado of an idiot.
Rising to his feet, Ian let out a long breath.
Something heavy that had been lodged in his chest felt a little lighter. For a defeat, it didn’t feel all that bad.
It isn’t as if I gained nothing.
He could see it more concretely, more precisely now—where he stood, and where the other man stood. How much more effort he would need to pour in if he ever hoped to reach that place!
“Thank you for sparring with me, even if only for a moment, Kyle.”
“It was nothing.”
Watching Ian withdraw so quietly, Kyle thought to himself.
As expected of the protagonist. Any ordinary supporting character would have been driven by spite and charged in again—unable to swallow defeat, unable to discard pride, repeating the same foolishness.
Yet in that brief span he had grown, and now looked toward what came next.
The John Nassen folk would applaud if they saw this.
Those who showed desirable change received applause. Those who failed received a thrashing laced with regret. It was precisely because of that code of conduct that every member of the John Nassen family remained properly human.
“Next. Leto.”
“…Yes?”
“What are you doing? Get up here already.”
“M-me as well? I never said a word…”
“Opportunities like this don’t come often. Stop talking and stand up.”
Leto edged nervously into the center of the outdoor training ground. Tension was written all over him; he clearly dreaded whatever was about to happen.
“I’m not going to eat you. Why so tense?”
“You won’t eat me, true. But when you drive me as if you will, how could I not be, Kyle?”
Oh-ho. Now he spoke his mind without hesitation. Until today he had kept both words and actions bottled up; it had been maddening.
“Today’s different. No hands, no feet. Just stand still right where you are.”
“You’re not going to throw something, are you?”
“Could you even dodge if I did? I doubt it.”
Leto let out a strained groan.
“I clearly said stand still. And quit worrying for nothing. I’ll be standing still on my side too.”
“What on earth are you—”
The words never finished. Leto froze where he stood.
At the same instant, Ian—who had been waiting quietly behind—went rigid, his face hardening as every muscle tensed.
From Kyle, who was simply looking at Leto, something unnatural began to pour forth.
Something that chilled the spine at a glance. Something that made the body scream to flee at once. And yet something that locked every finger in place so that not even a twitch was possible.
Wh-what is this…
Insane.
It felt like staring into a sky full of striking lightning. Like standing before a roaring wildfire. Like facing something grotesque no human had the right to defy.
Only then did Leto understand why Kyle had told him to stand still—why he had said he would use nothing, and that Leto need only endure.
The situation today was perfect.
Just recalling earlier still set his anger ablaze. Missing those drug users—and the reason being nothing more than a pack of monsters standing in the way. Whatever the excuse, it was infuriating. The kind of thing that turned a man’s guts inside out.
Thanks to that, drawing out the proper emotional current had been effortless. Completely natural. The mere thought made irritation and rage surge up in waves!
“Ugh…”
Unlike Ian, who was holding on without showing it, Leto was clearly suffering. Ian had at least adapted somewhat through brawling with monsters and living as a wanderer. Leto, raised in the Grand Ducal House under the finest conditions, had no such armor. The difference was only natural.
I used to think this kind of thing only happened in boys’ comics.
Killing intent, or pressure, or whatever they called it. Scenes where an opponent’s aura suddenly transformed and someone had to stand and endure it. Because it was a comic, he had assumed such things were possible only on the page. No matter how terrifying a face or presence a person projected, how could another human being become completely unable to move? Not mere fear—actual paralysis?
But ta-da. It actually happened.
The memory of that day remained vivid. Scarier than any nightmare, more dreadful than any disaster.
When the newly delivered equipment turned out to be neither one thing nor another—just a worthless stand—the expression Baron John Nassen, his own father, had worn was still burned into Kyle’s mind.
“It was equipment with no effect whatsoever. Thanks to that I wasted time on it and even suffered muscle loss.”
There was no evil spirit like that evil spirit. An actual demon would have turned and fled without looking back, shouting that a creature worse than Satan stood right there!
In that moment Kyle, Lia, Lea, and every soul in the castle who had been training stopped their iron work as one and watched the baron’s face. Those same John Nassen people who never, under any circumstance, halted their training!
That was how inhuman the baron’s expression had been, how inhuman the aura he released.
Only then did Kyle understand: what he had seen in comics was not pure fiction. A look, an expression, truly could kill a man.
“K-kuh…”
Recreating something close to that day was not difficult. Like it or not, he was a John Nassen. The son of Baron John Nassen.
“H-haah…”
Endure it. Endure, Leto. If you’re a man, lock both legs and stand. You’re used to physical pain by now. Then the mind can harden too. The less you fear pain, the more courage is born. You’ve been hit and hit until immunity formed without you noticing. So this fear—fear without even pain—you can endure it.
Hmm.
He checked Leto’s state. The man was lasting better than expected. Kyle had thought he would foam at the mouth and faint any second, or that his legs would buckle and drop him. Yet even while his pupils jittered without rest, power somehow remained in his legs.
For a moment Kyle considered putting on an even more serious face—imagining those roiders slipping away forever should do the trick. But that risked creating a truly ugly spectacle.
Enough. For an ordinary person, this was more than sufficient. Leto’s dignity deserved protecting; manufacturing black history here would be excessive.
Kyle slowly smoothed his twisted expression back to normal. He deliberately shoved the Union business and Mathieu’s words out of his mind. The snarling aura vanished cleanly with them.
“…Haah! Hah!”
Thud!—
Only then did Leto collapse where he stood, gasping for air. Behind him, Ian’s face, which had gone deathly pale, gradually regained its color.
“How was it, Leto?”
“Y-yes?”
“Did you stay on your feet until I finished?”
At Kyle’s question Leto could only stare blankly. Had he been standing? It seemed that way at the start, yet he had no memory of it. Sensation was gone from his legs. More than that—the entire stretch of time just before had been cut away, as if a sharp blade had sliced the memory clean out.
The unconscious forgetting of a person hurled into extreme terror. That was what had claimed Leto.
“I-I don’t really know, Kyle. Was I… was I standing?”
“If you don’t remember, that’s a problem. You should have held yourself together—body and mind.”
“That’s… how…?”
“Actually, you endured well. Quite a lot, in fact. Right, Ian?”
Ian slowly nodded. As Kyle said, Leto had endured. Barely—but he had endured.
“Still not enough. Drive yourselves harder. So that no matter the situation you keep your composure. So that whatever happens, you finish the workout you’re doing first—and only then deal with the rest.”
They wanted to ask why workout talk had suddenly appeared, but both men held their tongues. One wrong word and Kyle’s spicy fist would surely fly.
“Your effort is lacking. Far too lacking even for ‘lacking.’ Ian—you admit it too, don’t you?”
“…I admit it. I need to try harder.”
“You as well, Leto. If you can’t match Ian, at least keep your mind alive. Right?”
“Th-that seems to be the case.”
They were certain they had already poured in every scrap of effort they possessed. Yet when Kyle spoke like this, they had no choice but to accept it.
Was it because the realm Kyle had reached was so high? Because he was simply a strong man? No. That wasn’t it.
“Actually, you know… my mood is extremely bad right now. Really. I feel like my eyes might flip and I’ll do something regrettable. So I’d like you both to put in twice—no, three times—the effort you’re giving now, and show progress that much faster. Then I think I’d feel a little happier.”
Even our Saintess is doing fifteen push-ups already. If you male brats are still this soft, what are you going to do? You little pests. It’s been three months, not three weeks—show some real progress. That’s the greatest sincerity a member can offer their trainer.
Looking at Kyle—who was smiling, yet not smiling at all—Ian and Leto nodded with every muscle taut.
It was the moment when an evil spirit became visible in the man who had always seemed nothing but kind.