If You Can't Handle It, You're Weak
If you can't handle it, you're weak!
Now that he'd received a commendation, Kyle figured he no longer needed to be careful.
He'd been thanked in the name of the Minister of Education, but he knew that wasn't the end of it. For an official of ministerial rank to step forward like this, the imperial seal of approval had clearly been given. In other words, the Emperor was behind it—which meant he'd essentially put the Empire in his debt.
Now even if someone picks a fight, I don't need to hold back anymore… hmm. Though there won't be anyone brave enough to pick one either.
Truly a shame. At a time like this, he needed some idiot who didn't know better to mess with him. Then he could separate their bones from their flesh right on the spot. But now, even the densest fool would keep their distance. Bare-handed sword-breaker, desk-splitter, the guy who'd beaten down knights who couldn't handle him—and on top of all that, a minister had come in person to present a commendation. Who'd be crazy enough to touch him?
It would take nothing less than the second son of the Litorio Grand Duchy showing up himself. No—even if he returned, he'd have to overcome considerable pressure. Whether the second son of Litorio would even come back to school remained an open question.
"…So. What do you two want?"
Of course, even with nothing left to worry about, there were still a few people Kyle cut a little slack for. Namely, those destined to be the protagonists of this world—the ones at the center of every incident.
"I want to spar with you once."
"I want to become stronger."
The ones who appeared before Kyle were none other than Ian and Leto. Originally, these two were never a combination that would hang out together. Yet today, as if they'd made some kind of appointment, they both appeared with a simultaneous ta-da!
"Ian."
"I'm listening."
"You want to spar with me."
"That's right."
"…"
Do you want a funeral meal or something? The words circled on his tongue.
Ian was strong. Someday he would become one of the finest swordsmen around. That was his destiny. He was the protagonist who had to become that. But that was a matter for later—much, much later. At this point in time, asking to spar with Kyle himself was crossing a line. Not courage—recklessness. Not pride—arrogance. He must have clearly felt the gap in skill, so why on earth was he doing this?
"I know there's a gap."
"And you're still doing this knowing that."
"Yes. That's why I'm asking."
So that's what a person asking a favor looks like. Learning something new today.
Thinking what a magnificent protagonist this guy was, Kyle turned his head to look at Leto this time.
"You said you want to become stronger."
Leto nodded. His face even carried a grim resolve. He must have realized something from the recent attack. That no matter how faithful a secretary he was, he couldn't protect Elga in the face of overwhelming power. So he was doing this completely out-of-the-blue thing of wanting to become stronger.
This… looks like I've somehow become some kind of goal for them?
As expected, Kyle had currently become a rival for Ian and a goal to aspire to for Leto. For Ian, who dreamed of becoming an overwhelming powerhouse, he desperately wanted to surpass the wall that was Kyle. For Leto, who wanted to protect Elga until the very end, he wanted to ask the way. Everyone was seeking Kyle's help for their own goals.
Who gave them permission to spin those fantasies?
From Kyle's perspective, this was naturally an absurd situation. The reason he'd treated Ian and Leto reasonably well was purely the minimum courtesy toward the original protagonists. That was all. Nothing more. He didn't even know the original content, so he wasn't thinking about milking anything from them. They weren't women. They were fellow men. As a man, he had no reason to like men.
Besides, Kyle himself had already abandoned any thoughts of being satisfied as an extra or supporting character. Wasn't the protagonist of the play called life always yourself? What good would yielding that position do!
Not that I even know what I'd be yielding. So living however I want is fine.
Having finished that thought, Kyle first called Ian forward. Then he casually raised one hand and held it out toward him.
"Ian. You want to spar with me."
"That's right."
"Prove it."
"Prove what?"
"That you're qualified to spar with me."
"What do you mean…"
"In this position, try to push my arm down even a little."
At Kyle's words, Ian's expression instantly turned fierce. He was a swordsman of some skill himself—a capable fighter who could handle monsters with ease. And yet he was being asked to push down an adult's arm like some child. He had every right to be angry. Every right to have his pride wounded. Especially since he had the skill. Kyle was deliberately setting this condition precisely to target that.
Neither particularly strong nor weak, and already carrying that kind of pride—no, arrogance. It was poison. An absolute toxin he must never possess. The world was full of strong people. Even if he was the protagonist, that kind of attitude was completely unacceptable. So Kyle had specially decided to thoroughly smash Male Lead Number One's pride.
"Push it down. Then I'll do whatever you ask without complaint."
At the provocation, Ian finally bit his lip and gripped Kyle's arm with all his might. And poured every ounce of strength into achieving his goal.
"Grrraaahhh!!"
Ian poured every bit of strength in his body into it, practically hanging off the arm. In contrast, Kyle stood in place with only his arm slightly extended upward. And still, Ian couldn't push Kyle's arm down even a little. It didn't budge. Not even a tremor. If anything, Ian looked like he was the one struggling more.
"That's enough."
As if swatting a fly, Kyle swung his arm once in a big arc. Ian, who had been hanging on, went whoosh into the air before slamming into the floor.
"Kh."
"See? You can't even manage this simple proof."
"One more time! Just one more time!"
"That's it for today. Once a day, max. That's the condition."
"But…"
"Isn't the reason you want to spar with me so you can become stronger? But at your current level, far from finding a path to get stronger through sparring, you'd be out cold in one second."
Unlike before, Kyle delivered a thoroughly scathing critique. Naturally. Perfectly natural. Some guy who finds his pride just because he's a little strong. Right now, Ian had a tendency to unconsciously look down on his opponents. Even if he was the protagonist, this crossed the line. So he was stomping on it.
A true strong person doesn't look down on others.
The John Nassen despise the weak. But there's something about that that must never be overlooked. The John Nassen despise the weak who don't put in effort. They hate the weak who pretend to be strong. Conversely, even if someone is weak, if they're a weak person striving to become strong, they watch quietly. If there's someone who truly lays everything down and wants to become strong, they're welcome anytime.
Exercise is the same. Just because I have jacked muscles doesn't mean I look down on others. Even if someone's just fat, if they're working out to improve their body, you don't laugh at them inside. You send silent praise for that will and resolve, and quietly cheer them on.
"…I'll challenge you again tomorrow."
"I hope you'll be even a little better tomorrow than today."
The fortunate thing was that Ian wasn't someone who didn't know how to train his body. He was already a guy who'd forged and pioneered his own sword path—meaning he was something of a genius. He was the protagonist, so of course. And being the protagonist, his growth potential would clearly be outstanding. He'd probably see some kind of change within a month, Kyle predicted.
"Alright. Next."
After sinking Ian, Kyle turned his head toward Leto.
"You said you want to become stronger?"
"Am I also going to do the same as Ian…?"
"Sorry, Leto. Even that would be hard for you. Wake up from that dream."
Don't even dream of it. He'd only given Ian this harsh trial because it was Ian. Compared to that, Leto… would need a full year of gritted-teeth training just to reach Ian's current level. And pushing down Kyle's arm with strength? He'd need at least three years of effort.
"Don't worry. It'll be over soon."
No more, no less—just one hit would be enough. To see whether he even had the qualifications to talk about wanting to become stronger.
Thud!
Worried it might explode—and then who'd clean that up—the concern was severe enough that Kyle swung his fist as weakly as possible, with almost all his power drained out. Honestly, this wasn't even a punch. It was more like a fist-bump handshake. In John Nassen terms: yeah. Stripping the plates off and just lifting the bar.
"Guhack?!"
Of course, a normal person would say even that bar has a surprising amount of weight. That was exactly Leto right now. He'd essentially been hit by that bar.
"Grrrgh…"
I hit him so gently, and he just collapses—what am I supposed to do with this guy.
Kyle wanted to shout that right in Leto's face. At this level, could he protect Elga? He'd be lucky not to be a burden.
"Get up, Leto."
"Krrrgh…"
"Get up before I kick you."
In a moment of irritation, he slipped into informal speech without realizing it. At that chilling atmosphere, Leto momentarily forgot the pain and hurriedly got to his feet.
"The beginning of all training is endurance. If you can't even handle this much pain, don't even start."
"Th-that's…"
"There's already someone disappointed. Don't make them more disappointed."
By now he might have thought, Oh no. Most of what Kyle had shown so far was a good-natured demeanor, so he might have thought his request would be granted. But Kyle was a John Nassen. Kyle John Nassen—that was this man's identity. Whatever else, the matter of I want to become stronger was a topic more important than survival itself.
"Don't worry, Leto. I'll make you strong."
Coming was free, but leaving wasn't. This was the fate that awaited those who asked a John Nassen for training.
If it's too much to handle, that means you're weak. So get stronger. Because you'll have to handle it anyway.
Recalling his father's words once more today, Kyle raised his fist.
"W-wait?! Kyle?! O-once a day…"
"That's for Ian. Leto, you're different."
That's right. Everyone gets a different PT program.