The instant the fist surged forward, it was fast, powerful, and burning hot.
The deep soot and gunpowder scent that lingered on the two sleeves were remnants of that heat.
Richard felt his breath lengthen as he watched the flying fist approach.
In the fleeting moments where time seemed to narrow and break apart, Richard saw flashes of his life pass before his eyes.
At the threshold of these fleeting visions, Richard thought:
This was not an attack he could let slip through.
Richard feared the fist—not the fist itself, but what would happen because of it.
He spoke to his kind and wise teacher who could no longer hear him:
“Master, I am afraid.”
There was no reply.
“It’s not my death I fear. It’s the fact that I couldn’t protect you, that I have only brought shame to your legacy.”
To a degree he could barely endure.
“I regret it, and I’m afraid.”
If only he had run away.
“I’m afraid.”
If only he had joined Aslan and I’taar’s traveling party when they left.
“I fear the moment when my will becomes useless, when my intentions are broken, and I achieve nothing.”
If only he had acted differently at the first premonition.
“I bend like a frail tree in front of a typhoon.”
If only he had been better at wielding his techniques.
“I cannot withstand the typhoon.”
If only he had been stronger.
As countless “what ifs” swept through his mind, Richard shed a single tear.
Amidst the sinking feeling in his heart, he calmly extended his arm.
As he reached toward the incoming punch, the image of his master’s retreating back flashed through his mind—his master’s final departure.
The moment he felt the heat and light touch his arm, Richard moved.
“Then become the wind.”
Whether it was an auditory hallucination, or a memory of his own, or perhaps even a remnant of his master’s presence—it didn’t matter. Along with those words, Richard’s body flowed past the attack. His knee shifted slightly to the side, his wrist moved smoothly, and despite his labored breathing, his body rotated clockwise.
KWAANG!
Soaring dust. A narrowly missed strike. Twisting his shoulder at the point of contact, Richard’s arm swung back, and the martial artist dropped to one knee, realizing his punch had once again been evaded.
In the center of it all, Richard stood firm.
“…You…!”
The martial artist roared and hurled another punch upward—an attack that promised certain death.
This time, Richard extended his leg toward the assault.
KWOOONG! The clash of Richard’s foot against the punch sent his body soaring into the air. Spinning lightly, he landed gracefully despite the force pushing against him.
Blood gushed from his arm, soaking the ground, yet Richard remained standing.
With both arms hanging loosely by his sides, Richard locked eyes with Roim, whose wild beard trembled as he lunged forward.
“With that look… Don’t look at me like that!”
Roaring, his fists flared up, crackling with energy as steam filled the air, filling the space.
“Wait, stop…!”
Before Demis could restrain his ally, the fist had already reached Richard. Facing the punch meant to crush him, Richard thought:
“My technique is imperfect. I am not as perfect as my master.”
Though he might die after this ordeal, he wasn’t going to die now—not when there was still something he needed to do.
“Right here, right now…”
He would prove himself.
Two thundering fists rushed toward him, almost indistinguishable to the naked eye. Even Richard’s enhanced sight from his mana tattoos could barely catch their residual images. Each blow was a fatal strike capable of shattering any shield and crushing armor.
Yet, Richard endured each one.
BOOOM!
The sound of destruction echoed—the collision of Richard’s flawed technique against relentless attacks. With every impact, blood streamed down his body.
Bones shattered. Muscles tore. Areas that had moved seconds ago now refused to obey.
Still, he continued to block, diving deeper within himself to avoid the overwhelming pain.
Blindly, he executed his techniques.
Pushing himself to the limit, he erased everything from his mind except for the attacks in front of him.
All he needed was sheer determination. Forgetting everything else, Richard focused solely on surviving the storm.
Six punches aimed for his head. He deflected them with his wrists, redirected them with his palms, grabbed them mid-motion, and pushed them aside with his elbows.
His shredded elbow revealed bone, blood trickled from his wrists, the skin peeled off his knuckles, and his arm broke again—but Richard survived.
“You, you, youuuu!”
Even his shouts sounded faint as Richard continued to endure the relentless assault.
In the midst of it, memories of his master’s teachings surfaced.
I’taar’s principle of compliance: short and seemingly unremarkable phrases that he had once dismissed.
When a rock comes flying, become the rock and withstand it.
When the wind blows, become the wind and flow with it.
When flames pour down, become the flames and mix with them.
Do not resist.
Do not surrender.
Simply comply.
Among these words, a single foreign note slipped in:
“So, never stop moving.”
A familiar, gentle voice.
Tears streaming down his face, Richard clung to this voice as if reaching out, turning to block a crushing overhead strike. He spun around.
Whether it was an auditory hallucination or someone else’s voice, he couldn’t tell. It felt as though someone had pushed him along, warmth spreading down his back. It felt like blood flowing, though he wasn’t sure.
With that, Richard adjusted his stance.
First, he turned his body. Then, rotating his extended arm outward, he flipped his hand into a grip. The pose resembled the beginning of a dance, though none present viewed it as such.
Both hands positioned—one toward the sky, the other toward the ground.
It was the same stance I’taar had taken before stopping them.
“What…?”
Confusion in Roim’s voice, and curiosity in Demis’ gaze. In his hand, the remains of his master.
Looking at his master’s face among the relics, Richard briefly closed his eyes, then reopened them.
Innate talent and sudden enlightenment. Forgetting himself entirely in extreme focus, amidst a situation more dangerous than any real combat…
Finally, his technique blossomed.
Facing the fundamentals he’d built upon, he achieved a level of defense normally reserved for deities.
The completion of I’taar’s compliance. That final step he had been so close to achieving—Richard grasped it and moved.
The torrent of violence rushing toward his head—he received it.
No, he didn’t just receive it. Catching one attack with his fingertips, Richard spun and avoided it, delivering a devastating elbow strike to the martial artist’s ribs.
The hardened carapace that had resisted even I’taar’s counterattacks cracked with a resounding BOOM.
“Wha…?!”
Enhanced strength from his mana tattoos, pure mastery of martial arts, and centrifugal force from I’taar’s compliance—all combined in his strikes.
Unlike I’taar, who hadn’t managed to leave a mark, Richard was now prepared for battle. Witnessing the warrior’s perfected form, Roim faltered.
Seizing the opportunity, Demis leaped into the fray.
“Attack together, synchronize!”
“Ughh…!”
Roim gritted his teeth, and the combined assault of the martial artists began.
Fast, hammer-like punches, fists glowing red and enveloped in steam.
A swirling typhoon of crimson and dark red violence. Richard faced the dual onslaught aimed at him.
Faint streaks of light, nearly invisible due to their speed. Relentless barrages of attacks. Their motions perfectly synchronized, maximizing efficiency without interference.
But precisely because of this, they were predictable.
Their trajectories never overlapped, instead complementing each other’s gaps. This was how I’taar had used counters and borrowed their forces during his last fight.
And Richard could do it too.
As blood mixed with his exhaled breath, Richard took his stance once more.
“Come, now.”
Short words, followed by heavy, prolonged attacks. Richard did not meet the attacks head-on.
He simply complied.
As winds howled and rocks and dirt flew everywhere, Richard stood firm.
Rooted firmly with both legs, he extended his arm to intercept the punch aimed at his head. Before it could break him, he twisted his body and redirected it. The deflected punch slammed into the ground, and Richard drove his knee into Roim’s protruding eye.
The exposed eye burst, and the martial artist retaliated with a punch through the pain. Richard used the punch as leverage, jumping higher and grabbing Demis from behind.
“Impossible…!”
Stunned exclamations. Before the words could fully escape, Richard’s fists hammered down repeatedly on Demis’ spine. The carapace shattered, and Richard’s mana tattoos glowed brightly.
The two martial artists exchanged glances and charged again, but Richard readied himself.
Despite torn muscles, twisted bones, and spitting blood, Richard complied.
He deflected a punch aimed at his head with his wrist, spun to avoid the following punch, and kicked it away. His kicking leg tore, blood flowed, and skin flailed, yet Richard caught the follow-up kick and redirected it while hammering consecutive punches into the attacker’s neck.
Blood soaked his face as he caught the double overhead strike and leapt upward, smashing his forehead down onto the opponent.
Amidst the scattering carapace and mingling bodily fluids, Richard moved.
Gradually, his counterattacks grew stronger while the martial artists’ assaults weakened. Finally, they realized it.
They were being overwhelmed.
Witnessing the man transformed into a typhoon within the storm, Roim and Demis inevitably came to the same conclusion.
Defeat.
KA-BOOM!
A missed punch struck the ground, and as they retreated from the twin strikes, Richard stood motionless.
He remembered.
Once, he had asked his master how one could laugh in the face of all this. He recalled his master’s response to whether he wasn’t afraid.
That laughter came from fear.
I’taar had smiled gently and told the confused Richard: “Never forget that fear.”
Someday, he would be able to laugh too.
Richard slowly curled the corners of his lips upward—a feat more difficult than throwing punches or deflecting attacks with a torn arm.
“What… what exactly are you?”
“There’s no way… there’s absolutely no way!”
Demis and Roim already knew the answer. The realization piercing their minds left no room for doubt.
But they couldn’t accept it. They simply couldn’t believe what their eyes beheld.
“I am… Richard. Richard Auris Hill, Singer…”
As his glaring gray eyes flashed eerily, the martial artists understood.
“A veteran of combat.”
The truth of those words.
Here and now, the title of combat veteran had changed hands.
