8:26 AM — Upper Monastery Chamber, Main Hall
The massive twin doors creaked open.
Dalton stepped through.
The monastery's grand chamber stretched before him — polished wood floors, incense smoke curling like threads of memory, sunlight slanting through high stained glass.
And waiting for him...
A Formation of monks — thirty or more.
All armed. Spears. Glaives. Guan daos. Katanas.
Their feet spread shoulder-width, calm but alert. A deadly stillness in their posture.
At the far end, on a raised dais, stood Head monk Urashima, Rika and other group of monks, right behind the first group.
Behind the dais, the mural loomed. A sweeping depiction of Samsara — with Buddha on one end and demons writhing on the other.
Dalton's eyes swept the chamber. Then he chuckled, low and amused.
"Monks with weapons?" he said, lips curled into a faint smirk. "Bit ironic, isn't it?
One of the monks, a grizzled man near the front, responded without hesitation.
"If it involves upholding Dharma, we do not shy away from drawing blades." he said.
Dalton's smirk widened, darker now. "Dharma, my ass," he muttered. "You're just Yakuza in monk costumes."
Monks now furious, without another word, surged forward.
Dalton didn't wait.
He lunged forward — no wasted movement, no hesitation. His strikes were swift, brutal, clean. A snap of the wrist, a twist of the elbow, a low hook to the ribs — and men dropped.
His hits cut open torsos again as if it was a blade being swung and not his fists.
One of the front-line monks staggered back, blood in his mouth, clutching his bleeding gut with wide eyes. His hands… there's no blade, but it feels like one. He thought.
More monks charged from the sides of the chamber, descending from the dais with fury in their steps.
Up on the dais, Rika watched the chaos unfold below.
Her eyes darted to the monk beside her.
"They're all Nero users, right? Why aren't they using their powers?"
The monk didn't take his eyes off the fight.
"We discipline ourselves here. The use of Nero is reserved. Controlled.
We only unleash it as a last resort."
He glanced at Urashima. Rika followed his gaze.
"Especially the younger monks. They need direct orders from the Head Monk to engage."
Urashima's eyes were fixed on the fight, he watched in silence as his students were being beaten to pulp.
Below them — fists thudded into ribs. Wood cracked. Bodies flew.
Dalton ducked under an incoming glaive, stepped in, palm-striked a monk's jaw so hard his body lifted an inch off the ground.
From the sidelines, bruised and groaning monks stared in disbelief, eyes locked on the man tearing through their men
"That strike… it didn't pierce his skull."
"They're just hands now… hands that hit harder than steel."
Another coughed, wiping blood from his mouth, vision hazy.
"What the hell is this guy?"
Suddenly— a voice.
Sharp. Firm. Cutting through the chaos like lightning.
"STEP BACK."
The entire hall froze.
A ripple of movement ran through the monks as they disengaged and retreated to the edges, breathing hard, weapons lowered. The air trembled with the silence that followed.
Dalton stood at the center of it all.
He didn't flinch. Didn't move. His back was facing the dais.
At the top of the dais, Urashima stood tall, unmoved.
Still calm. Still composed.
His left arm raised, index finger extended.
Right hand folded neatly behind his back.
He aimed it at Dalton. Slowly pushed the finger forward, as if pushing it against a wall.
For a moment, nothing.
Then—
BOOM.
A shockwave burst from the tip of his finger.
The air split. Floorboards shattered.
Dust exploded across the room.
Even some of the monks were blown off their feet, skidding across the polished wood like leaves caught in a typhoon.
The attack tore forward.
Everyone thought that Dalton was done for.
Suddenly a voice cut through just before the attack hit.
"Paa."
Silence followed. Dust hung in the air, swirling.
As it cleared—
There he stood.
Dalton. Unmoved. Unflinching. Not a scratch on him.
His right hand raised to his face level in a fingers crossed sign.
A hush fell over the hall.
From the sidelines, monks murmured among themselves.
"He… he took the Head Monk's Dragon Finger— head-on."
"No way. That was a direct hit…"
Then—movement.
The monks up on the dais stepped forward, faces tight with resolve.
Weapons raised. Gaze locked on Dalton.
Among them, Rika stood, katana in hand, clearly uncomfortable.
She leaned toward the monk beside her, half-whispering, "Hey… can I just get my gun back? I'm really not great with these…"
No answer. The monk was already leaping off the dais with the others, charging into the fray.
Rika sighed, shoulders dropping. "You know what? Screw it."
She followed them down the steps, katana unsheathed, sprinting into the chaos.
Dalton watched them close in.
He lowered his right hand — raised his left hand to the finger cross sign, now stretched out on his side near his waist level.
Calm. Sensing the incoming attackers.
"Choki."
(scissors.)
In a blink, dozens of Daltons scattered across the room.
Smooth, fast, lethal.
Each clone moved with ruthless precision, getting past weapons and guards.
Then—impact.
Monks dropped, their bodies punctured cleanly.
One hit, one hole. Unlike before.
These were not katana strikes; it felt as if being pierced by a lance.
And then—
Rika caught one.
She barely saw it.
Just a blur—
Then a hit, square to her stomach.
She gasped. Eyes wide.
And as the clone landed its attack — it began to unravel. Being disintegrated into short pieces of paper—floating upward like pale cherry blossom petals.
The room was filled with them now.
Paper petals drifting. Twisting. Covering the fallen.
The monks scattered across the floor — bruised, broken, breathless — looked on, dazed.
"That technique… It's like the Head Monk's Dragon Finger…"
One monk, bleeding from his temple, wheezed as he leaned against a column.
"No—it's different. Cleaner. More precise. As if the attack was… cut into multiple pieces."
All eyes turned to Dalton.
Still standing. Still unmoved. Not a single footstep taken.
The petals danced across the chamber, whispering around his figure.
Then—
A voice split the air.
"Enough of your shenanigans."
The tone was deep.
Cold. Unamused. Final.
A shadow loomed behind Dalton—massive, crawling, serpentine.
He turned slowly.
"Getting desperate, aren't you… Urashima?"
And there it was.
A dragon.
Golden. Towering.
Its body coiled around pillars, curled beneath the beams, forced to bend and fold just to fit inside the chamber.
Eyes like crimson red.
Paper petals surrounded the dragon.Smoke poured off its body in slow spirals filling the room.
It was not a summoned beast.
It was Urashima himself.
Caption:
Nero ability: "Dragon incarnate"