Now he needs to find a way to use his surroundings. He doesn't have to fight the beast head-on. He just has to weaponize the arena.
His eyes flick and skim again, never resting too long, sweeping in arcs as if painting a mental grid. Each glance maps a part of the battlefield into place.
"I'm a boxer, and this is the ring. Let's get used to the ring first."
He is mapping, his mind assembles it all like a diagram, updated every second. His gaze darts left, then sharp right, collecting, inputing data into his memory in great detail.
And once the mapping completes, it feels like he can see everything, even what's behind him. It's spatial awareness, intuition honed through habit, training, and eyes that refuse to forget.
The beast charges again, raw force barreling forward. This time, Ryoma doesn't freeze. He pivots sharply, leading the Therowulf toward a jagged patch of uneven ground. In one fluid motion, he hurls a warped buckler into its path, not to hit but to distract.
He repeats it a few times. Like a seasoned boxer in the ring, he uses space like a weapon, feints like a jab, steering the beast exactly where he wants it.
Commentator A, curious, leaning in: "Wait a second! Is he actually… strategizing?"
Commentator B, flat and dismissive: "Oh please. He's just running in circles and throwing junk. Don't romanticize desperation."
The beast growls, jerks sideways, and catches a toe on something buried. Not enough to fall, but enough to stagger.
Then it lashes out at the debris, kicks a blade aside, swats a loose spear off its path. The madness in its eyes now mixes with frustration.
Then…
Beep!
***
[SYSTEM INTERFACE: SITUATIONAL AID ENGAGED]
→ Optimal weapon detected: Iron spear – 3 meters ahead.
→ Recommendation: Retrieve and engage.
→ Probability of effective strike: 61%
→ Risk: Moderate
Ryoma sees the spear, not far, and the system wants him to take it. But the beast lurches forward again, angling toward him.
"No… not the spear. I know what I need."
Ryoma bolts backward.
"And I know where it exactly is."
To the crowd, to the commentators, even to the system's risk register, it looks like retreat. But in Ryoma's mind, this is rhythm, footwork.
The beast charges like an over-eager striker, like an aggressive infighter. And Ryoma? Ryoma has been the counter-puncher his entire life.
He darts backward in a sharp diagonal, baiting, dragging the beast toward uneven ground he already mapped by memory.
Locking his focus on the beast's every movements, his eyes and the system work in tandem, reading the beast's rhythm and trajectory in a flash.
[SYSTEM INTERFACE: PREDICTION TRAJECTORY ACTIVE]
→ Target Momentum Detected
→ Primary Directional Flow: Forward Charge
→ Forelimb Impact Zones Calculated
Lines etch the air, one bright orange, bold and direct, a predictive path of the beast's incoming step.
And combine to his Instability Mark, the system marks every spot where the beast's paws are going to land. Then the timing hits.
With no time to aim, Ryoma lets instinct take over. He reaches down without even glancing, fingers closing around something half-buried in the blood-caked sand, a crude spiked club.
His arm arcs, fluid. Just like a counter hook with full shoulder rotation, he throws the spiked club at exactly on the beast's front trajectory.
The beast steps on it, with full body weight. A guttural snarl explodes from its throat as it stumbles, momentum breaking, weight buckling.
Commentator A, quiet, almost impressed: "…Okay. That wasn't luck."
Commentator B, grudgingly: "Tch. So the salaryman knows how to set a damn trap."
The beast shrieks. Its aggression has cracked. And Ryoma? He's just getting started.
"That's the thing about countering," he breathes. "The harder you come to me, the higher the cost you pay."
***
Ryoma tests the beast again, hurling stray weapons into its path, not to wound, but to watch. This time, the commentators fall silent, intrigued. So does the crowd.
It doesn't feel like a fight anymore. It's become something like an animal behaviorist demonstrating control in a live seminar.
After enough observation, Ryoma's Vision Grid system gives him a new assessment.
[Tactical Evaluation in Progress]
TARGET STATUS:
→ Coordination Slipping
→ Forward Dominance Pattern Detected
SUGGESTION:
Equip Medium-Range Weaponry
Suggested Tools:
→ Iron javelin (4m ahead, embedded in ashwood handle)
→ Steel-banded shield (left side, 2m proximity)
STRATEGY:
→ Maintain 6–8m distance
→ Target outer limb movement
→ Interrupt charge timing
Ryoma realizes it's not just giving him a path to victory. It's calculating survival, lowering risk, just like how he usually fought in the past.
"Maintaining distance, huh? Does it know that I was once an out-boxer?"
Yes, he's no knight, no fantasy warrior with a lifetime of swordplay behind him. And this isn't some training dummy. It's a monster ripped from a nightmare.
He grips the iron javelin in his right hand and slips his left arm through the worn leather straps of a dented shield.
"Yeah… let's take its right leg next," he thinks. "Trust me, I know exactly how it feels to lose one."
He taps the flat of the javelin against the shield twice. A loud clang echoes across the arena.
"C'mon," he taunts, "I know you're pissed."
The beast snarls, muscles tensing, head twitching side to side like a predator trying to silence a buzzing fly. It shifts weight onto its hind legs, ready to charge. Left paw injured, but the damn thing still wants him dead.
Ryoma braces, knees bent. The moment the beast nears, he veers sideways and throws his shield up, not a full block but an angled redirection.
The collision still rattles his bones. The sheer force of it tears the breath from his lungs. He stumbles, nearly loses footing.
But the beast? It crashes past him, snarling in frustration, groaning, as a javelin has just hit its shoulder. But it's not deep. With a violent shake, the beast dislodges the weapon. But the sting lingers, and now, it's angry.
Ryoma clutches his shield arm, gritting through his teeth. His fingers twitch, a deep ache spreading from the elbow down to his wrist.
"Okay… that hurt."
He picks another javelin, adjusts the shield grip, switching to a looser hold.
"One more like that and I'll be deflecting with my face."
The strategy wasn't wrong, just the timing. And for a true counter-puncher like him, those brief exchanges are more than enough to recalibrate for the next round.
The beast roars and charges once more. This time, Ryoma reads the rhythm, when its front legs tense, when its jaw pulls back before the burst of speed.
He times the deflection, not by strength, but by angle. It's just a whisper of redirection, the beast's claw grazes past his side, and in that exact moment, his right arm swings low and forward.
Thunk!
The javelin drives clean into the beast's front right leg. It howls, staggering back, weight faltering as blood sprays across the sand.
"You feeling lighter now?" Ryoma mutters, circling wide, moving like a true out-boxer, measured steps, eyes locked, keeping just out of reach.
He grabs his first javelin without breaking stride, taunts again with a sharp flick of his arm. But this time, the beast doesn't charge. It hesitates.
And the crowd shifts, the air thick with confusion.
Commentator A: "…Wait. Did it just hesitate?"
Commentator B: "He's a freaking office worker. That thing can't be afraid of him. Right?"
The beast's left paw has badly injured, so have its shoulder and right leg. But still, it gives it all, and retaliates.
The next charge comes with fury, wild with loud roar, but almost no momentum. To Ryoma's eyes, it no longer looks dangerous, no longer a threat.
He doesn't even need the shield, just a pivot around to the beast's blind side, and…
Thunk!
Like a clean cross-counter to a boxer's jaw, another javelin plants deep into the beast's rear left thigh.