As their gazes locked, the nexus air thrummed with unspoken fury, Fistman's crimson-scarred face hovering inches from Taro's. Instead of a punch, a sharp, barking laugh tore from his throat—"Haha!"—the sound jagged and mocking. He spun away, his white robe fluttering like a tattered banner, turning to Kenriki and Kentaisho. "I thought he got it originally, but I couldn't have been more wrong," he sneered, displeasure lacing his gravelly voice. "He clings to that crutch like it's a limb itself—and for what, my friends? To protect." The word spat out like a curse, his broad shoulders tensing under the grime-streaked fabric.
Kenriki gray eyes narrowed, a malevolent glint flaring as he raked a gloved hand through his flowing red hair—strands whipping like wildfire, matted with sweat and crusted blood. "I see," he growled, his lean frame trembling with rage, scars crisscrossing his angular face. "So he's just like the rest of those other squads. There's obviously no place for him here with us." His brass knuckles gleamed, fresh crimson dripping from the metal.
Kentaisho matched the fury, his dark spiky hair jutting like blackened quills, each strand slick with grime, his amber eyes blazing beneath a broad, scarred brow, a broken nose adding a rugged edge. "Agreed," he snarled, his cracked leather gloves creaking. "If all he knows is to swing that goddamn sword around like a retard, then he should just go join some crappy squad like Mexus's."
Something inside Taro snapped. Veins bulged like steel cables across his neck, his green hair plastered to his sweat-slicked forehead, eyes narrowing to slits of frustration as fury radiated from his frame like heat from a forge. "What the hell did you say?" he roared, his voice a thunderclap that silenced the arena's hum. "Just because you fight like goddamn brutes, every squad more civilized than yours are shitty, insufficient bumpkins? Tsk, you guys must have damned fists for brains…" A bitter chuckle escaped, dark and edged. "…well, especially since your captain is Fistman."
Kentaisho and Kenriki reacted like coiled springs, their auras erupting—faint yellow lightning crackling around Kentaisho, a dark red shimmer flaring from Kenriki. They lunged, gripping Taro's shirt with iron fingers, the fabric tearing with a sharp rip.
"Oi, what'd you say about Fistman just now?" Kentaisho's voice boomed, his angular face twisted in angry resolve, blood flecking his lips.
"You must have a frickin' death wish," Kenriki hissed, his amber eyes blazing, blood boiling as his scarred features contorted, the air humming with static.
Kazuishi, her glasses fogging with worry, stepped between them, her slender frame tense, hands raised in a futile plea. "Why can't you guys go twenty minutes without trying to end each other? Please, no fighting—this is a tour, not an insult-and-kill session!" Her voice trembled with reason, a whisper against the storm.
The dispute raged beyond her words, auras clashing in a volatile dance—until Fistman's laughter cut through, a deep, rolling "Hahahahahaha!" that reverberated off the scarred gates. Taro, Kentaisho, and Kenriki froze, brows arching in unison, confusion rippling across their blood-streaked faces. What's so funny?
"Ha, you're still not too bad, Taro," Fistman said, his tone softening from the manic edge, though a shadow of disappointment lingered beneath. "You've definitely changed—that's for sure. But there's something you've still got that hasn't grown weaker: your fire. Look at it—it's as if you could defeat someone with determination and willpower alone. That's insane. If not for that stupid weapon and your insane loyalty to Mexus, I'd have scouted you out from any squad myself." His voice dipped, regret threading through the gravel. "Such… a wasted potential."
"Thanks, that sure means a bunch coming from you" Taro retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm, green eyes rolling as he adjusted his grip on the Reibone, the blade's weight grounding him.
Fistman chuckled, a low rumble, then leaned in, his crimson scar glinting under the twilight. "Tell you what, Taro? Let's have a fight—you versus Kentaisho. A simple, all-out battle. You use your Reibone, blasts, philosophy, and any other rich-titted stuff against my assistant. Whoever wins is stronger. How about it?"
"No problem here, sir," Kentaisho replied, his gray eyes lighting with zeal, fists clenching as if ready to shatter stone. "If for you, I would climb the tallest mountains and break the hardest walls with my fists."
Fistman smirked, a hint of approval flashing across his scarred face. "That's my boy." His head swiveled to Taro, voice dropping to a taunting growl. "What about you, dog? Gonna roll over and bark, or will you sink your teeth in and bite?"
"I acc—" Taro began, but Kazuishi's voice sliced through, sharp and urgent. "Stop this, Taro! I thought you'd grown past such pointless battles and trivialities. Listening to Fistman is no better than heeding those voices from earlier. It isn't even about winning or losing—accepting this challenge resets your progress. Then you really will just be… a wild dog."
Taro froze, the words sinking in like a cold wave. He closed his eyes, clearing his mind, the fury ebbing as he weighed her counsel. But before the silence stretched too long, Fistman interrupted, his voice a booming challenge. "Oi, oi, what a load of bollocks! I don't buy what you guys are talking about, but I ain't no voice—I'm a force, a force of fists, a Fistman, the Fistman. Now, boy, choose: will you forever bark like a weak little dog? Or will you sink your teeth in and bite? Choice is yours."
For a moment, Taro stood silent, lost in thought, the arena's tension coiling around him. Then he opened his eyes, calm settling over his green-haired features, and spoke with quiet resolve. "No."
"What?" Kentaisho, Kenriki, Fistman, and even Kazuishi chorused, their voices overlapping in stunned disbelief.
"She's right," Taro said, his tone steady, green eyes meeting Fistman's. "Me fighting you does prove I am a dog again. What would be the point of all I've learned? Would Mexus have told me this was wise? Would Tokkun have called it efficient? Would Tamako have said it betters my soul? And Kazuishi just told me it's not reasonable. It all goes down the drain if I accept. So no, Fistman, I do not accept." He bowed his head slightly, then turned to Kazuishi, grabbing her hand with a firm grip. She blinked, shocked by the maturity radiating from his sweat-streaked face.
"Hey, wait—you can't just walk away like that! Get back here!" Kentaisho shouted, his red hair flaring as he stepped forward, fists trembling.
"Should we go after him, sir?" Kenriki asked, his amber eyes alight with readiness, gloved hands flexing for orders.
Fistman raised a hand, his voice firm. "No, leave them alone." Kentaisho and Kenriki exchanged confused glances, but as they looked back, Fistman's scarred face bore a genuine smile, tinged with approval. "So after all this time, you actually grew, Taro? I guess… you really weren't a dog after all."