“Well then…”
I, Ryuto Maclaine, rolled my shoulders and cracked my knuckles, the sharp pop of joints echoing in the silent air. My gaze slid slowly from the boy’s sandaled feet up to his delicate-looking face. He stood there, arms loose at his sides, expression unreadable. He had no armor or visible weapons, just a childlike frame and a maddening air of superiority.
“From what I can see, you’re not carrying any weapons, and your gear’s as light as it gets,” I said casually. “And yet, that kick I landed earlier did enough to draw blood. Which means you’re some kind of unarmed combat specialist, huh?”
He tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the observation. But I didn’t need his confirmation. I could already tell by the way his center of gravity shifted with each breath.
Still, he was misunderstanding something. Badly.
But that was fine, so I let him.
That earlier kick had given me a decent read on the density and resistance of his body, and while he was ridiculously tough, he wasn’t invincible.
I clenched my fists again, the skin tightening over my knuckles.
“Well,” I said with a smirk, “how about we warm up a little?”
The moment the words left my mouth, I lunged with raw force rather than feints or fancy footwork. I cocked my fist back and hurled myself forward, driving a straight right punch at the Demon God’s face.
He saw it coming. Hell, he welcomed it. His lips curled in delight, and instead of dodging, he dropped his head and met my punch with a counter headbutt.
BOOM.
Fist and skull collided with a sound like thunder cracking through the earth. The shockwave rippled through the air, hurling us both backward. I skidded across the ground, heels digging into the dirt to kill my momentum. The Demon God did the same, landing with a spray of loose stone beneath his boots.
“That one was a perfect draw,” he said, voice laced with exhilaration. “This might actually be fun. I may look like a kid, but I’m a demon, you know. Brawling’s in my blood. I’m a straight-up power type.”
“A headbutt that matches my full-power punch,” I muttered, adjusting my stance. “Okay then.”
He didn’t wait for a signal.
This time, the Demon God made the first move, charging in with speed that shattered the sound barrier. The whip-crack of displaced air chased his right hook, a blur of motion and malice.
I answered with my forehead.
We clashed mid-air again, fist to skull, and neither of us budged as our feet dug into the dirt like anchors. A beat passed, then another, before we both broke into wide, savage grins.
“For the first time in my life,” he said, eyes gleaming, “I think I’ve found someone I can go all out against.”
“Good,” I said, settling into a stance. “Let’s see how far this slugfest can go.”
He reared back—way back. His whole body twisted like a pitcher winding up for a fastball, his torso coiling with every ounce of muscle and magic he could muster. It was an absurd, telegraphed opening that screamed to be exploited, but I didn’t move.
I wasn’t about to ruin this with a cheap shot or a dodge because I knew exactly what was coming: a full-force, dead-center right straight just like mine.
I met it head-on, and as if fate itself had choreographed it, his punch drove straight into the bridge of my nose.
“Damn. That’s a hell of a hit.”
I clenched my jaw and dropped my center of gravity, forcing myself to stay upright. The impact rang through my skull like a gong, and a warm trickle of blood slid from my nostrils. The taste of iron flooded my mouth.
“My turn, right?”
He gave a calm nod, settling into position.
I crouched slowly and deliberately, not to bait him but to let him see it coming. I loaded every muscle in my legs, compressing like a spring, then snapped upward. The punch exploded from below like a cannon.
It was called a frog-leap uppercut for a reason.
The added momentum from my jump, amplified by the torque of my shoulders, sent my fist rocketing into the Demon God’s jaw. The blow connected with a meaty crack, and he was airborne, lifted clean off the ground. He spun in the air like a rag doll, twisting mid-flight to stick a landing. Or so it seemed.
His feet touched down with surprising grace, but then his knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed.
“Legs giving out already? You good?”
He flashed a strained smile, teeth red with blood. “Coming from the guy with a nosebleed, that’s rich.”
We laughed, both bloodied and smiling like maniacs, before closing the gap again with flexing fists and cracking joints. The next round began.
He came in low with a vicious body shot that I absorbed with a grunt to counter with a high roundhouse kick. He retaliated with a sweeping low kick to my thigh, but I powered through to grab him around the waist and slam him backward in a clean, brutal back-drop.
What followed was a pure slugfest where we traded strikes with reckless abandon and no guards, every hit thrown with full intent to kill.
“Shit, you hit like a wrecking ball,” he muttered, staggering from a clean shot to the gut.
“Glad to hear it,” I said, just before his hand latched onto my skull in a brutal iron claw. With a snarl, he hoisted me overhead and slammed me headfirst into the ground like a meteor, opening a crater several meters wide, the impact sending plumes of dust billowing into the air. Dirt rained down in clumps as I rose slowly to my feet, steady and unbroken.
“You’re tough. No, seriously tough,” the Demon God mused, his voice rich with amusement and disbelief. “You’ve taken my full-powered strikes head-on and all you’ve got to show for it is a bloody nose.”
Then, without warning, he began to offer a measured, echoing applause that cut through the settling dust.