Jurgen surged forward.
The space between him and his opponents collapsed in an instant, the air humming with the force of momentum.
Two figures met him head-on.
Impact.
A fist cleaved through the air. Jurgen tilted his head, just enough, the strike barely grazing his cheek, while his own fist shot forward. The first opponent twisted, elbow snapping back toward Jurgen's ribs.
He blocked it, forearm absorbing the strike, but the second adversary was already in motion.
A heel arced from the blind side, whistling past where Jurgen's head had been a heartbeat ago. His hand slammed against the ground, pivoting.
He spun, leg slicing wide.
One opponent leapt back, landing with grace; the other vaulted over the arc, knees tucked, landing soundlessly.
Coordination perfect.
Jurgen's tongue clicked sharply.
They pressed him instantly, no pause, no hesitation.
A storm of strikes erupted:
Punch. Kick. Elbow.
He weaved through it, shoulders twisting, steps sliding like polished steel, each dodge precise. A fist skimmed his jaw, another crashed into his guard, shoving him back just enough to feel the weight of their power.
He answered.
A straight punch fired from his fist, fast, almost cutting through the tension itself.
It grazed past, deflected outward, but left a gap. The first opponent's center was exposed.
Jurgen moved in.
"Too slow!"
The second opponent's knee drove into his stomach with crushing precision.
He crossed his arms; the shock rattled his ribs.
Before he could regain balance, a fist slammed down from above.
He slipped, barely.
The strike clipped his shoulder, driving him sideways, momentum twisting him like a blade in motion.
Jurgen exhaled sharply, planting his feet and forcing himself back into stance.
Two against one, he thought, his jaw tightening. And that fatty can't keep up.
His gaze flicked briefly toward Bubbles, too far, too slow.
That single lapse was all it took.
A presence surged into his blind spot, swift and unrelenting.
Jurgen twisted, but too late.
"Where the hell do you think you're looking at?" Blackwood's fist slammed into his face, driving him backward with merciless force. The impact cracked sharply, reverberating through his skull, and his body lifted slightly before crashing into concrete.
For a breath, silence fell, thick and heavy.
A single drop of red splashed against the ground, stark against the dust.
Then another.
Jurgen raised a hand to his nose.
Blood.
He wiped it away with his thumb, eyes narrowing as they swept upward once more.
Damn… the only thing keeping me alive right now is my combat skills. Without it , I'd already be finished.
His breathing evened.
His expression… settled.
But his eyes,
Sharper.
"…Heh."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at his lips.
Guess ill thank that stupid old man…whenever I see him again.
The air shifted.
He adjusted his stance.
This time.
He was prepared.
"L-Let me help, Jurgen-san…"
Bubbles' voice trembled from behind.
Jurgen did not turn.
"…Stay back, fatty."
His tone was low, measured, unyielding.
"You'll only get in the way."
A pause.
His gaze remained fixed ahead.
"The least I can do… is keep you from getting hurt."
Silence fell, thick and taut, as Jurgen's eyes swept over the two opponents before him.
Suddenly, a sound.
From the other opponent.
JIRO KUSUNOKI.
He pressed a hand to his mouth, struggling to contain it. His chest rose and fell, eyes glinting with restrained amusement.
"Hah… hah…" He stuttered, biting his lip.
Then it broke. A flood of laughter erupted from him. "Hahaha! You… you really are funny!" His voice reverberated across the arena, wild and uncontrollable, echoing against the expanse of the field.
He doubled over, clutching his stomach, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. "Hahaha… I can't… stop…"
"Oi… Blackwool… did he say keep him from getting hurt?"
Jiro's laughter lingered, slow and deliberate, curling through the air—infectious, unnerving, impossible to ignore.
"It's Blackwood," Buckler corrected, voice firm. "Hey, brat… you dare underestimate us? How disrespectful."
"Well…" Blackwood exhaled, letting the word hang like the promise of a storm yet to come.
Every muscle tensed. Every movement measured. The moment itself seemed to pause, waiting for him to act.
"We'll see how well you fare."
He let himself fall, inching downward with a deceptive calm, face grazing the floor as though surrendering to gravity itself. Every eye followed, breaths held, anticipating the moment of impact.
And then, he vanished.
Mid-fall, he disappeared as if swallowed by the air itself.
In the next heartbeat, his strike emerged from nowhere, a blur of motion too fast for the eye to trace.
The air tore and screamed around him, a violent ripple marking the space he had just occupied, leaving nothing but a haunting trace of motion in his wake.
Jurgen's eyes caught the motion, a blur darting from the upper left corner of his vision.
And then it vanished.
The strike followed almost instantly. A fist, sharp, fast, aimed straight for him.
Jurgen leaned back just in time. The impact grazed him, tearing through the air with a violent hiss.
The next collision came. Air cracked and whistled as their blows met again, each strike sparking tension in the space between them.
Fists, elbows, kicks, every motion precise, deliberate, lethal. Each attack flowed into the next, a relentless storm of movement.
His focus splintered.
Blackwood pressed forward without pause, a torrent of aggression that allowed no room for error.
Jurgen spun, narrowly blocking a high kick, countering with a strike of his own. But Jiro was already gone.
Nowhere.
His eyes darted across the battlefield, searching, scanning for even a hint of movement. Nothing.
He forced himself to recalibrate, to lock back into the rhythm of combat. He traded strikes with Blackwood again, each hit a study in timing and precision, but the pace was brutal, unyielding, and endless.
And then… something shifted.
A subtle misstep, barely noticeable. His footing betrayed him, though his instincts screamed it was stable.
Impossible.
The next blow came, a punch that should have connected. It didn't.
Missed.
That one imperfection was all Blackwood needed.
Without hesitation, he drove a brutal fist into Jurgen's chest.
The impact was cataclysmic. Air erupted from Jurgen's lungs in a ragged gasp, his body hurled backward like a ragdoll. Arms flailed, searching for purchase.
Concrete screamed beneath his boots as he skidded across the arena floor, sparks of dust and grit flying with each brutal slide. Pain blossomed through his chest, sharp and unrelenting, yet his eyes… his eyes still burned with defiance.