RosyMiranto18: Yup. If IRL screws us writers, it's a hard recovery sometimes. Sado has been mentioned before :) As protags, the fishing rod will come to him... eventually. Well, Yakuza System is essentially buffing up his body as he progresses. Of course, actual training will toughen him up further. Ooooh, that's an interesting remark about Erik. I'll say the possibility is there for the time being. True, but Horobi has shown to be quite arrogant and probably takes pleasure in torturing Kress mentally, so the plan worked out in Kress's favor. Hikaru is just a devoted maid and assassin for her master, so she's sometimes irrational :D. It's more or less that the Student Council has that kind of power and influence, which was stated in Renne's Daydream from Reverie. With Renne's Student Council President powers, it was easy to approve those absences. Our Kitty president was busy with paperwork to be bothered with dealing with thugs, and Odette is hilariously enthusiastic with taking over Kress's job, which of course backfired lol. Yup, Kress gotta need to actually use that new gen orbment so he isn't completely reliant on his System. Oooh, the romantic scenes of these teens will be a sight to behold. Place your bets now- It's actually called the Bully Arena, but the damn sign on the cage ring is Bulls Arena. The signature black jacket of the crazy wolf man is there by default, don't worry. Anyways, thanks for the review as always, dear reader! May you enjoy this one as well!
CROSS-EVOL-X: It's good to be back, thanks! I'm looking forward to your thoughts about this one since great minds think alike! Some of what occurred kinda happened to what you predicted... but not exactly either lol. I won't get into detail about the trip to Langport, buuuut it'll be interesting at the very least. And yeah, those side chapters just to take a peek of international chaos will be hilarious. I can't wait to write Gao and Kress as well, but that also goes for writing the dynamic with Ashen and Aaron for Kress. The confession of our dear blonde heroine will occur earlier, of course. I'll keep the exact deets classified for now. Shizuna will be the one to know Kress and his family if anything else!
Guest: Thanks.
Koncor the great: Thanks for reading! Yup, Gotta love Walter... and the chaos he brings. I always found amusement in him starting from Daybreak/Kuro lol. It's a different universe entirely from my other fic. HOWEVER, Fate servants are there, so crossovers wouldn't be too strange :) I am considering a third story, actually! Details for that will probably be shared... a few months later. I can say that it will be a Crossbell story, though.
Leomitch: It's never fun to have Walter's attention and curiosity, but at least if he takes a good liking to you, he might help you out like how McBurn is amicable with Crow lol. Thanks for the reviews as always, great reader!
MiharuTousaka: Oh! Then, may you enjoy these chapters and enjoy the hype as we get nearer to Langport!
You guys better start praying for me that I don't suddenly go on hiatus again after releasing this chapter just a few days after releasing Chapter 8 (since that also happened last time lmfao). Anyway, gonna be an action-packed one today! Kinda... This was already pretty long, so I decided to end it in a perfect spot (I think anyway). But without further ado, enjoy Chapter 9, folks!
Edits for grammar and such will be done in my spare time, and all that!
An apex predator never lunges right away.
It circled. It watched. It waited.
There was something intoxicating about the tension in the air— the way prey twitched, the way it breathed faster and started to tremble beneath the weight of impending violence. The hunt was never just about the kill; it was the moments before. The coiled silence. The mounting dread. That delicious cocktail of fear and instinct, when the prey knew it was being hunted but still dared to hope it might escape.
Walter Kron was that kind of predator.
He didn't just fight— he feasted. On the nerves, the adrenaline, the slow realization that the one across from him was in over their head.
And now, standing inside the ring, shoes planted firm in bloodstained matting, he radiated that same apex energy. His grin was toothy, eyes gleaming with dangerous amusement as the crowd backed away from the cage in reverent awe.
The noise didn't matter. Only his target did. And unfortunately...
That was Kress.
"What the fuck are you doing here...?" The transmigrator spat between ragged breaths, his chest still rising and falling from the aftermath of his previous fights. "Don't tell me you came all this way to pick a fight against a teenager?"
"Ha! If there was a teenager actually worth a damn, then maybe," Walter's grin widened. He cracked his neck with a sharp tilt, then rolled his shoulders. "But I just happened to have some business down here. Then I hear a bunch of noise— people shouting about some 'Akuma' tearing up the ring. And imagine my surprise… when it turns out to be none other than Keisuke Hibiki himself."
Kress had to use all of his willpower not to shudder at how the name rolled off the Enforcer's tongue. He could practically feel the glee upon discovering new prey radiating from the martial artist.
A dangerous glint flickered across the eyes behind the shades, grin widening. "But you don't actually think you're strong after beating those weaklings, do you?"
The crowd, once loud, was now a low, nervous hum.
"I'll admit you got some skills with that baseball bat of yours. Heck, you're probably the strongest delinquent I've ever seen!" Walter's grin faded in an instant, piercing red eyes behind shades bore into Kress's soul. "But that's all you are— a delinquent, a punk, a thug, and whatever fifth-rate title works for you."
Even the audience of the arena couldn't help but wince at the severe words uttered by the Direwolf. Kress simply gritted his teeth, not understanding what he was going on about, yet it seemed like Walter wasn't finished as he circled around him.
"You've got precision, but you lack technique and finesse on top of your already lackluster strength. Don't confuse your brutality with power. In my eyes, you're just a rabid dog lashing out." Walter snorted at his own words, though the sneer was evident. "Unlike your old man, you can't brute-force your enemies with might you don't have. Yeah, you're cunning, capable of fighting dirty, and you've got some pretty wild instincts, but those could only get you so far without the strength to back it up."
"What's your point?!" Kress growled, patience wearing thin as he listened to the man ramble.
Before he could even blink, Walter was already in front of Kress with a single stride, maniacal smirk stretching across his face.
"Play a game with me."
"What...?"
"If you can land a hit or injure me in any way, I'll personally train you, kid." The Direwolf stated, a crazed smirk growing worse with each passing second. "If you don't agree... I'll kill you on the spot."
-MISSION CONDITION ADDED-
Land a hit on Walter the Direwolf! Leave a visible injury or two!
Bonus Rewards: 1 Elixir of Strength, 1 Elixir of Vitality, 1 Zeram Capsule, 1 Scroll of the Four Oni
Now, it's impossible for Kress to refuse, especially with the kind of opportunities presented to him.
Inhaling deeply, the dyed-blonde teen rolled his neck as he twirled his baseball bat around.
Then, he immediately swung across Walter's face.
But it didn't land.
As expected, the Enforcer simply leaned back to avoid the range of his attack before taking a step back, grin still plastered on his lips.
"I take it you agree?"
"You'll kill me if I don't, jackass. I might as well for the experience."
"That's what I'm talking about!"
Walter clapped once, loud and sharp, before sliding into stance, savage fighting spirit oozing from his frame.
"Don't worry. I'll do my best to hold back so... try not to die too fast, 'kay?" He then glanced at the announcer and spat, "Oi, start the match!"
The announcer stood frozen, hand half-raised toward the mic, sweat forming at his brow. His eyes darted between the grinning apex predator now standing in the ring and the young, battered delinquent still catching his breath.
"This… this is insane," He muttered, pulling his headset slightly askew as if it might help him process what was happening. "That's the Direwolf...!"
He looked down toward the edge of the ring where Hikaru stood, still statuesque in the flickering light, arms at her sides.
"Hey— uh, Hikaru? You sure you're fine letting your boss take on that monster in there?"
"He'll face monsters like the Direwolf eventually," Her response came quietly. Steady. Not a hint of wavering in her voice. "Or someone far worse. It's better he gets exposure now… than later."
But the announcer's gaze lowered...
Her right hand gripped the length of her scythe, still tucked at her hip. The chain coiled loosely at her side, but her knuckles were white. Trembling. Her grip so tight the metal links had started to creak under the pressure.
She was holding herself back.
It didn't take a genius to figure it out that every fiber of Hikaru's being screamed to step in, to drag Kress out of the ring, to rip Walter apart before he could even touch her Young Master.
But she didn't move. Didn't blink.
"I hope you know what you're doing..." The announcer sighed, rubbing his face with both hands. He stepped up to the mic, voice grim now, stripped of theatrics. "Attention, Bulls Arena! A final match has been issued."
The entire crowd fell silent once again.
"Stepping into the ring... standing over six feet of pure murder, Walter Kron the Direwolf has entered the ring!"
Gasps. Audible panic. A few even scrambled toward the exits. But those who remained were glued to the moment, unable to look away.
The announcer's voice dropped low, serious now.
"And opposing him… Completing nineteen matches with nineteen victories of the Gauntlet, the one and only Akuma!"
DING.
Kress's body snapped into motion. He surged forward as his bat slashed through the air in a wide arc, Menacing Aura erupting around him in a burst of invisible pressure.
But Walter didn't blink.
He walked forward, completely unaffected, calm and relaxed, while he cracked his knuckles with a grin.
Still moving, Kress adjusted his grip on the bat, then took a half-step back. Without hesitation, he twisted his body and launched it like a missile toward Walter's face.
The Enforcer merely tilted his head as it flew toward the cage wall, but that wasn't the end. Kress managed to slip behind the older man and caught the rebound. Whirling his body, momentum building, he swung.
Again, Walter just backed away with a simple step back. He swung again. Yet each swing missed.
Walter weaved through the attack, each movement served as a taunt. His feet barely lifted off the ground as he ghosted out of range with subtle, precise footwork. The crowd watched in stunned awe as Kress's offensive dance turned desperate.
Kress grunted, twisting his body into a powerful horizontal swing. The bat whistled through the air. Walter's head tilted— just enough to let the weapon slice through empty space.
"Too slow."
Kress didn't even see the kick coming.
Walter's leg slammed into his abdomen like a wrecking ball. The impact was clean, savage, and efficient. It didn't just knock the wind out of him. It sent him flying.
His feet left the mat. His bat fell out of his grasp. His vision blurred. He crashed into the cage wall with a sickening clang, rebounded, then hit the ground hard enough to bounce twice. Pain bloomed in every nerve like fire.
The crowd gasped as one.
Hikaru's hands flinched around her weapons.
Kress rolled onto his stomach, gasping like a fish yanked from water. His fingers twitched, instinctively seeking out his weapon, trying to move, but the muscles screamed with every attempt. His head pounded like a war drum.
Walter casually rolled his neck and turned back to face him. He didn't advance. He didn't need to. "C'mon, Akuma. That can't be all, can it? I haven't even warmed up yet!"
Kress's fingers curled into fists against the mat. Blood ran from the corner of his mouth. His body screamed for rest, screamed to stay down.
But his mind wouldn't let him.
You said you wanted to be stronger.
You can't expect to be saved every time you're in danger.
You can't rely on the Yakuza System forever.
So get up.
One knee. Then the other. He rose.
Shakily. Painfully. But he rose.
Walter's smirk widened into a grin that practically beamed. "Atta boy."
Kress stumbled back into a ready stance, legs spread, shoulders low, eyes wild. "I'm not done yet."
The martial artists let out a low whistle as he took in the sight of Kress steadying himself.
"Good, but tell me something, kid," His eyes gleamed behind those rounded shades. "How much of that fightin' spirit comes from the bat?"
Kress didn't answer— he couldn't. He was still catching his breath, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, one eye already swelling. Something deep in him cracked. A memory resurfaced— Horobi's needle piercing his hand, the helplessness, the humiliation as he was beaten into the dirt the moment he lost his grip on that same bat. He was about to reach for his bat when Walter beat him to it.
"Let's see what happens when I take away your toy."
His fingers coiled around the barrel of the bat with effortless speed. With a casual flick of his wrist, he hurled it out of the ring. It clattered against the cage wall and slid out of reach.
The Direwolf spread his arms wide as he flashed a smirk. "If you're pissed, then come at me!"
Growling, Kress shifted back to Thug Style. His stance shifted instantly— weight low, hands open, elbows tucked. His movement became tighter, more brutal, ready to gouge and break instead of swing and smash.
He lunged, but Walter didn't move. Not at first.
Kress threw the first strike— an elbow meant to shatter ribs. He followed up with a hooking palm, then a knee to the stomach.
Walter pivoted around the strikes like they were coming in slow motion.
Another elbow, another missed connection. A spinning backhand— empty space. Kress tried to fake with a low kick and lunge upward, but the Direwolf merely leaned aside, as casual as dodging raindrops
'Nothing's landing...!'
Walter's voice hummed with amusement. "You've got the aggression. I'll give you that."
A crack echoed as Walter's fist buried itself in Kress's stomach. The teen's breath came to a stop as the force folded him in half. He dropped to a knee, gasping for air, only for Walter to twist and deliver a brutal backhand to the side of his skull.
Kress hit the ground again, vision flashing white. And the audience winced as one.
'Shit...! I need to heal myself with a Tear, or I'm really dead meat!'
The transmigrator braved through the pain to withdraw his Xipha. But Walter didn't give him time to even do that.
A swift kick slammed into Kress's ribs, sending him rolling across the mat like a ragdoll. His body bounced once, then again, before coming to a halt near the cage wall.
Walter strolled toward him like a man on a casual walk, cracking his knuckles as he approached. "This isn't even worth as my warm-up. Are you sure you're the old man's kid?"
"Y-you talk… way too much…" Kress coughed, blood speckling his lips.
"Heh," Walter snorted. "Got to keep myself entertained when my opponent makes me wanna yawn."
Then came another kick. It was his chest this time. The sound was like thunder. Kress's body skidded across the ring again, back arching from the blow. For a moment, his body stopped moving entirely. For a moment, there was silence.
As soon as his fingers twitched, Walter swooped in and grabbed him by the throat, then threw him in the air before leaping himself to deliver a brutal axe kick as it sent the transmigrator crashing back onto the matted floor. The force behind the impact caused blood to spill.
From the crowd, a die-hard fan of the Akuma watched in horror as the delinquent tried to get up despite having been kicked back to the floor in such a brutal manner.
"Stay down," They whispered, almost pleading. "Just… stay down, please…"
"Dear Aidios..."
Bishop, who had come to see what the fuss was all about, stared at the scene with wide eyes behind his shades. Words couldn't even begin to describe the brutality of the sight before him. Walter Kron, the notorious Direwolf of Ouroboros, relentlessly dealt a salvo of punches and kicks to Kress, even when he was down. Every time Walter saw the boy's body make even the slightest twitch, he attacked. Whenever Kress tried to use an orbal art with his orbment, the Enforcer would ruin his parade by punishing him with punches and kicks at the last second.
Bishop knew he was far from a saint. He was a despicable lowlife in the criminal underworld, but the scene of a monster like Walter beating a kid in such a one-sided manner made his stomach churn.
He glanced in the direction where Hikaru stood beside the announcer. Her passive expression did nothing to hide her murderous intent, yet besides the tight grip she held on her weapons, she made no move to interfere.
Just... what was she thinking?
The informant turned his attention back to the cage ring, wincing as Kress got tossed around like a worn-out ragdoll.
He wasn't a very religious man, but just this once, he prayed to the Goddess that Kress wouldn't get himself killed.
From the second floor, an elderly man watched the barbaric beating from above with analytical eyes. He was bald, aged, and hunched, but his black eyes gleamed with knowing.
He didn't tear his gaze away from the dyed-blonde teen. Even as he was tossed across the ring. Even as he was beaten down to a bloody pulp. Even as he looked as if he was at death's door.
The old man caught a glimpse of it— a certain fire behind those brown eyes.
Spite.
Anger.
Hate.
But at the core of it all, it was defiance that shone the fiercest.
No matter how much of a beating he took, even if his own body was unresponsive, giving up was far from the boy's mind.
Perhaps he may be the one to...
"Show me, young Hibiki. Show me if you have the fire that the yakuza of old used to possess."
Everything hurt.
Every part of his body felt so numb.
Kress couldn't tell where the pain began and where it ended. His nerves screamed, a cacophony of agony roaring through his limbs, his ribs, his back, his skull. His body was no longer his. It was a battlefield, raw and broken, and every twitch sent jolts of fire racing through him.
And still, he moved.
His fingers curled against the mat, trembling and blood-slicked. His breath was ragged, shallow, barely even there. His left eye had swollen shut, and blood matted the strands of his dyed-blonde hair. One leg refused to answer the call, the other barely functioned, and yet… he moved.
Stay down.
It was his body begging for his brain to listen.
Please, just stay down.
The voice was there, low, pleading, half-conscious. It wasn't just pain anymore. It was fear. It was reason. It was the voice of survival, the voice that warned him he was one more hit away from dying.
But it wasn't enough.
Images flashed behind his eyes. The boy on the riverbank, clutching a fishing rod he wasn't even watching. Sado's quiet voice, soft and full of pity. His father's door, towering and cold, always locked. The words— "He's just busy with work" — played like a broken record. Then Horobi, laughing as he crumpled in the dirt, paralyzed and helpless.
The blurry silhouette of a large, hulking man floated above it all.
You wanted to know the truth, didn't you?
You wanted to find out what your father's planning.
You wanted to change something.
So move.
His own voice, perhaps even the original Keisuke's, overpowered any reason and survival instincts in the transmigrator.
Somehow, his leg bent beneath him. Blood poured from his lip as he rose for the umpteenth time. The light in the arena shimmered, fractured by the blood in his vision, but he could still see Walter walking away.
Relaxed. Dismissive. Like he'd already written Kress off. The bastard wasn't even looking at him anymore.
He didn't remember standing. One second, he was hunched over the mat, struggling to breathe. And the next, his muscles had snapped awake, moving with a speed and force that didn't belong to him. His vision blurred. His heartbeat surged. And something deep within him snapped loose.
The ring echoed with the screech of sudden movement.
Walter's eyes widened as he felt the shift in air pressure. He turned, but he was already there.
Kress was behind him.
The transmigrator's fist rocketed forward with every ounce of fury, hatred, and will he had left. He wasn't thinking. There was no strategy, no technique. Just pure, distilled instinct given form. Walter raised his arm in time to catch the punch— but the force behind it sent a shockwave rippling through the arena.
A sudden gust of wind burst outward as soon as contact was made, kicking up dust and rattling the cage. The crowd gasped in collective shock, and even Hikaru's jaw dropped.
Then came a sharp sting across Walter's cheek. It was shallow. A single red line. Barely visible.
But it was blood.
A cut.
The arena fell silent.
Walter blinked, his free hand slowly reaching to brush his cheek. He stared at the smear of red on his fingers, as if trying to confirm it was real. His smile didn't fade. Instead, it twisted, growing into one of feral satisfaction.
Kress stood opposite of him, chest heaving, fist still clenched in the Enforcer's grasp, body on the verge of collapse. His legs buckled slightly, his vision already fading to black as everything started to fade away. He would have fallen right then and there if it weren't for Walter catching him by the arm.
A low chuckle rumbled from the martial artist's chest, grin never fading.
"Well damn," He murmured. "You actually did it... You landed a hit."
The crowd lost it and went wild.
"The boy has a long way to go to match the power of a true Hibiki, but the fire in his eyes was just as fierce and defiant as his mother's."
Amidst the cheering crowd, dressed in an Eastern-suit of sorts in violet shade, a bespectacled man with fuchsia hair mused to himself, eyes narrowing as he watched the Hibiki assassin take her master back from the Direwolf's grasp.
Keisuke Hibiki may look and act like Torin Hibiki at first glance, but the man thought that he closely resembled the late Oni Princess more. The raging defiance in the young Hibiki's brown hues was akin to the blaze he had witnessed back in his youth when the yakuza had been more abundant— the kind of fire he only saw in that woman's eyes.
The bespectacled man's smile remained, contemplating his own thoughts, when a man in a similar attire to his own but in a muted color approached him.
"Sir," He greeted with a slight bow. "We have completed the preparations. Shall we make contact with the Spriggan?"
"That won't be necessary. He might be upset if we intrude on him this early in the afternoon. At the very least, let us allow him to finish his business at the waterworks." The fuchsia-haired replied, adjusting his glasses as he turned around. "I'll be the one to initiate contact. But for now, let us go."
"Of course, Sir." His grunt nodded, following after the shrewd-looking man.
The smile on his face didn't fade, even as he departed from the underbelly of the capital. Though he didn't throw one last glance at the young Hibiki, a certain expectation was brewing in the infamous White Orchid Dragon of Heiyue.
'If the Direwolf's any competent as an instructor, perhaps a new monster will be born?' The thought caused his lips to twitch further in amusement. 'I do wonder how he'll fare against Gaolang...'
The smell of something... medical filled his nose before the light reached his eyes.
Kress groaned softly, shifting against the coarse sheets beneath him, the pain dull but present, like a swarm of bruises had been arranged across his entire body with deliberate malice. His limbs protested, sore and heavy, but they moved, barely. The stiffness in his spine told him he hadn't been unconscious long.
The light above was dim, almost gentle, unlike the searing lights of the arena. The ceiling wasn't metal, nor were there screams or stomps reverberating through the floor. He was in a bed. An actual bed. Sheets. Clean air. He was alive.
"I'm not dead?" Kress croaked, voice hoarse and dry.
"Not even close, Young Master."
The voice came from the chair beside him. Hikaru sat beside his bed, posture upright and composed as always, but her fingers were clutched so tightly around the hem of her skirt that her knuckles were pale. Her pink eyes betrayed nothing… but her shaking hands told the truth she couldn't speak aloud.
Kress blinked slowly, adjusting his head on the pillow. Across the room, standing with arms crossed and leaning against the wall, was Bishop. The info broker's usual grin was gone, replaced by something far more grounded. Concern, perhaps. Or guilt.
"Two hours," Bishop said, his voice oddly soft. "You've only been out for two hours. Doc Gabriella said it should've been longer, like days longer, based on your injuries." He gestured vaguely at Kress's body. "You were messed up, man. Like real bad."
Kress exhaled shakily, a dull throb pulsing behind his eyes. "Feels like I got hit by a train..."
"More like got mauled by a wolf..." The info broker managed to quip, earning him a weak grin from Kress.
Kress gave a weak huff of laughter but then winced. Even his ribs complained at the effort. His eyes turned slightly to the side, just enough to see the faint flicker of light in the corner of his vision. His system had popped a notification.
-MISSION COMPLETE-
[Fight Through the Gauntlet!]
Rewards Obtained!
He stared at it, bloodied lips twitching slightly. That explained it. His body shouldn't have held together. Not after that. But his physical parameters must have increased, not just from all the fights, but now blessed by the System. His body might still be a wreck… but it wasn't broken.
He let out a breath and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the quiet of the infirmary settle around him. Then he turned his head toward Hikaru, slowly reaching out his hand.
She didn't hesitate. The moment his fingers brushed hers, she gripped his hand like a lifeline. Her hands were still trembling.
"I'm sorry for worrying the hell out of you," Kress whispered, barely louder than a breath. "But thank you."
She didn't say anything— just squeezed his hand tighter.
It said enough. And for once, he didn't mind the silence.
It sucked that a certain someone had to go and ruin it. The door slammed open with no warning. A familiar voice followed.
"Yo, kid!"
Walter Kron stepped into the room, that same damn smirk on his face. It lacked its usual bite, softened by something almost... foreign. Respect? He wasn't quite sure.
"Oh great..." Bishop facepalmed, grumbling.
Walter didn't care and approached the young heir, ignoring the info broker and the currently murderous maid at Kress's bedside.
"Your scrawny build aside, it seems like you're actually tougher than you look." He whistled low. "Then again, the fact that you were still able to move the way you did back then speaks for itself."
"Don't tell me you came all the way here just to provoke me when I'm already down," The transmigrator grumbled.
"Nah," Walter shrugged, sticking his hands in his pockets. "I came here to keep my end of the bargain and fix you up."
"Fix me up?" The dyed-blonde teen repeated, blinking.
"That's what I said," The Direwolf nodded his head before jabbing a thumb in Hikaru's direction. "You're understandably pissed, but you better keep that bloodlust of yours in check if you don't want to make your master and that info broker choke from your aura, kiddo."
Hikaru said nothing, but her eyes never left Walter's face. The usual cold poise of the maid was warped into something far more primal: sheer, unfiltered rage wrapped in frigid silence. Her pink eyes glittered with murder, and even Bishop, no stranger to the darkest parts of the Republic, shrank away from her presence.
Kress squeezed her hand again, gently this time. The pressure of his fingers snapped her out of it, if only slightly.
"It's okay," Her gaze flicked down to him, and in that moment, he offered the faintest smile—bruised and bloodied, but genuine. "I'm fine, Hikaru. Really."
Slowly, she relaxed. Her back was still too straight and her shoulders too stiff, but the killing intent that radiated from her began to dull, retracting. Still, her glare toward the Direwolf could've curdled blood.
Walter folded his arms, watching the interaction with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But I gotta say… You've got guts, kid. And you're quick to get it, too."
Kress arched a brow, voice hoarse. "Get what?"
"That the pain wasn't just for the hell of it." Walter's smirk deepened. "That little stunt at the end? The punch that cut me? Yeah, that told me everything I needed to know."
He reached into his pocket. To everyone's shock, he pulled out something small and cylindrical. Gleaming— and unmistakably rare.
Kress's breath caught. Hikaru's brows furrowed. Bishop's jaw practically dropped. "No way... is that a—?!"
"Zeram Capsule," Walter confirmed, twirling the item once in his fingers before tossing it toward the bed.
Kress caught it out of instinct, the familiar weight settling in his palm. For a long moment, he could only stare at it. It was pristine. Untouched. Real.
"But… why?" Kress asked, voice rough.
Walter shrugged like it was nothing. "Had it on me. Figured I'd use it after the match... Assuming you survived."
Kress didn't respond right away. He just stared at the rare medicine in thought. The transmigrator had planned to use his own Zeram Capsule when the coast was clear, but now that was spare. He had one he could use right now to get better.
More importantly, the gesture… the fact that Walter planned to help… meant something.
Was this really the same Direwolf he knew from the games? He seemed to have... mellowed a bit.
"You sure you're not secretly nice?" Bishop muttered, eyeing Walter like he'd grown a second head.
"I'm just a guy who's honoring bets. Don't go painting me soft now." The martial artist waved a hand lazily before turning toward the door again. "But don't think that makes things easy. If I'm training you, I ain't holding your hand. You want power, kid? You're gonna earn every inch of it."
Kress tightened his grip around the capsule and, despite the throbbing in his skull and the heaviness in his limbs, shoved the pill into his throat. The effects were instantaneous, as a cooling and comforting breeze washed through his insides.
The ache and throb of his injuries swelled and began to fade. Both Hikaru and Bishop stared at his recovering form in awe. With the cooling sensation beginning to fade, Kress looked good as new, minus the bandages on his figure.
He felt a smile play on his lips, turning his attention back to Walter. "I wouldn't want it any other way."
A deep rumble came from the older man, laughter filling the infirmary as he glanced over his shoulder.
"Rest up while you can. Training officially starts this evening. The sooner we start, the sooner you'll actually have some technique in your arsenal. And fair warning, kid—" He matched that smile with a grin. "By the time I'm done with you, you'll be a living weapon."
Walter sat hunched over the counter of the Dynamite Bar with one hand wrapped around a sweating glass. Whiskey swirled in the amber light, catching in the grooves of the heavy tumbler. His half-lidded crimson eyes, unreadable behind tinted lenses, watched the ice melt, lost in thought.
"You've been quite unusual today," came a voice, soft as silk and laced with something too polite to be sincerity.
Walter didn't even flinch. "In what way?"
Click.
The high, deliberate sound of violet heels echoed through the bar's wooden floor, slow and theatrical.
From the doorway, a figure approached. She was tall, composed, and wrapped in layers of dark elegance like an aristocratic specter.
Lucrezia Isselee, Enforcer No. III of Ouroboros— the Golden Butterfly, moved with the grace of a stage performer and the danger of a knife held just behind a curtain. The veil obscuring her eyes shimmered faintly beneath the lights as she took the stool beside him.
Walter didn't look her way, not even when the rich scent of her perfume—violets and wine, cloaked in iron—drifted into the space between them. His glass clinked softly against the counter as he took a slow sip.
"In many ways," Lucrezia repeated, voice like a deadly lullaby. "You're less of a beast and more like a bored old dog watching the world go by."
"I'm not that old," Walter muttered into his glass, the corner of his mouth twitching.
Her laugh was airy, faintly melodic—utterly devoid of warmth. "Oh, but you're certainly drinking like one."
The Direwolf snorted, finally setting the glass down and leaning forward on one arm. "Maybe I'm just curious."
"Curious?" Lucrezia echoed, tilting her head just slightly beneath the veil. "Whether or not that child will prove to be a worthy challenge in the future?"
"There's that..." Walter rolled his shoulder, then leaned back with a grunt. "But Torin's kid… Keisuke Hibiki. I wanted to see what kind of beast he'd turn into if I gave him the chance to gnash his teeth at something real."
"Mm. And what did you see?" The blonde asked, lips hidden beneath a smirk that couldn't be seen but was unmistakably felt.
He didn't answer immediately. His crimson eyes narrowed behind his shades, the ice in his whiskey catching a golden glint from the low-hanging lights above.
"Fire. It's buried under all that teenage swagger and recklessness… but it's there."
"Sentimental," she sang gently, voice dancing on the edge of mockery. "Are you taking him as a disciple because of your old flame?"
"Hah!" He didn't bother holding back his snort. "Now that's some leap in logic. Where the hell did you get that idea from?"
"Well, the Flying Swallow does have disciples. It makes one wonder if you wanted to give the whole master-student charade a shot because of her."
"I'm just testing the waters," Walter took another swig of his drink. "That's all."
Lucrezia's laughter was soft and silky. "Oh, Walter… you say that, and yet your eyes say otherwise. You're already wondering what sort of legacy you might leave behind."
"Legacy, huh? That's a fancy way of saying I'm getting soft."
"Perhaps," His fellow Enforcer mused, folding her hands neatly atop the bar. "But even beasts can mellow with age and experience."
Walter huffed at that, amusement curling at the edge of his lip like smoke. He swirled the remnants of his drink in the tumbler, watching the last sliver of ice melt into amber.
"Tch. Mellow, my ass. You make it sound like I'm halfway to retirement."
"Still," Lucrezia smiled, her tone drifting like incense. "I must admit I'm rather pleased. You didn't blindly beat the poor boy into the ground. That would've been terribly wasteful… and quite upsetting to a certain little kitten."
The Direwolf gave a scoffing laugh, low and sardonic. "Please. I didn't go easy on him because of her."
"Oh?" Lucrezia teased, voice lilting. "Then what stopped you from turning him into paste?"
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, you get me?" The familiar wolfish grin crossed his face. "If I wanted to kill him, he wouldn't have lasted ten seconds. But what I did? Every strike I gave that brat was intentional. Controlled. Enough to make him feel like shit but not enough to actually kill him despite what he might say."
"So considerate."
"He needed to be broken just enough to see what's on the other side of pain," Walter continued, finishing his drink and setting the glass down with a solid thunk. "He needed a wall to crash against. A wall that wouldn't give."
"How generous of you to be that wall."
"Don't twist it." Walter stood, stretching his arms with a grunt as his joints popped. "I'm not doing this out of charity. I've watched how he fought those scrubs in the ring. He's lacking a lot, but I can fix that. But if he wants strength, he's going to have to crawl through hell to get it."
The Golden Butterfly turned her face ever so slightly toward him. "Ah, but it's nice to see you didn't just throw him in without a chance. You let him bite. Just enough to taste what might be."
"Yeah…" He glanced over his shoulder, lips twitching. "And he bit hard."
"Careful, Walter," She warned teasingly. "Keep indulging that kind of potential, and you might just end up proud of him."
Walter chuckled, low and rumbling, already heading toward the exit.
"I'll be proud of him when he can knock me on my ass. Until then…" He paused at the door, casting a single look back, the red glint behind his lenses sharp as ever. "I'm going to make damn sure he earns every inch of what's coming."
The door creaked as it opened, letting in the faint hum of the Blacklight District.
The blonde-haired Enforcer let her gloved finger trace the rim of the empty glass, a pleased and amused smile playing on her lips.
"This assignment might be more exciting than I thought."
Seiden District, Edith – September 19, S. 1208
Despite not being held in the interrogation room for too long, Agnes never thought that she would get interrogated TWICE within a short span of time. It hasn't even been one month since the last interrogation!
It didn't help that she felt uneasy about the possibility of her true identity being the reason why they were released so quickly, either.
Fortunately, her mood would perk up when Van suggested they go to the movie theater after they completed their Spriggan 'training.'
"Do you mind if Kress comes along with us? I can pay for his ticket."
"That's your friend, right?" The little jaeger pumped her fists and smiled. "Oh, I hope he comes! The more, the merrier!"
The Spriggan raised a brow, amusement on his face. "I don't mind as long as he's cool with it, but any reason why you want the kid to come along?"
A sheepish smile appeared on the blonde's face, a faint pink glow on her cheeks.
"I wanted to thank him for helping me find a precious book of mine." She quickly waved her hands soon after. "T-There's no other reason why I want him to come!"
Van and Feri glanced at each other, unconvinced, but didn't say anything.
"All right. Ring him up, then." Van. "Oh, tell him that's going to be an action flick. He might have heard of it, too. Called Golden Blood."
The teen nodded her head, pulling out her orbment to call Kress's number. It rang twice before...
"Good day, Miss Claudel. May I inquire what you need of the Young Master?"
Hikaru...? What was she doing with Kress's—
Her eyes widened for a moment, realizing settling in. She almost forgot that Hikaru Aozaki was both Kress's childhood friend and his maid and bodyguard— the latter information only being a recent discovery after they had found the black-haired girl carrying a heavily injured Kress back in Creil.
Still... She didn't think they were close enough to be answering each other's orbments.
"Miss Claudel? Hello?"
"S-Sorry. Is Kress around? I have something to ask him, if it's alright."
"A moment, please."
There was a quiet shuffle, then Kress's voice crackled through the line.
"Hey, Agnes. What's up?"
"Hi, Kress," The blonde ignored the strange stares she got from Van and Feri before asking, "Are you finished with your errands today? I wanted to ask if you'd like to join me, Van, and Feri to go to the movie theater. We plan to watch Golden Blood."
"Golden Blood, huh? I think I saw the trailer on the jumbotron in the Tyrell District once or twice," She heard him mutter. "I'd like to come, but I still have something to do today. Sorry."
"O-Oh..." Even Agnes felt a bit taken aback by the sound of her own disappointment in her voice. She quickly shook her head to pull herself together. "It's alright! We can go another time! Maybe with the rest of the Student Council?"
"Mhm. Sounds good."
The call ended, but Agnes kept her orbment in hand for a few more seconds, her gaze dropping to the screen. Something about the way he said "I'd like to come" made her wonder what he was dealing with. Still, a small smile touched her lips as she tucked the device away.
There was always next time.
"Smiling even after getting shot down, huh?" Agnes turned to Van, who had a teasing smile on his face. "You're pretty strong, Agnes."
"Don't worry! I'm sure Arusha will grant you the opportunity to go to the movies together!" Feri assured, eyes twinkling with innocence and encouragement.
Agnes's face turned red in the blink of an eye. "W-What are you two going on about!?"
"Nothing, nothing," Van said innocently. "Just making an observation. You know, the kind that comes after watching a girl blush and beam while calling a guy to invite him to a movie."
"I wasn't—!"
"Don't worry. If it's any consolation, I'll buy some extra churros for you."
Agnes groaned into her hands. For the first time in her life, she genuinely considered finding a hole to crawl into and never come out.
"Are you finished with your business with Miss Claudel?"
"She just asked if I wanted to join her, Arkride, and that new part-timer to movies."
The gauze came off in slow, practiced loops, unwinding from around his torso with the whisper of soft fabric against skin. Hikaru's hands were steady, her touch as precise as ever, but even she paused for a moment to quietly examine the sight beneath the bandages.
Kress glanced down as well, exhaling in disbelief.
His skin, once mottled with bruises and lacerations, now looked clean—intact. There was still a faint tenderness beneath the surface, like the echo of pain rather than pain itself, but it was fading by the second. Only the jagged pink scars left behind by Horobi's needles remained.
"Damn," Bishop muttered nearby, leaning over slightly to get a better look. "It's like the injuries never even happened. I mean, I saw you take those hits, and I still can't believe this."
"This result is most likely why the Zeram Capsule is quite rare," Hikaru said softly, inspecting his shoulder before moving on to unfasten the wrapping on his ribs.
Kress flexed a hand, testing the stretch of his fingers, the roll of his wrist. Everything worked. No tightness. No swelling. Just the ghost of a body that had taken a hellish beating and lived to talk about it.
"Besides a bit of fatigue," he said slowly, voice still hoarse but steady, "I feel... fine. Like, really fine."
"You shouldn't," Bishop said, shaking his head with a small laugh. "You should be out cold for days, not talking about movies."
"Guess I really should thank that bastard later," The dyed-blonde teen got up from the bed and threw a few straights and kicks. "No broken arm. No broken leg. Nothing feels awkward at least."
"Good." His undercover assassin nodded in satisfaction, getting up as well to dispose of the wrappings. "Please stay here and rest as much as you can, Young Master. Bishop and I will bring you back something to eat."
"Wait, I'm coming with—?!"
The black-haired assassin didn't bother giving the info broker a chance to speak as she dragged him out of the infirmary.
Kress sweatdropped, but an unexpected relief came over him, sighing. With those two gone, he could finally check out his rewards in peace.
Accessing his Yakuza System interface, the transmigrator scrolled through his list of skills to check out his latest reward.
Ruthless Insight.
At first glance, it seemed like a combination of Cunning Thug and Predator's Eye, but it seemed to be far, far better in general and useful to both Thug and Slugger style instead of exclusively benefiting the former.
"A manifestation of battle-hardened instincts, huh...?" He muttered, reading through the description before his lips split into a grin. "Looks like this'll be really useful against Walter."
He closed the skills menu and moved on to his inventory menu, eyes falling to the four items he had received for completing his latest mission.
An Elixir of Strength, an Elixir of Vitality, a Zeram Capsule, and a Scroll of the Four Oni.
The thing Kress wanted to check out the most was definitely the scroll. He wondered what it could be. Would it unlock some special mission? Was it a skill scroll? Would he get a new S-Craft? Or was it some sort of power-up?
His speculation brought him excitement and dread. But as much as he wished to see what it was all about, those elixirs needed to be drunk now while he was still alone. If his hunch was right, they were invaluable resources to further strengthen himself.
Bringing out both elixirs, the transmigrator eyed the glowing cyan liquid contained in pristine glass with awe.
"Here goes nothing..."
He uncorked the first vial and downed the Strength Elixir in one gulp. The taste was surprisingly bitter, sharp, almost metallic, but he didn't have time to dwell on it. The second elixir followed right after, smoother but carrying an earthy aftertaste that lingered on his tongue.
The effects hit instantly.
A tremor ran through his limbs as if his muscles were awakening from a long slumber. His heart thudded once, then twice, before a rush of raw power surged through his veins. He felt his back arch involuntarily, hands curling into fists as invisible fire licked beneath his skin.
His muscles tensed, bulged, and shifted. The sensation was brief, maybe two seconds at most, but in that moment, it felt like his body was... reconstructing itself. Like every cell was being rebuilt from the ground up. Was this how his body felt when he received his natural strength boost reward while unconscious?
Then, just as fast as it came, the sensation passed.
He exhaled, chest rising and falling, sweat beading lightly on his brow. "Holy shit..."
Still shirtless, Kress glanced down at himself. Nothing looked different on the surface. His physique hadn't become absurdly bulky, nor had he grown a foot taller.
But something was different. There was a new density to his limbs, a strength coiled beneath the surface like a loaded spring.
Curious, Kress dropped into a crouch and shifted his balance forward. In one smooth, effortless motion, he pressed his weight into his palm and rose into a one-handed handstand.
No strain. No wobble. He held the pose with ease— something he had never experienced before.
"Okay... that's definitely new."
With a grin growing, he transitioned smoothly into a front flip, then a backflip, landing both with the grace of a seasoned gymnast. His movements were fluid and smooth. His body obeyed with a speed and sharpness it had never had before.
"Insane…" he whispered, flexing both hands with a laugh. "I feel totally refreshed and stronger!"
The door was still closed, and Hikaru and Bishop were nowhere to be seen. Good. He could ride this high a little longer.
He spun around and threw a couple of shadow jabs and kicks, testing the range of motion. The force behind even a casual strike made a sharp gust cut through the room.
Just as Kress was about to throw another punch in the air, his head snapped toward the door, sensing Hikaru and Bishop approaching... as well as an unfamiliar presence.
The door creaked open, and in one swift movement, Kress dropped into a neutral stance. One foot slid behind the other with practiced ease, disguising his posture just before the first voice hit.
"Yo-" Bishop called out, stepping inside. His eyes swept the room, then narrowed on the shirtless teen. "Why the hell haven't you put on a shirt yet?"
He coughed into his hand, trying to play it cool. "I was just, uh... warming up my muscles a little. Gotta make sure the system's running smooth!"
Hikaru followed close behind, silent as ever. In her hands was a sandwich, neatly wrapped in wax paper. Her eyes flicked from the light sweat on his skin to the still-set stance in his legs. Silent judgment.
"You've been exercising."
"Nope," Kress said far too quickly. "Just... stretching."
A long pause.
"Of course," Hikaru murmured, completely unconvinced, before stepping forward and offering the sandwich. "Please eat."
"Uh, thanks..." The dyed-blonde transmigrator then peeked over Hikaru's shoulder. "So... who's this gentleman?"
Her attention shifted behind her, to the third figure who had entered— an elderly man, small in stature but undeniably present. Bald, back hunched, and dressed in traditional Eastern garb that clung to him like faded history. His eyes, though half-lidded, shone with clarity and depth that didn't waver despite his apparent age.
"Someone important," Hikaru said calmly, folding her arms. "He requested an audience personally."
The old man stepped forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back, as though he had all the time in the world to speak.
"Ittetsu Kamonji. I am a horishi. A tattoo master. And I've come to ask you a question, young Keisuke Hibiki."
Kress immediately put his guard up, eyes narrowing slightly. "How the hell does a tattoo master know who I am?"
"Of course I would know the infamous son of one of my former clients," Ittetsu said, gaze unwavering beneath the weight of time and memory. "Torin Hibiki came to me once, many years ago. He asked me what it meant to wear one's soul on their skin."
Kress's brows drew together, his guard still partially up, but curiosity had already begun gnawing at the edge of his caution. "So you're saying my old man has a tattoo... from you?"
"One half of another," The horishi answered vaguely. "I etched his back with what his soul conveyed, but the one who finished the job and inked it with his very essence was my brother."
"That still doesn't answer why you're here for me."
"To offer you something," Ittetsu replied, tone even and composed. "A horimono. It's not mere ink, boy. A spirit-mark. A vow. A story. I wish to be the half that manifests what your soul conveys onto your back."
His eyes widened, and something deep in his mind finally went back to the forefront.
The special mission!
Was this the person the Yakuza System was talking about? If so...
But despite himself, Kress still had to ask, "Why are you offering me something like this?"
"Because you fought like a man with no skin," Ittetsu answered, his dark eyes glinting. "You bled for your truth. You stood when you should've stayed down. You don't yet know what it means to wear your soul on your back... but you will."
"And what would it even be?" Kress asked, stepping forward. "Some Eastern character? A dragon? A damn oni?"
"That depends," Ittetsu said softly. "The ink reveals itself through your soul. But given your bloodline... perhaps something monstrous. Or perhaps something divine. Only the needle will know."
The room fell into a strange stillness.
Kress stared at the old man, the rhythm of his thoughts colliding. This was insane. Tattoos weren't supposed to be life-changing, let alone tied to some spiritual legacy passed down through the Hibiki bloodline. And yet...
He remembered the feeling during the match. The moment his body gave out, but his will didn't. The punch he landed on Walter. The cut. The blood.
"Okay," Kress finally spoke. "Let's do it."
So... yeah, Kress got beaten up into a bloody pulp a week after having been beaten up by Horobi. But just as Walter had said, what doesn't kill you makes you stronger! And that is especially fitting for Kress now since he has the Yakuza System, fought 19 scrubs back-to-back, and now will be training with Walter to actually get some proper technique and boost his physical strength. Yeah, the Power Surge skills do increase his strength, but they're essentially multipliers. But with proper training, Kress will actually be quite strong, you'll see soon enough :). And yeah, despite having an Arts Driver, Walter really disrespected him by interrupting his casting lol. Now, anyone take bets what his tattoo will be? And yes, his tattoo will be finished in Langport. Another reason why he will go there besides Hibiki Clan shit going down in Aaron's turf.
Now that I'm done rambling with that, we're officially heading to Langport in the next chapter, boys and girls!
Also, here's some info about Kress's Arts Driver since it's actually an original Arts Driver. His Holo/Hollow Core, however, is Bathym. It will change into something more original due to... plot.
[Crash Arts Driver]
List of Arts:
Chrono Drive (Default Level 1)
Crescent Eye (Default Level 1)
Acid Cloud (Default Level 1)
La Crest (Holo Core Level 2)
Ideal Force (Holo Core Level 3)
Pluto's Nova (Holo Core Level 4)
Tear (Arts Plugin Slot)
KRESS'S SKILL CORNER:
-Ruthless Insight-
Enhances perception and reaction speed in close-quarters combat, allowing the user to exploit enemy movements and behavioral patterns for critical damage. Improves the user's combat IQ to better read their opponents.