Ryōma snarled, unleashing arcs of lightning that shredded through the illusions, vaporizing stone. But each time he destroyed one, two more appeared, laughing, clapping, whistling mockingly.
The real Hakari slipped behind him, lips curling into a smirk. A focused sound wave burst from his palm, vibrating like a cannon shot.
BOOM!
Ryōma staggered, the ground cracking beneath his feet. His eyes widened, then narrowed with fury. Lightning gathered in his hand, forming a jagged spear of pure electricity.
RYŌMA
You think tricks and toys can match true power? I'll burn the illusions away—and the son who wields them.
Hakari's smirk only widened.
HAKARI
Tricks? Nah. I call it style.
The ruins of the elder's chamber smoldered, stones cracked by lightning, air heavy with burnt ozone. Dylan stirred faintly on the floor, his vision blurring, but the sounds of fists colliding kept him tethered to consciousness.
Hakari landed with a swagger, his eyes half-lidded, shoulders relaxed like a man walking into a tavern brawl instead of a fight to the death.
Ryōma, his father, stepped forward. His stance was rigid, honed by decades of war. No wasted motion. No humor. His fists tightened, and the sparks around him dimmed—he would fight his son with discipline, not storms.
RYŌMA
You always hid behind jokes. Behind weakness. Let's see if you can stand when all you have are your fists.
Hakari cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders like a street brawler. His grin was sharp.
HAKARI
Finally. A proper father-son bonding moment. Shall we?
The first clash was explosive—Ryōma's fist drove straight for Hakari's jaw, but Hakari slipped aside, catching the arm and twisting, flipping into a playful kick at Ryōma's ribs. Ryōma blocked, his elbow like iron. The impact echoed through the chamber.
Hakari laughed, spinning back.
HAKARI
Still stiff as ever, old man. You gotta loosen up!
Ryōma answered with silence, fists blurring. A soldier's strikes: direct, brutal, efficient. Hakari ducked, dodged, and weaved, his movements almost dance-like. He clapped his hands mid-spin—snap—and the sound burst created a half-second stagger in Ryōma's rhythm.
Hakari slipped in and drove a knuckle into his father's ribs. Ryōma grunted but didn't falter—his counterpunch slammed into Hakari's chest, knocking the air from his lungs.
BOOM!
Hakari staggered back, coughing, but laughing through the pain.
HAKARI
Guess you've still got it…
They moved like shadows colliding—Hakari's flowing, illusionary footwork against Ryōma's soldier-perfect strikes.
Ryōma caught Hakari's wrist mid-swing, twisting with bone-snapping force. But Hakari blurred—an afterimage. Ryōma's eyes widened just as the real Hakari appeared behind him, smirking.
HAKARI
Light-bending, baby. You're punching ghosts.
He drove a fist toward Ryōma's spine, but Ryōma spun, catching him with a backfist charged faintly with static. Sparks burst as Hakari flew back into a cracked pillar. Dust rained down.
Hakari sat up, spitting blood, but his grin never faded.
HAKARI
…Gotta admit, Father, you hit like a thunderstorm.
Ryōma walked forward, his expression carved from stone. His knuckles crackled faintly, but his voice was calm.
RYŌMA
And you fight like a child. All flash. No spine.
Hakari pushed himself up, illusions flickering faintly around him—five Hakaris circling, each moving in chaotic rhythm. He raised his fists, tilting his head with that lazy smile.
HAKARI
Wrong, old man. I fight like me. And that's why you'll never land the final blow.
The chamber had rattled with each strike. Dylan, half-conscious against the rubble, blinked through blurred vision. He saw two silhouettes colliding—one steady as a blade, the other wild as a trickster fox.
Ryōma's knee hammered like war drums.
CRACK! Ryōma's knee slammed into Hakari's gut. The younger man folded, coughing, but twisted mid-fall, dragging his elbow across his father's chin. The impact staggered Ryōma for the first time.
Hakari dropped to one knee, clutching his stomach, laughing weakly.
HAKARI
Ow. You're really trying to kill me, aren't you?
Ryōma wiped blood from his lip, his expression unreadable.
RYŌMA
If you die here, you were never meant to inherit the Kinji blood.
Hakari raised his head, sweat stinging his eyes, grin still plastered on his face.
HAKARI
…Then I'll just have to cheat death. Like always.
Ryōma lunged, his fist arcing down. Hakari clapped his hands—snap!—and the chamber warped. Ryōma's punch cut through an illusion, his knuckles smashing stone instead of flesh.
Five Hakaris shimmered into being, circling like predators. Their voices overlapped, mocking, playful.
HAKARI (illusions, in unison)
Which one's the clown? Which one's the son? Which one's about to break your nose?
Ryōma's eyes narrowed. He stepped into stance, lightning crawling faintly over his arms. But when he struck, his blows passed through phantoms, his strikes splitting only air.
Behind him, the real Hakari appeared, dropping low into a sweeping kick. Ryōma's legs buckled for the first time. He rolled, lightning sparking in his palm, and countered with a brutal hook—only to meet another illusion.
The real Hakari was already on his blind side, driving an uppercut into Ryōma's jaw.
BOOM!
Ryōma stumbled back, static flickering wildly around him. For a heartbeat, the iron wall of the father cracked—his eyes widened, not from pain, but from recognition.
RYŌMA
…You've grown.
Hakari wiped blood from his nose, smirking with teeth stained red.
HAKARI
Told you, old man. You can't hit what isn't there.
Ryōma steadied himself, breathing deep. The sparks around his body dimmed, but his fists clenched tighter. He spoke with a low, dangerous calm.
RYŌMA
Enough games.
Hakari's grin faltered slightly. His illusions flickered, wavered… then solidified, sharper than before. Now, the copies moved like him, breathed like him, even staggered when struck. They weren't shadows anymore—they were near-perfect.
Hakari exhaled, sweat dripping, his playful grin curling back.
HAKARI
No, Father. The games are just beginning.
The chamber looked like a storm had passed through it. Pillars cracked, dust thickened the air, and scorch marks from Ryōma's lightning scarred the stone. Dylan, half-conscious, forced his eyes open just as the fight reached its peak.
Ryōma's fists thundered forward like hammers. Hakari staggered under each hit, his illusions flickering wildly. One copy burst into sparks, another shattered like glass. The father pressed, relentless.
But then—Hakari stumbled backward, feigning collapse. Ryōma lunged for the finishing blow.
SNAP!
The floor beneath Ryōma warped into a field of shimmering light. His eyes widened as three Hakaris erupted from the haze, attacking from every angle. For the first time, the clan head lost his footing. Hakari, the real one, slipped behind him and swung with all he had—an uppercut driven by desperation, luck, and sheer stubbornness.
CRACK!
Ryōma's head snapped back. He stumbled, fell to one knee. Silence fell over the chamber.
Hakari dropped beside him, panting, one arm wrapped around his ribs, laughing between coughs.
HAKARI
…Guess that makes me… top dog now, eh?
For a long moment, Ryōma said nothing. His chest rose and fell with controlled breaths. Then, slowly, a sound escaped him—not anger, not scorn, but a dry chuckle.
RYŌMA
Luck. Sheer, ridiculous luck. Just like your mother.
Hakari's smirk softened, though only slightly. He wiped sweat from his brow and leaned back against the wall.
HAKARI
Tch. Doesn't matter how you label it. A win's a win.
Ryōma stood, towering, but instead of raising a fist, he placed a hand on Hakari's shoulder. His grip was heavy, but steady—acknowledgment in its weight.
RYŌMA
You've earned my recognition. Not for strength. Not yet. But for spirit. You fight like a fool… yet even fools can topple giants.
Hakari blinked, for once too stunned to joke. Dylan, watching, felt a surge of relief before darkness claimed him again.
Ryōma straightened, turning toward the shadows at the far end of the chamber. His voice carried a weight deeper than pride—something closer to confession.
RYŌMA
The wolf you faced. The shadow that stalked you. They were mine. Tests. Nothing more.
Hakari tilted his head, half-grinning again.
HAKARI
Tests? You nearly got me and pretty boy here killed. Not the best way to say 'welcome home,' Father.
Ryōma ignored the jab, his eyes hard.
RYŌMA
And yet you survived. That means you're ready to hear the truth.
He turned, facing the chamber doors. Lightning flickered faintly along his frame, though not in rage—almost like a candle's last glow.
RYŌMA
Axel was here. He crossed these halls. But he did not stay. He passed around the clan, northwest. Toward the Forbidden Temple.
Hakari's grin faltered. His eyes sharpened, seriousness cutting through his lazy facade.
HAKARI
…The temple? You're serious?
Ryōma's expression was grim.
RYŌMA
There are places even the Kinji do not tread. That temple is one. If Axel seeks it… then his path will devour him—or reshape him.
Hakari tilted his head back, exhaling a long whistle.
HAKARI
Northwest, huh? Well. Guess the real fun's about to start.
The chamber quieted, filled only with the ragged breaths of warriors and the silent weight of the revelation.
Dylan stirred, whispering Axel's name before unconsciousness pulled him under fully. Hakari glanced at him, then back at his father.
For once, no joke came to his lips. Just a nod.