Upon seeing what the human had done, the brawler charged towards Vergil in fury.
Vergil exhaled slowly, his breath forming a small cloud in the air as he lowered his stance.
He drove his sword into the ground beside him, standing upright like a marked grave.
Then, without hesitation, he extended his hand towards the corpses.
"Authority of Predation."
From his palm, the jagged black mouths burst forth, slavering with hunger as they surged onto the corpses, tearing into them.
Flesh crunched. Organs devoured and their blood drained.
When the madness had faded, only their cracked armour and their skeletons remained.
And at the centre of each corpse was a blue crystal.
Vergil stepped forward, retrieving them with a quiet breath. A wave of raw energy surged into him, dense and heavy.
[User has gained 5 Strength and 6 Constitution points]
[User has gained...]
His muscles began to tense as his arms felt heavier. Their power had now beco a part of him.
He glanced down at his hands.
"...I’ve never fought with just these before." His knuckles clenched tightly. "But maybe it’s ti I try."
The last orc–the brawler–was already stomping forward, rage flaring in his eyes.
Vergil slowly raised his fists. His stance was awful, horrendous even.
"Let’s make this interesting."
His voice dropped, sharp and mocking:
"Where were you when I killed your shaman?"
A pulse of oppressive energy rolled from Vergil–an invitation. No, a command.
The orc brawler surged forward, boots tearing into the dirt as he closed the distance.
Vergil readied himself once more.
"Co on then. Let’s see what these hands can really do."
Vergil leaned forward, clenching his fists. His stats were higher, his strength undeniable
But he realised sothing as he threw the punch.
He had not a damn clue what he was doing.
His fists swung too wide, the orc stared, barely having to move to avoid it. His follow-up punch was even worse, his footwork was wrong to the core.
Instead of delivering a clean strike, he almost toppled forward to the ground.
The brawler, seeing his awkward movents only sneered.
WHAM!
The orc’s heavy fist crashed into Vergil’s ribs, sending a shockwave of pain throughout his body.
Vergil staggered backwards, clenching his jaw. "Tch... that actually hurt."
The orc wasn’t about to stop. Another first ca straight for him. Vergil got gus arms to block het the sheer force sent him sliding back
Bones, almost rattling like a sword beibg grinded.
Vergil tried again. A straight punch. A hook. Even a clumsy uppercut. Each attack was t with a dodge or a counter.
BAM!
A blow struck his shoulder.
CRACK!
Another slamd into his gut, knocking the breath from Vergil’s lungs.
The orc was a brawler and this was his domain. His movents were fluid, practiced and brutal. He could read every one of Vergil’s attacks before they were put into motion.
Vergil’s body was strong, yet his fighting skills betrayed him.
The orc’s fist collided with his jaw, snapping his head to the side as his vision began to flicker.
Vergil stumbled once more as he coughed up blood.
The orc grinned, rolling his shoulders as if to say is that all?
Vergil felt the energy surging through him–the slight shift in his body. His endurance was adapting and his toughness was evolving.
"Man..." he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "Fists really do suck, but I’ll need to get used to them. So I better do it now."
The brawler roared and charged again.
"I can keep going," Vergil gritted as his regeneration kicked in. "But let’s see how much I can take before I get the hang of it."
The fight was far from over.
It was hell–a brutal, grinding struggle that blurred the line between training and punishnt.
The orc brawler didn’t let up, and Vergil didn’t ask him to.
Fists t flesh and bones cracked against muscles. The forest around them echoed with the sound of each impact.
Over and over again, Vergil was thrown, knocked down, kicked, struck, and hurled like a ragdoll, but every ti, he got up.
Vergil’s body was strong, his regeneration reliable, but his technique was trash, raw, sloppy, and unrefined.
Each punch he threw had no finesse, no flow. His footwork was clumsy at best, and his stances inconsistent. He didn’t pivot right. He dropped his guard too often. He overcommitted with every strike.
The orc capitalised on every single mistake with brutal efficiency.
His body bruised and battered, bones fractured only to heal again, skin coated in dried and fresh blood.
The Verdant Regeneration Core worked constantly, veins glowing faintly green. His stamina still holding, but he could feel the slow pull, the steady drain like a ticking clock.
Still, Vergil didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He dragged himself upright, raising his fists once more.
"I’m not a prodigy." He muttered.
"Not a genius either... not soone whom people would place their hope in."
"Do you not want to win?" a voice echoed–it sounded familiar to him. But he couldn’t place it.
He spat blood before stumbling back and gripping a tree to hold himself upright. His eyes burned with refusal. "Of course I’ll win... but to do that."
"I’ll learn from you. So teach ."
He raised his wobbling bloody fists.
"One punch at a ti."
The dance of fists continued, chaotic and cruel.
And slowly–so slowly–Vergil’s movents began to shift. Not perfect. Not graceful. But sothing was clicking. Sothing was forming.
Through the pain, he carved progress.
The next clash was brutal.
The orc brawler’s fist crashed into Vergil’s jaw, sending him staggering to the side, his feet barely left him standing. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, and his right eye was starting to swell shut.
But sothing inside him changed.
As the brawler lunged again, Vergil didn’t just react–he moved.
His body tilted just enough. His heel twisted inward. His shoulder sank instead of bracing.
The blow grazed past him.
Vergil’s left arm lashed out, not a wild swing, but a redirected counter. He twisted his torso, letting the orc’s weight slide past, then drove a hamring elbow into the brawler’s exposed ribs.
Crack.
The orc grunted and staggered back.
Vergil blinked, stunned. His body felt... lighter. Sharper. Focused.
And then the system whispered into his ear.
[You have created a new Martial Art.]
The Lowest Form, The Highest Peak
[F-Growth]
A practical and instinct-driven form of unard combat, born from one not talented but driven to strive. Rooted in pure adaptability, this martial path lies in mimicry, learning by enduring and copying the opponent’s style mid-battle, and turning their strengths against them. It is the lowest form, mocked and discarded by others for destroying the users body. Yet with each battle, it evolves. And through relentless adaptation, it climbs–step by step–until it reaches the highest peak of martial mastery.
Proficiency: 1%
Vergil slowly straightened himself up as sweat glistened on his skin and bruises covered his body.
His lips curved as blood ran from his mouth.
"Finally... now we’re speaking the sa language!"
The orc brawler roared and charged again, furious.
And this ti, Vergil didn’t just brace for the hit–he stepped in.
Their fists t mid-air.
The real fight was just beginning.
Vergil’s foot slid back, shoulder lowered, arms raised–but this ti, there was intention behind every movent.
No longer flailing. No longer mimicking the brawler’s brutal swings.
His stance had now gained a grounded core. He bent his knees enought to spring, his hips began to rotate raw power through his strikes.
His hands open slightly, ready to redirect or strike.
It was still rough, still raw, but there was now clarity and purpose.
The brawler charged once more, snarling but Vergil t him head on–pivoting around his punch before striking the orc’s ribs once more.
Crack.
"You’ve beco slower teacher," Vergils eyes widened.
Another fist grazed his cheek. Another pounded into his side. He staggered, spat blood, but he didn’t stop smiling.
He wiped his lip with the back of his hand. "You hit like a mountain. But now... I’m learning how to climb."
He bounced slightly on his feet, stance low and coiled.
This was different.
Every blow he took now taught him sothing–about balance, spacing, montum. About pain and reaction. His hands moved more smoothly.
His torso moved along with the strikes, eyes following the orc’s shoulders, not the fists.
Vergil chuckled to himself as the two circled each other again.
"I’ve never liked using my fists," he said with a laugh.
Boom. A brutal hook grazed his ribs, but he rolled with it.
"But this..." he let out a breath that sounded like a chuckle. "This is fun."
For the first ti, Vergil wasn’t just fighting.
The boy was enjoying himself.
For the first ti in years.
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