The final monts of the dinner felt almost surreal. Vincent Giovanni's calm, asured voice echoed through the grand dining hall, but my mind was already far away—calculating the risks, weighing the costs. The Giovanni family, a shadowy force in this city, had just marked as their fighter in an underground deathmatch. The prototypes I'd co here for now seed secondary to the ga they were playing.
Vincent's smirk didn't falter as he raised his glass, his tone smooth as silk. "We'll make sure you're ready. But rember, Reynard, in this world, there's no room for second place. Do well, and the prototypes are yours."
I t his gaze and nodded. "I understand."
The rest of the team exchanged uneasy glances, but there was nothing more to be said. As we stood to leave, Vincent's eyes glinted, as if he knew exactly what was running through my head. "Good luck to you then. You'll need it."
I didn't respond. There was nothing more to add.
We were escorted from the mansion, the thick air of tension still hanging over us as the gates closed behind us. As the car drove off, I couldn't shake the gnawing feeling that I had just stepped into a ga I didn't fully understand. Every move would need to be calculated. And this ti, there wouldn't be a second chance.
The cabin in the woods was quiet—too quiet. The team had settled in around the worn wooden table, their faces grim. Milan was the first to break the silence, his eyes still scanning like he was trying to read a map that kept changing its routes.
"I can't believe you actually agreed to this," Milan said, shaking his head. "You've fought before, but a mafia tournant? That's a whole new level."
"I'm not here for the glory, Milan. Just the tech," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. But beneath the calm, my mind was racing. This wasn't just about prototypes anymore. This was a dangerous ga, one where the stakes were higher than I could have imagined.
Milan frowned, crossing his arms. "Even so, you don't have to do this. We could figure out another way."
"You heard Vincent," I replied. "This is the fastest way."
There was a long pause. Then, Milan spoke again, quieter this ti. "I'll help you train. We'll make sure you're ready. But you need to be prepared for what's coming. This tournant... it's not a simple fight."
I nodded. "I know."
The rest of the team seed to settle into agreent, though there were no smiles. They trusted —trusted that I could handle myself. But this wasn't a fight I could win with just skill. There were too many unknowns. And that terrified .
"We'll focus on combat," Milan continued. "We'll need to work on your reaction ti, your endurance. Speed and power. You've got the instincts, but this is going to be different. I'll help you refine your technique."
The others nodded. It was the only course of action we had. There was no turning back now.
When I walked through the door to my apartnt, the tension in my shoulders finally relaxed a little. Sienna, Camille, and Alexis were lounging on the couch, the room bathed in the soft glow of the lamps. They were unaware of what had just transpired, of the dangerous path I had just set foot on.
Sienna was the first to spot . She smiled warmly, standing up to greet with a hug that I didn't realize I needed until it happened.
"You're late," she teased, pulling back to look up at with that familiar, worried smile.
"Long eting," I said, keeping my tone light.
Camille's eyes flickered to with a mischievous glint. "A little too long for my liking," she said, half-joking, but there was sothing in her voice that made pause. It was lighter than usual, as though she could sense sothing was off but chose not to press.
Alexis, on the other hand, was silent. She glanced at , her expression unreadable, before looking away quickly. But there was an edge to her silence—a worry that I knew all too well.
I hesitated. The weight of my decision pressed down on , but I had to tell them. They deserved to know.
Sienna looked up at , sensing my hesitation. "What happened? You're looking... like you've made up your mind about sothing."
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "I made a deal."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Sienna's eyes widened, and she stepped back slightly, her smile faltering. "A deal? With who?"
"Vincent Giovanni, a mafia boss." I said quietly.
The ntion of the word 'mafia' hit like a thunderclap. Sienna's face went pale. "Reynard... that's... that's dangerous."
I nodded. "I know."
Camille's eyes narrowed. "Wait. What deal? You're not getting mixed up in mafia business, are you?"
I gave her a pointed look. "It's not like that. They have the prototypes we've been looking for. I agreed to fight for them."
Alexis' gaze flickered toward , her lips pressed tight. She didn't speak, but I could feel the weight of her concern. She knew more than the others. She knew about my ability to create skills—and how my system had a chance of killing .
I avoided her eyes. "I'm doing this for the tech. I'll be fine."
Sienna took a step closer, her hands resting on her hips. "You're not fine, Reynard. This isn't just so fight—it's a deathmatch. People die in these things."
I didn't respond imdiately. The fear in her voice—the worry—it hit harder than I'd expected.
Camille stepped forward, trying to lighten the mood. "He'll be fine. It's Rey we're talking about. Nobody beats him."
But I knew it wouldn't be that simple. It wasn't about being unbeatable. It was about surviving.
The day starts with the sharp clack of leather hitting leather. Milan's voice is a constant undercurrent to the rhythm of our training. He's eager to get started, his energy a stark contrast to my own calm composure. He begins by sizing up, pushing through the motions of jabs—those long, controlled strikes designed to keep an opponent at bay.
"Focus," Milan tells , tapping my guard lightly. "Your jab is your lifeline in a fight. You need to control the distance. If you're not careful, your opponent will walk right through it."
I nod, letting the words settle. With each jab, I feel the resistance of the air, the small shifts in my form that Milan critiques. My jab is solid, but it's not sharp enough for what's coming. I know this, and Milan can see it too. His eyes are narrowed, but there's a glimr of sothing else there—sothing that tells he's impressed by my calmness, even if I haven't quite hit the mark yet.
The room is thick with the sound of our movents. Milan moves around , adjusting my stance, guiding my form. But in those brief monts of respite, between rounds and critiques, my mind starts to wander. I can hear Milan's voice, but it fades into the background as the system quietly hums to life in my thoughts.
Database. The word flashes in my mind, and I activate it with a thought. The interface appears, and I begin pulling up footage. Hooks—those devastating, quick punches that could turn the tide of a fight in an instant. I need to refine them, make them sharper, more powerful.
My fingers flick through the options, and video after video flashes before : clips of seasoned fighters, their hooks landing with precision and speed. I study the movent in silence, the angles, the way they twist their bodies into the punch, the shift of weight that makes it land with such devastating force. I absorb every detail, committing the technique to mory.
The footage shifts again. I pause, zooming in on one fighter's motion—a quick hook followed by a step, a twist of the wrist at the peak of the strike. I see the way the punch arcs, the fluidity of the motion, and I realize sothing: it's not just the punch itself. It's the rhythm, the fluidity of movent, the smooth transition from defense to offense.
Milan calls back to reality with a sharp slap to my guard. "Focus, Reynard," he says again, his tone a little more insistent this ti.
I blink, feeling the pressure of the mont. I look up, catching Milan's gaze. He's watching carefully, no longer offering just technical advice, but sothing more. He's testing .
"Let's try sothing different," I murmur, stepping back a little to re-establish my stance.
I take a deep breath and refocus, closing my eyes for a mont. The footage lingers in my mind like a phantom, the movents sharp and clear. Slowly, I channel everything I've seen—everything I've learned—into my body. My muscles tense, and I can feel the weight of the punch coming together in my mind before it translates to my arm.
I throw a hook. It's not perfect, but it's sothing. The speed is there, but the power—there's still a slight lag.
Milan watches , head cocked, eyes narrowed. He doesn't speak at first, but I can see the judgnt forming.
Again.
I try again, throwing another hook. This ti, I channel more of the weight from my lower body into the strike. It feels better. The punch lands sharper, but it's still not as fast as it should be.
The minutes drag on. I throw hook after hook, trying to refine it, trying to find the right combination of speed, power, and control. Every movent is tested. Every angle adjusted.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I feel it. The shift in my body is subtle at first—a little smoother, a little faster. I throw another hook. My body twists with a little more fluidity, the punch snapping out faster than before.
And then I feel it: the power. It's there.
The system hums again, responding to my will. Hook Mastery (Lv.1) materializes, a notification in the corner of my vision. I've done it.
I throw another hook, this one almost instinctual. The speed is there, the power, and the precision. The punch feels right—fluid, sharp, and devastating.
Milan is silent for a mont, his eyes tracking the motion of my punch. When I finish, he finally speaks, his voice laced with surprise.
"That's... better," he says, almost too quietly. "Much better."
I nod, exhaling slowly. My mind is buzzing, but I feel a quiet satisfaction in the accomplishnt.
"Let's keep going," I tell him, already resetting into my stance. There's no ti to rest on my laurels—not yet. The tournant is coming, and I still have more to learn. But for now, I know I have one new weapon in my arsenal.
The weeks stretch on, the air in the gym thick with sweat and the echo of fists eting pads. Milan's teaching thod is relentless—each day, he pushes further. My jabs have improved significantly, the fluidity and precision sharpening with every session. By now, my jab skill was level 3, a significant leap from where I started.
Milan steps back, wiping the sweat from his brow, eyes glinting with approval. "You've got speed, Reynard," he says, his voice a mix of respect and surprise. "And you adapt quickly. That's a talent most don't have. If you can keep this up, you'll be tough to beat in the ring."
His words are a complint, but sothing in the way he speaks tells he still doesn't understand the true reason for my progress. He thinks it's natural talent, but it's not. It's the system. The ability to create skills, to push my body beyond its normal limits.
A part of wants to tell him the truth, to show him how the system works, how I can scan the techniques of others, copy them, create them, affect my physical body with them, but I keep the thought to myself. There's no need to reveal that sort of information. After all, there will always be one final barrier of trust between boss and subordinates. I wasn't going to cross that line with Milan.
Milan gets in his stance, signaling the start of the next round. I watch him carefully. This ti, I'm curious. As he cos at with a jab of his own, I activate Scan,trying to learn sothing new, anything useful that I can incorporate into my own fighting style.
But then, as I assess the information, a realization strikes .
There's nothing.
I read Milan's job interface again, but there's nothing—no hidden fighting skill that I can copy. His punches are precise, yes, but they lack the refinent that I've been training with. His skill set is focused elsewhere. His strength lies in other areas—teaching, leadership, and proficiency with firearms—but nothing physical, nothing useful in a close-quarters fight.
I deactivate Scan, a little surprised, though I should have expected this much. It's not like other people can create skills that affect their physical body. So, Milan is a good teacher, but his combat skills are—well, non-existent. He simply has expertise in martials arts through practice, not skills. I wonder how much further I'll get from him in this training.
"Co on, Reynard. I know you've got more in you!" Milan yells, pushing harder. He's not backing down, increasing the intensity of each sparring session. His eyes burn with a determination that matches my own.
And I push myself harder in response.
The sweat stings my eyes as I dodge a punch, countering with a jab that lands solidly. We move like this for hours—hit, block, counter—until my arms start to feel like lead. But I'm not stopping. I'm driven by sothing more now. Each jab I throw, each new technique I refine, brings closer to the fight of my life.
Milan watches, nodding in approval as my movents beco sharper. He's growing more impressed with my progress, but he still doesn't understand. He thinks this is just a result of my natural skill.
But it's the system—that is what's driving .
The days blur together, each session more grueling than the last. Milan pushes to my limits, and I rise to et each challenge. By the end of it, I know I'll be ready—not just for the tournant, but for whatever else the future has in store. Each session with Milan brings one step closer to mastery. And I'm determined to make it count.
By the end of the day, the warehouse is quiet, the echoes of punches and grunts fading into the background as I sit on the edge of the mat, drenched in sweat. I stare at the floor, trying to focus on my breathing, but my mind refuses to quiet. I can still feel the weight of my choices pressing down on , heavier than any physical strain I've endured in this training.
I thought this fight, this tournant, was the next step in my journey—a way to prove my worth, my strength. But deep down, I know it's more than that. The stakes are higher than just the glory of victory. There's a sense of foreboding in the pit of my stomach, a gut feeling that this is just one small piece in a far larger, far more dangerous puzzle. Every move I make feels like it's part of sothing bigger that I can't quite see yet, sothing I don't fully understand.
I close my eyes, trying to block out the doubt, but it lingers. The pressure to keep my abilities under wraps, to maintain the illusion of a normal fighter, weighs on like a heavy chain. Milan still believes my progress is all due to hard work and natural skill, and I've been playing along. But I know the truth—this isn't just about . This system, the power to create skills, to push my body beyond human limits, is far more dangerous than anyone realizes.
Camille, Sienna... they don't know either. How could I tell them? How could I explain the depths of what I can do, the risks involved in pushing these powers too far? Every ti I see the worry in Sienna's eyes or hear Camille's playful teasing, I feel the weight of the secret I carry. Though Alexis probably feels the worse. After all she has to keep this hidden and not being able to share pain always worsens it. But what could she do? If Sienna and Camille knew the truth—the consequences of the system, the danger it brings—they might never look at the sa way. They might try to stop from using it altogether.
And I don't know if I could live with that. I can't afford to stop now. Not with everything on the line.
I shake my head, trying to refocus. There's nothing I can do but keep moving forward. One foot in front of the other. But the uncertainty gnaws at , relentless and unforgiving.
I needed to take a walk, so I left the warehouse in an instant. The night air is cool against my skin as I step outside, the weight of the day lifting slightly as I take in the quiet solitude of the evening. I need to clear my head. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a soft glow over the city. The sounds of the world are muffled, distant, as if everything has been paused just for to think.
I wander, my footsteps slow and deliberate, until I find myself on the bridge. It's strange how things can circle back. I never expected to be here again—not after everything that happened the last ti.
I rember that night—the night I nearly ended it all. I had been on the edge, standing in the sa spot, feeling the weight of my failures, my mistakes, pushing toward the abyss. It was then that I received the Jobmaster title, and for the briefest mont, I thought everything had changed.
But now, here I am again. The night feels different, though. The sense of finality that once gripped is gone, replaced by sothing... more uncertain. More complex. I think back to everything I've gone through—the decisions I've made, the people I've hurt, the secrets I'm carrying—and I can't help but wonder if this is the calm before a storm.
I lean against the railing, looking out at the city below, my thoughts swirling. The sound of footsteps behind cuts through the quiet, sharp and deliberate.
"Reynard."
I freeze. That voice. Familiar, unsettling.
I turn, and standing there in the shadows is Mark. The last person I expected to see tonight.
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