Systemism

Myul and his crew (7)

<You used Lucky Bag on Ken Nakamura!>

As Ken staggered back to his feet, Jun Hao's face twisted with both irritation and cold calculation.

Jun Hao: "Is this some kind of power-of-friendship nonsense?"

Without hesitation, Jun Hao unleashed his fury—a flurry of punches that were nothing short of lethal precision. Each hook, jab, and uppercut was not just powerful, but delivered with surgical accuracy, aimed to maximize damage while expending minimal effort. Every strike landed squarely on Ken's vital points—his ribs, jaw, and solar plexus—with devastating impact.

Blood sprayed from Ken's mouth, but Jun Hao's expression remained indifferent. He was a machine, his movements clean, efficient, almost disturbingly calm. His attacks weren't wild or chaotic—they were calculated, stripped of unnecessary flair, leaving nothing but raw brutality behind. His knuckles didn't waver, and his footwork kept him perfectly balanced, dancing around Ken as if this was a routine rather than a life-threatening fight.

Each blow felt heavier than the last, and yet, there was no wasted motion, no excess energy. It was clinical destruction. The sickening sound of bone against bone echoed with every strike, yet not a single muscle on Jun Hao's face twitched. His expression was serene as if he was simply going through the motions of what he was best at—inflicting pain, systematically dismantling his opponent.

Jun Hao: "It's time to go down."

Despite Ken's massive frame absorbing the assault, he was powerless against Jun Hao's precision. Ken swayed, barely holding onto consciousness, his body buckling under the relentless barrage. And yet, Jun Hao made it look effortless—spotless, even. He was in complete control, executing his strikes with a chilling grace.

With Ken on the verge of collapse, Jun Hao's cold eyes flicked toward Myul, who had begun to retreat, clearly sensing the danger.

Jun Hao: "Nietzsche told me to take you down..."

Not even sparing Ken a second glance, Jun Hao pivoted sharply, abandoning the wrecked body of his opponent. His movements were fluid, his stance never breaking as he shifted his focus entirely to Myul.

Myul: "Did Nietzsche really say that...?"

=======

Ken Nakamura...

Once again, he had failed.

He couldn't summon the strength to look up.

His comrade was fighting with an unwavering resolve, pouring every ounce of energy into each strike. Every punch, every kick reverberated through the air, resonating with the countless hours of relentless training and sacrifice that had shaped them. The force behind each blow shook the ground, a stark reminder of the chasm that separated their strengths.

And yet...

He couldn't keep up. He was falling behind, swallowed by the dust of each battle, a mere spectre in the shadow of those who stood taller and fought harder.

He kept losing...

One fight after another.

His crew had once rallied around him, their words filled with encouragement, their belief in him unwavering. But over time, that sympathy had curdled into something darker—resentment, contempt. What had he done to justify his place among them? Was he destined to be a burden, a relic of failure?