Whoosh! Whoosh!
The sleek blur of motion sliced through the empty training courtyard as Remus Pete twisted his body in a liquid contortion, narrowly evading the bladed tip of Asazo's tail—twice. The pair danced like dueling phantoms under the amber glow of the overhead arc lamps, each strike echoing through the concrete hall with the sharp clarity of intent.
Remus, now deep into the third stage of the Killing Technique, had mastered more than brute strength. His body no longer moved like a man's—it moved like a machine tuned to divine rhythm. His control over muscular fiber and joint precision bordered on surgical. He could slow his breathing to an imperceptible whisper and even manipulate the contractions of his stomach lining or pulse the blood flow in his limbs for better maneuvering under strain.
But that wasn't all.
Unlike the more common "Evolution Technique" that Asazo favored, Remus had pushed his path into something rarer—a combat system focused on delivering double-layered strikes, what he and his mentor called the Second Blow. The idea wasn't just to hit the target—it was to collapse it from within, leaving no time for external trauma to reveal the internal rupture.
Upon reaching the third tier, Remus's strength and speed had reached the peak of what human biology could achieve without enhancement. But Asazo wasn't human in the conventional sense.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Their limbs collided mid-air like hammer and chisel. Asazo's style—sharp, angular, efficient—had developed around his mutation. His tail, long and serrated like the barb of a desert scorpion, struck in arcs and lunges too erratic for most opponents to predict. His movement was a calculated blend of martial grace and natural weaponry, and though he lacked Remus's technical discipline, his raw ferocity more than made up for it.
The air cracked again as Remus ducked, caught Asazo's tail mid-sweep—a bold move. In a single flowing motion, he twisted it around his forearm like a rope and lunged upward, elbow-first. His strike, aimed at Asazo's solar plexus, vibrated with the coiled force of the Second Blow.
Puff—!
Asazo teleported in a flash of silvery distortion, blinking into the air to dodge the hit. He landed on the opposite side of the sparring ring with a grin, his clawed toes skimming the concrete like a cat's.
"Violation," muttered James, watching from the sidelines, arms crossed, voice calm but cutting. "No teleporting in unarmed drills."
"Alright, that's enough," James added, stepping forward now. "You'll tear each other apart before breakfast."
Remus, sweat clinging to his dark undershirt, exhaled and offered a bow. "Master," he began, hesitating before continuing, "The fourth stage—of the technique—am I ready?"
James Howlett, once known in hushed government circles as Weapon Plus Zero, nodded thoughtfully. His eyes—feral, ancient, and burdened—glinted with something like pride.
"Soon. I've found some old Taoist scriptures tucked away in a monastery outside Beijing—very different interpretations of internal force. If the patterns match up with our theories, I might be able to design the next progression."
From behind them, Asazo raised his hand half-heartedly. "Yeah, uh... if we're done... I've got plans with Remus's guys. Poker night, y'know?"
He transformed into a streak of black mist, then popped into view beside Remus, bumping his shoulder.
Remus blinked, caught off-guard, then played along. "Yeah. Poker. Sure."
James waved them off—but not without one final look at Asazo, piercing and quiet.
"You know your father wouldn't want you hiding behind games forever," he said, voice low but thunderous.
Asazo, caught mid-smirk, faltered. He scratched his neck and gave a sheepish nod. "I know," he whispered. "Just... buying time."
He wasn't joking. He remembered that hand—the first time it reached for him, the first time it didn't flinch. That hand had saved him, once. He believed in it still.
---
The Howlett Estate had grown quieter in recent months, but not slower. Behind its ivy-covered walls and cobblestone pathways, business never truly stopped. With the 1920s in full swing—the Roaring Age, as the papers called it—the United States stood at the cusp of violent transformation.
James watched it all from the distance of a chess master. Capitalism, in its feverish sprawl, was mutating the very character of the nation. Agriculture had given way to factories, and steam had yielded to wire and spark. The car was king, and jazz poured from every open bar window. But beneath the golden surface, James saw the cracks forming.
He knew the price of unchecked ambition. He'd seen entire civilizations vanish under its weight.
That morning, under a ginkgo tree in the back garden, James sat with a thick, leather-bound volume in his lap—The Analects of Zhuangzi, translated by a European monk who clearly hadn't grasped the nuances. Still, there was truth in the attempt.
"Master Bruce," said Butler Casper, bowing slightly, "Mr. Wedell is here."
James nodded. He closed the book and looked up.
Herman Wedell, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, entered the garden with the poise of an old-money banker. He was the son of the formidable Tom Wedell, a name that once dictated oil prices with a word. But Herman was different—smarter, perhaps—but also a puppet.
Only a handful of men in the world knew the truth: the real decisions weren't made in D.C. or London. They were made here, under ginkgo trees, by men who'd seen centuries pass.
"What brings you out here, Herman?" James asked casually, reclining a little.
"There's... concern, from Washington," Herman said slowly. "President Wilson—he asked about the Howlett family's withdrawal from trade with Japan. Something about delayed permits and frozen funds?"
James raised a brow. "That a direct inquiry?"
"He didn't name you, sir. But we both know who they meant."
The iced tea clinked as James poured himself another glass, and his tone stayed even. "This isn't politics, Herman. It's business. Japan has violated principles. Their conduct in Manchuria was barbaric."
"But Master Howlett," Herman interjected carefully, "it's a matter of bilateral trade. Pulling out now—"
"We'll suffer some losses, sure," James interrupted, voice sharp. "But in five years, the next president will call it foresight. Mark my words."
Silence hung between them for a moment.
"Cut all manufacturing assistance. Shut down our procurement channels in Tokyo. Any tech, any patents, any investments. I want them out."
Herman adjusted his tie nervously but nodded. "Of course."
As the old banker left, James reopened his book, eyes drifting back to the translated ideograms. In the silence of the garden, the whispers of an empire crumbling under its own greed echoed faintly.
He had wars to prepare for—some with fists, others with ledgers.
---
The final few chapters will continue to unveil the machinery behind the curtain—the families, the secrets, and the designs on a world changing faster than it can understand itself. Buckle up.
(End of Chapter 55)