Hemlock's eyes narrowed, the shift subtle at first, but there was something heavier behind it now. The casual confidence from earlier didn't disappear, but it tightened, sharpened into something more focused. Slowly, he lifted his hand and bent his fingers inward, curling them into a claw-like shape.
At first, it looked like nothing. Then the change crept in.
A dark sheen spread across his skin, starting at his fingertips and crawling down toward his palm. It was almost as if metallic armor were covering his hand. It simply hardened, turning his hand into something that resembled solid iron.
Kenta's eyes tracked the transformation carefully. His posture didn't change much, but his attention sharpened.
"I've seen that before," he said, his voice casual as ever. "A few guys using the Iron Style."
He tilted his head slightly, studying the hand.
"Usually they pair it with a blade, though. Reinforce or expand the weapon, not themselves."
Hemlock flexed his fingers once. The sound wasn't quite metal and not quite flesh either. Something in between.
"I know the type," he replied. "I just don't care for it. I prefer using my fists. Someone like you should appreciate such an approach."
Kenta let out a quiet breath, then nodded once.
"Yeah," he said. "I do."
His stance shifted slightly, weight settling more evenly across his feet.
"Guess it's time to see which is stronger."
His eyes flicked briefly to Hemlock's iron-coated hand.
"Your iron... or my flesh."
Hemlock didn't answer. He didn't need to. The air between them tightened, like something invisible had been pulled to its limit. Then both of them moved. They shot forward at the same time, feet cracking lightly against the ground as distance collapsed in an instant. No hesitation. No feints. Just impact.
Their fists met head-on. The collision rang out like a struck bell, a sharp, heavy crack that echoed down the street. A burst of energy rippled outward from the point of contact, distorting the air for a split second. Sparks flickered, not quite fire, not quite light, dancing between iron and flesh as their power clashed.
For a brief moment, neither gave ground. Then both pushed off. They broke apart, sliding back a step each, boots scraping against stone. Kenta's lips curled into a small grin.
"Not bad."
He didn't wait. He stepped in again, faster this time, his body already turning as his leg came around in a clean, whipping arc. A roundhouse kick cut through the air, aimed straight for Hemlock's head.
Hemlock shifted just enough. The kick missed by inches as he leaned back, the wind of it brushing past his face. In the same motion, his iron-clad hand lashed out, fingers curved, aiming to rake across the back of Kenta's head.
Kenta dropped low. The claw sliced through empty air. He pivoted on his foot, circling behind Hemlock in one smooth motion. His arms wrapped in, locking around the man's waist as he dipped his hips. A suplex attempt.
Hemlock reacted instantly.
Instead of resisting the lift, he moved with it. His body twisted mid-motion, using Kenta's own momentum to flip out of the hold. He planted his feet behind him just as Kenta completed the motion, breaking free before the throw could fully connect.
They separated again. No pause in action as Kenta stepped in with a jab. Hemlock deflected with his iron hand. Kenta followed with a low sweep. Hemlock hopped back. Hemlock countered with a straight punch. Kenta tilted his head, letting it pass, then drove a palm toward his ribs.
Blocked. Countered. Shifted. The exchange picked up speed. Strikes blurred. Footwork tightened. Stone cracked faintly under shifting weight as both men adjusted, adapted, and pressed.
Minutes passed like seconds. Kenta's grin widened as the fight continued. There was a light in his eyes now, something almost boyish beneath the calm exterior.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath. "You've got something."
Hemlock said nothing. But his breathing had changed. Subtle at first. Then more noticeable.
Each exchange demanded more from him. His iron hand held firm, deflecting, striking, forcing Kenta to adjust, but the strain was building. His movements were still precise, still controlled, but there was an edge creeping in. Frustration.
Kenta slipped another strike, his shoulder brushing past Hemlock's chest as he pivoted away.
"You're getting tense," Kenta said lightly.
Hemlock's response came in the form of a sudden shift. He dropped low. His iron-clad fist slammed into the ground. Stone cracked. Dirt and dust burst upward in a sudden cloud, spreading between them in an instant, obscuring vision.
A cheap trick. But an effective one. Kenta's eyes narrowed slightly as the dust swallowed Hemlock's form. Then he felt it. A sharp intent cutting through the haze.
Hemlock surged forward, arm extended, iron claw aimed straight for Kenta's throat. Kenta moved before the strike reached him. His hand shot out, catching Hemlock's wrist mid-lunge. The impact thudded, stopping the attack cold. Without hesitation, Kenta stepped in close.
His elbow drove backward. It connected cleanly with the back of Hemlock's head.
A dull, heavy impact. Hemlock's body jerked forward, momentum breaking as he stumbled out of the dust cloud. Kenta didn't let him reset.
He followed immediately. Hemlock turned, just in time to see it. The spinning backfist came fast. It slammed into the side of his face, snapping his head to the side. Before his body could recover, Kenta was already in front of him.
Palm strikes. One. Two. Three.
They came in rapid succession, each one landing square against Hemlock's chest. The impacts were sharp and precise, each carrying enough force to drive him back a step.
Four. Five. Six. His breathing broke. Seven. Eight. Nine. His stance collapsed. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Each strike dug deeper, compressing air from his lungs, rattling his frame.
Hemlock tried to raise his arm, but it was far too late. Kenta's final strike came from below. A solid uppercut. It drove upward into Hemlock's chin with brutal force.
The impact lifted him clean off the ground. For a brief moment, he hung there, suspended. Then gravity took care of him. He crashed back down hard against the stone, the impact echoing through the street. Silence followed.
Hemlock's body twitched once as he tried to push himself up. His arm shifted. His head lifted slightly. Then it gave out. He collapsed back to the ground, completely still. Knocked out cold.
Kenta stood over him for a moment, exhaling lightly as the tension drained from his shoulders. The street had gone completely quiet.
The crowd that had gathered lingered at a distance, eyes wide, voices hushed. No one stepped forward. No one spoke loudly. Just staring.
Kenta glanced around at them, one brow lifting slightly.
"What?" he said. "What's everyone gawking at?"
That was enough. The spell broke. People turned quickly, muttering to themselves as they hurried off, eager to put distance between themselves and what they'd just witnessed. Within moments, the street began to clear, the quiet replaced by the distant shuffle of retreating footsteps.
Kenta watched them go for a second, then shrugged lightly. He looked back down.
Hemlock lay there, unconscious, his iron-clad hand slowly fading back to normal flesh. The tension that had defined him moments ago was gone, replaced by stillness. Kenta studied him for a brief moment. Then a small smile tugged at his lips.
"Not bad," he murmured.
His gaze shifted toward the alley, where the pile of unconscious men lay stacked in a messy heap.
"Your boys didn't do too great, though."
He rolled his shoulders once, loosening up.
"Let's let them enjoy their dirt nap."
Kenta bent down, grabbing Hemlock by the back of his clothing. With an easy motion, he hoisted him up and slung him over his shoulder like it was nothing.
"You and me," he added casually, turning back toward the inn, "we've got a lot to talk about."
Without another glance behind him, Kenta started walking.
Step by step, he made his way back toward The Jade Boar, Hemlock hanging limp over his shoulder, the street slowly returning to normal as if nothing had happened at all.