I'm also quite confident in my fists.
Those were Berald's last words before his towering frame left the ground like a leaf caught in a violent updraft. His body twisted midair—a perfect arc—and slammed into the training ground with a thunderous crash.
Boom!
"Ugh!" he groaned, wheezing as the impact knocked the wind out of him.
I let out a breath. That throw—it had come back to me naturally. The technique he had once taught me in another life. A life where I was the one lying sprawled on this floor, and Berald stood above me, laughing with that damn hearty grin, offering his hand every time I failed to get the move right.
"What's this? Already done?" I teased, raising an eyebrow.
Berald rolled over with a grunt and pushed himself to his feet, wincing. "Ugh… You've certainly gained some kind of enlightenment, alright!"
And just like that, the ground shook again.
Thud, thud, thud!
His two-meter-tall frame charged at me like a berserk rhinoceros, every step threatening to shatter the floor beneath us. I didn't move. I didn't need to.
"You think you can win just by overpowering me?" I muttered.
Instead of stepping aside or evading, I met his charge head-on. My body surged forward, instincts igniting like flame.
His fist came at me—a sledgehammer of mana-enhanced might.
Bang!
The moment our fists collided, the air between us screamed. It wasn't just the sound—it was the pressure, the shockwave. His expression twisted as his hand jerked back violently, pain etched across his face.
"Grrr!" Berald clutched his fist, staggering as he tried to steady himself.
I stepped forward, calm and cold.
"If the strongest always won," I said, "why would we need martial arts at all?"
Then it was my turn.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
My fists landed with relentless precision—one to his philtrum, two to the throat and solar plexus. A sharp kick crushed his stance from the knee, and my hand sliced upward like a blade, connecting with the top of his head.
"Ugh!" Berald yelped, hands flying to his scalp as he stumbled back, groaning like a wounded beast.
"Do you want more?"
"N-No! Stop! I surrender!"
He dropped to one knee, panting. The difference between us was… decisive.
Too decisive.
He blinked at me like he didn't recognize the person standing in front of him anymore. "Grr… Where did you learn techniques like that?"
I gave him a crooked smile. "…I wonder."
What could I even say?
That he had taught me these exact techniques? That I had once begged him for help, fists bloodied from failure, and he'd stayed up night after night fixing my stances? That I owed half my survival in the old world to him?
How do you explain that to someone who doesn't remember?
He tilted his head, letting out a resigned sigh. "Hmph. You don't have to tell me if it's hard to talk about."
Berald staggered upright and cracked his neck. "Still… I thought I was confident in my fists. Guess warrior department candidates really are on another level."
"No, that's not it."
He looked at me, confused. "Hm? What do you mean?"
"I bet if you lined up every single candidate in the warrior department, only a handful could beat you in pure hand-to-hand combat."
And I wasn't being generous.
He had talent. Natural, raw, absurd talent. His movements were instinctual, his power explosive. Even without proper training, he adjusted his breathing on the fly, adapted his rhythm, closed distances like a predator.
But he'd never stood a chance.
Because I was me.
Because the martial arts I wielded weren't just something you learned—they were something you survived to master.
"Still…" Berald muttered, scratching the back of his head, "…what you just used—are you sure that's martial arts?"
I blinked. "Huh?"
"It felt… different from what I know." His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "When our fists collided, it was like… something exploded. Your fist hadn't even reached mine, and I already felt the impact."
I remained silent.
"It wasn't just force. It was something else. It felt more like… magic?"
A small laugh escaped me. I couldn't help it.
So he sensed it.
"You're not wrong," I admitted. "The techniques I used—they aren't just martial arts. They're a fusion. A martial art designed to work with magic."
He stared at me. "A martial art that requires magic to use…? That's even possible?"
"It is. For someone who understands both."
Berald hummed in admiration. "What's the name of it?"
"The name?"
"Yeah. For a martial art that crazy, surely it's got some kind of badass name, right?"
I hesitated.
A memory surged to the surface.
-Hey, come to think of it, what's the name of this martial art?
-The name, you say?
-Yeah. You've cobbled it together from dozens of styles, but by now, it's your own.
-Well… I never really thought of a name for it.
-You what? You've made a martial art strong enough to kill archdemons and you didn't name it?
-Haha! If it needs a name, let's call it Berald's Martial Art!
-Are you joking? That's the name you're going with?
Isn't it cool? You're the only one who knows it besides me. You won't forget it, even after a thousand years, right?
-You idiot… don't talk like that. You're not dying anytime soon.
-Of course not! I'm going to live long enough to smash the Demon God's skull and then retire on a beach. With drinks!
-…Fine. Then we'll call it Berald's Martial Art. But only because I know you'll never let me forget it.
He died not long after that.
Crushed beneath the rubble of a cathedral set ablaze by a demon's curse. I remembered the sight of his lifeless body more clearly than my own reflection.
The way his lips were curled—not in pain, but in that stupid smile.
I clenched my fists unconsciously, veins pushing to the surface of my skin.
"Brother?" Berald asked, looking puzzled. "Something wrong?"
"…No," I said after a pause. "Just lost in thought."
"So then, what's the name of the martial art?" he asked again.
I stared at him.
At the living version of someone I had already mourned.
At the man who had once told me, with tears in his eyes and laughter in his voice, 'Even if I die, at least remember the name.'
I let out a small breath. "It doesn't have a name."
"What? That level of technique, and you didn't name it?"
"Martial arts are fringe," I replied. "Not everyone sees the value in naming something no one else will learn."
Berald scratched his head in disbelief. "Still, what a waste. You could've called it something epic. Like… Dragon Bone Fist or Flame Pulse Combat…"
I chuckled. "Maybe next time."
He'd forgotten. But I hadn't.
I'd never forget. Because he was the one who named it.
Berald's Martial Art.