Rick had faced countless perils, so he puffed out his chest and charged forward.
"Courting death!"
Seeing Rick's defiance, the four men attacked viciously. The lead thug flipped his cloak to smother Rick's head, while two others lunged, their veined fists slamming into his abdomen.
Splurt. Wine and stomach acid erupted from Rick's mouth like a geyser. The vomit cleared his foggy mind slightly, but before he could retaliate, a boot struck his back, sending him sprawling as they swarmed to pummel him.
Ordered to avoid killing, they fought like street thugs, not transforming, aiming to beat him senseless. At first, Rick played the punching bag, but after enough blows, his instinctive combat reflexes kicked in. The unarmed techniques he'd drilled in Tanzan Ruins surged forth in his daze.
Yanking the cloak off his head, Rick planted a hand on the ground, legs lashing out in a blur that swept all four away. With space, his movements became fluid: grab, twist, snap. A crisp crack sounded as he dislocated the nearest man's arm. Ignoring the man's howls, Rick kicked him aside, spun to dodge a rear punch, then grabbed the attacker's forearm and executed a shoulder throw.
As they fell, Rick drove an elbow into the man's chest, shattering his sternum with the force of the throw. The man was beyond saving.
The tide turned in an instant. Before the others could react, Rick had killed one and maimed another—his brutality belying his drunkard's guise, revealing a battle-hardened veteran.
The remaining thugs finally tried to transform, but Rick struck first. A powerful kick smashed into the wall beside them, punching a hole. Such raw power spooked them, but they were seasoned fighters. One lunged to grapple Rick like an octopus, locking his joints.
"Ah, Thornton family jujutsu," the old man observed, eyes glinting.
But his marvel faded as Rick shuddered violently, joints popping ominously. Every muscle exploded with force, shaking the grappler off like a flea from a bull. Before the man could comprehend, Rick snagged his hair mid-air, ramming his nose into a knee that could shatter granite.
Crunch. The man's face caved in like a rotten melon, collapsing in a bloody heap.
From three-on-one to one-on-one in under forty seconds. The last thug lost all nerve, fleeing headlong into the alley without a backward glance.
But Rick was bloodthirsty. As the man fled, Rick leaned forward, hands hanging low, feet blurring into indistinct shadows. His form trailed afterimages, catching up in a heartbeat.
A scream echoed from the alley's depths. Rick crossed his arms before him, folding the man into a grotesque S-shape. The ferocity of his charge friction against the air, creating white smoke—proof of his terrifying speed.
"Ghost Step!～～～"
The old man couldn't stay calm. He shot to his feet, staring at Rick's back in shock. Others might not know, but he did: "Ghost Step" was once a forbidden Tanzan royal secret, rumored to be mastered only by Great Lord Arthur, who never taught it. So where had this kid learned it?
...
The next morning, blinding sunlight jolted Rick from his drunken slumber. Rubbing bleary eyes, he felt his head pound. Vague memories surfaced: drinking with an old man, maybe a fight—but the rest was a blur, including how he'd gotten home.
"Hangovers suck!"
Staggering from bed, he shuffled to the bathroom. Passing Anna's room, he peeked in: neatly made bed. She hadn't returned.
"Seriously, she stayed out all night..." Rick grumbled, entering the bathroom. Removing his mask, he saw purple bruises on his corner of mouth and eyebrow bone, the mask stained with vomit. The thought of sleeping in it made him gag, but his mirror reflection—wizened like bark, now with bruised eyes and mouth—was hardly better.
"Did I really fight last night?" Rubbing his temple, he recalled folding someone into an S-shape, breaking into a cold sweat. "Oh god, did I kill someone?!"
Panic rose—he didn't want another wanted charge. But he reasoned: I can't be that strong without transforming.
"Right, I'm not that badass. Hahaha... Must've been a dream. Cool move, though."
Remembering it was his first workday, he quickly washed up, donned his cleaned mask, and left. En route, he bought a newspaper. In strict Ison, crimes were rare; if he'd killed, it'd be front-page. Surprisingly, no criminal reports appeared.
"Just a dream after all."
Rick relaxed, crumpled the newspaper into a ball, and tossed it into a trash can before jogging toward the Pai Mansion.
Due to his hangover, Rick woke late. Though he sprinted to the mansion, he still arrived late. By the time he clipped on his badge and entered the training hall, his four colleagues were already reading the Pai Mansion's regulations and their future duties. The moment Rick burst in reeking of alcohol, all four scowled in displeasure.
The senior bodyguard instructing the rookies looked even grimmer. Arriving late on the first day, clearly hungover, reeking of cheap prostitute perfume, and sporting a bruised eye—all signs pointed to this masked man being a dissolute ruffian.
"Has Lord Gria gone mad? Hiring someone like this for the Pai Mansion, and at a time like this!"
Rick made such a poor first impression that the instructor tossed him a rulebook without a word, ordering him to read alone. Aware he'd overstepped, Rick obediently studied the outrageously complex regulations.
By the time he finished, his colleagues were practicing the bodyguards' formation—the Iron Barrel Formation—under the instructor's guidance. Being a bodyguard required more than just combat skills; a guard who only fights without protecting the master is unfit. The first lesson was learning to protect others and coordinate with teammates. Mastering the intricate footwork was key to the formation's effectiveness, but first came trusting one's comrades—a trust Rick was already denied.
Meeting the distrustful, scornful glances of his new colleagues, Rick seethed, especially as the instructor kept making veiled insults.
"Fuck, is that necessary? I was just late—no need to treat me like this!"
At lunch, Rick carried his tray to the dining hall, hoping to mend tensions during the meal. But the others snubbed him: the moment he sat, all four stood and walked away. This blatant rejection drove Rick to the edge. Forcing down the delicious food as if it were wax, he finally snapped and confronted them about where he'd offended them.
Their response was simple: "We won't trust our backs to a man who hides his face."
Their logic was sound, but Rick had his reason —Shust had left his face looking like a withered branch. Showing it would only deepen their rejection.
Alone in the Pai Mansion's red-carpeted corridor, Rick kicked over a corner trash can in frustration. "Fuck! What's the big deal, you idiots? I don't even want to work with you! Piss me off, and I'll take all of you on single-handed!"
But the trash can he'd carelessly kicked slammed into someone rounding the corner.
"For fuck's sake... this can't be happening..."
As a swarm of bodyguards surrounded the fallen figure, Rick realized he'd struck a VIP. He knew then: his career as a bodyguard was likely over.