I fired a right punch, leaning forward with all my weight behind it, determined to land a solid blow. Oren dodged adeptly, rolling his forearm over the punch to deflect its force. With a smirk, he commented, "It's increased." Undeterred, I stomped my left foot down, lowering my stance to prepare for the next move. I recoiled quickly, channeling my energy into a swift kick aimed towards his sternum. My foot flew towards him, poised to strike. However, Oren was quick on his feet and punched my foot, skillfully redirecting its trajectory. This was the moment I had been waiting for! Using the momentum from his deflection, I turned my body, letting my foot guide the flow of my power into a new attack.
----------------------------------------
Hashigana Style: Flying Stamp
- Switch attacking feet unpredictably and deliver a flying kick to your enemy.
----------------------------------------
I switched feet and jumped, aiming to surprise him with an unexpected attack. Oren raised his guard, palms open for some reason, a gesture that puzzled me. I threw the kick with everything I had, and it connected with his palm. Got him! I thought triumphantly, glancing at his face. He grimaced, a clear sign he took damage. Suddenly, I realized I couldn't move my foot. It's stuck! He had my foot firmly in his grasp. "You lost. Stop." he said, his voice masked but authoritative. I yelled defiantly, "Stop?! You barely have me in a hold!" Oren sighed, a sign of his growing impatience. Then, demonstrating insane strength, he threw me over his shoulder with ease. I crashed onto the ground on my back, the impact forcing me to spit out blood. He raised his fist to my face, a menacing reminder of his dominance. "See? You lost. Spare yourself the pain next time." Groaning in pain, I replied through gritted teeth, "I refuse... to accept that." Despite the throbbing in my body, I stood up and brushed myself off, determined not to show weakness.
He asked, "Why refuse? Don't deny reality." I stated, "Ever since you picked me up after I idiotically tried to help Damon, I haven't felt right." The memory of that day still haunted me, the way my body had crumpled under the pressure. Oren wiped his hands, signaling the end of our sparring session. "Most of your injuries are healed. It could just be your general physicality. If I were to try and grab your foot like that a month ago, you probably would've escaped," he said, his voice pragmatic. He walked over to the cubbies, rummaging through a clutter of items—cleaning supplies, water bottles, and miscellaneous gear. I watched him for a moment, feeling a pang of frustration. "It has to be that." I agreed, though part of me wondered if it was something deeper. "I just need more time to recover."
Oren continued to shuffle through the cubbies, finally pulling out a bundle of cleaning rags. "Don't participate in any tournaments for now," he advised, his tone leaving no room for argument. "well, I have to shut down the gym. Go take the bus home." I sighed, the reality of my situation sinking in. "Alright." I replied, walking over to where he stood. I carefully put away the gloves and gear.
Waiting at the bus stop, I glanced at my phone, the screen casting a pale glow in the evening light. Should I unblock him? I wondered, feeling a twinge of guilt. The idea nagged at me, but I decided to let it go for now and put on my headphones, letting the music drown out my thoughts. Eventually, the bus arrived, its brakes hissing as it came to a stop. I walked up the bus stairs, the metal steps clanging under my feet, and stepped inside. The bus driver, an older man with a tired expression, said, "Fare?" while sticking out his hand. His voice was barely audible over the music pumping through my headphones. Paper currency is on its way out, old man, I thought, but handed him two dollars anyway. He smiled, a brief flicker of warmth in his eyes. I moved down the aisle, weaving past a few passengers. Nobody of note. The bus was highly lit, and the hum of the engine combined with the rhythmic sway of the vehicle created a lulling atmosphere. I found a seat near the back, away from the others, and sank into it. The music calmed my worries over my fighting decay.
Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
The bus dropped me off a mile away from home, right on the edge of our property. Dad had warned me to be wary out here, claiming to have seen some big game on the trail cameras. I figured he was just going crazy, but his words echoed in my mind as I started the walk home. The path was dimly lit, shadows from the trees stretching across the ground. The crunch of gravel under my shoes was the only sound as I moved forward, my eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement. Despite my skepticism, I quickened my pace, eager to reach the safety of the house.
When I finally arrived, the house stood dark and silent, its silhouette stark against the dwindling sky. Nobody was home right now, so the lights were off, casting the place in an eerie stillness. I fished the house key out of my shirt pocket, the metal cool against my fingers, and unlocked the door. Stepping inside, I closed the door behind me, feeling a sense of relief wash over me as I turned on the kitchen lights. The familiar hum of the refrigerator and the soft glow of the lights were comforting. I realized I was hungry, my stomach rumbling in agreement. It was common sense to grab something to eat, right?
Turning on the stove, the blue flame flickering to life with a soft whoosh, I crouched to grab a pan from the drawer beneath the counter. The metal clanged slightly as I lifted it out and placed it carefully on the burner. Reaching for a tortilla from the nearby bag, I could already taste the delicious burrito I was about to make. Burrito, coming up! As the pan heated, I quickly assembled the ingredients—seasoned meat, cheese, beans, and a few veggies. The sizzle of the tortilla hitting the hot pan filled the kitchen with a mouth-watering aroma. I kept an eye on it, flipping it occasionally, until everything was perfectly cooked and melted together. Ten minutes later, the burrito was complete. Not without microwaving it for the extra heat, but still. It was a masterpiece of quick culinary effort, and I couldn’t wait to dig in.
I looked for a plate to eat it on, opening and closing cabinets until I found a clean one. Just as I was about to set my burrito down, a knock came from the front door. I paused, puzzled. It's not Dad, and it's not any of them. Is it Mom? They have keys, and I didn't lock it. I wonder.. I strolled to the door, the wooden floor creaking softly under my feet. I was about to look through the peephole when I stopped, a sense of unease creeping in. What are the chances it's not my family? My heart beat a little faster, but I brushed the thought aside, stupidly disregarding my instincts. With a deep breath, I turned the knob and pulled the door open.
Standing there was a tall, muscular man, his bald head gleaming under the porch light. He wore yellow military camo, his stance rigid. His arms hung by his sides, but he quickly moved one hand to the top of the door, not allowing it to close. He gave a smile that sent fright into me, "What's up, little man?"