A Fixed Image in the Fog

Near noon, the old market in Tower City's southern district was still bustling. Cooking fumes, vendors' cries, and the horns of three-wheeled carts blended into a chaotic yet vivid picture of everyday life.

Ryan, dressed in a gray trench coat with a backpack slung over his shoulder, was passing through the mouth of an alley. He had only come to the bookstore to pick up an atlas he had ordered, but he had unexpectedly passed by this little street he had not walked down in a long time.

Just as he stopped outside an old-fashioned hardware and sundries shop, a sharp, abrupt shout erupted from inside—

"Don't move! Hand over the money!"

That was followed by the clatter of bottles and jars, the dull crash of plastic baskets toppling over, and a low snarl. "I said hurry up and pack it! Stop wasting time!"

Ryan's brow sank as his body instinctively pressed sideways against the wall.

His gaze followed the half-open rolling shutter into the shop—two men were using metal rods to intimidate the owner. A cash box and shards of glass lay scattered across the floor. The old surveillance camera in the corner had been covered with a cloth bag, while the owner cowered behind the counter, terror written all over his face.

Armed robbery. The real thing.

The first thing that flashed through Ryan's mind was three words:

Criteria for intervention?

He had once set a training rule for himself: "Do not act unless it is a life-threatening crisis. Do not move unless control and suppression are possible."

Yet at that moment, his feet refused to obey him. Something in his chest seemed to push him forward.

It was not impulse, but—an inability to tolerate watching the weak get hurt when the situation was within his control.

He exhaled and took half a step back, swiftly scanning his surroundings. There was no one on the street outside for the moment. Behind a trash bin were bags of lime left over from wall repairs two days ago. He had spare gloves and an old metal cord clasp on him. The exit route was a narrow one-way alley, and there was no way to circle around through the back door.

Time was tight. He moved.

He grabbed the bag of lime powder and quickly pinched it into a smaller packet, sealing it with a folded corner. Throughout the process, he made sure not to expose any lime, avoiding any visual warning.

Then he shifted beneath the awning to the left of the entrance, slowly approaching the blind spot by the doorway.

Inside, the thinner robber urged his partner, "Hurry up! Hurry!"

The other man was growing impatient. He yanked open the bag and pointed his rod at the owner. "Pack it faster!"

Both of them were fully focused on the cash register.

The moment had come.

Ryan lowered his body and darted out from the corner in a single step, throwing the lime packet in a diagonal arc that struck the shelf beside the target's head with perfect accuracy—

Bang!

The packet burst, and white mist immediately filled the air as lime particles flooded the shop.

"Cough—what the hell?!" One of them instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes.

Ryan was already inside. Keeping close to the wall, he rushed forward and slid through the cluttered gap to the back of the nearest robber.

His ankle twisted sideways, his knee drew inward—

Sweep-Step Breach, Rising Knee Crash.

Before the man could even see where Ryan was, he was tripped to the ground, the rod flying from his hand.

The other robber realized someone had broken in and roared as he swung his rod down.

Ryan had already judged the man's dominant hand and striking habits. He ducked forward with the motion, rotated his left shoulder, and flicked the side of the rod with his right hand—the wooden shaft lost its momentum and swept past his cheek. He caught it on the spot, spun with the force, and drove it back against the man's wrist joint.

Crack. The man's wrist gave out, and he staggered back with a cry of pain.

In less than eight seconds, both men had been pinned to the ground. Ryan stood in the center of the shop, lime dust already smeared across his face, yet he remained perfectly composed.

People outside came running at the noise and gasped when they saw the scene inside.

"Who threw that just now?"

"That kid! He took them down!"

"What kid—his reactions were just..."

The owner braced himself against the counter, still shaken, but his eyes were locked on Ryan. "Thank you! Thank you, little brother, for saving me... That was you just now, wasn't it?"

Ryan said nothing. He merely gently pushed away the towel the owner offered him and shook his head.

"Call the police," he said. "I have things to do. I'm leaving."

"Hey, you..."

Before the man could react, Ryan had already slipped through the crowd, lowered his head, and turned into the street corner. He quickly vanished into the flow of people, his movements steady and without the slightest hint of panic.

By the time the sun set, Ryan had walked five blocks away from South Street. He did not head home immediately. Instead, he sat beside an old garage for twenty minutes, confirming that no one was following him and that no cameras had marked him—only then did he take out his notebook, tear out several blank pages, and record the full course of the incident.

[Practical Combat No.: S-ACT-001]

Incident Location: South Alley 2, Southern District, Tower City · Sundries Shop

Enemy Situation: Two-person coordinated robbery

One controlled and intimidated, the other packed the money

Weapons were short metal rods, not bladed weapons

Below-average vigilance; weak control over the surroundings

Tactical Execution Process:

Entry assessment phase (judging whether the targets could be controlled after witnessing the incident)

On-site resource search (lime powder packet + awning blind spot)

Creating visual confusion (throwing an object to create localized concealment)

Rapid advance + one-sided suppression (step-in trip + joint counter-control)

Avoiding identity association (no name, no trace, no conversational details)

Execution Time:

Approximately 7.6 seconds; core subjugation completed within 5 seconds

The handwriting on the paper was clear and exceptionally neat. Like a technician working through formulas, he analyzed the fight without emotion—but his heart was not cold.

He looked at the outline of streetlights beginning to glow in the distance and recalled the instant the other man had swung his rod:

He himself had nearly been hit.

It had not been because he lacked strength, but because—the man's actions had gone beyond the established script.

For the first time in battle, he truly understood what "the unexpected" meant.

His previous training had involved set scenarios, set variables, even set expectations for "how the opponent would attack." But today, what he had encountered was not an opponent. It was a "person."

Panic, variables, unstable rhythms—this was reality.

He wrote:

[Combat is not fixed-pattern execution, but a dynamic contest]

→ Willpower / experience / environment / random error make up every element of confrontation

→ I cannot assume "I will win" just because "I have trained"

→ Victory comes only because the judgment was right, the setup was precise, the action was fast, and the control was accurate

→ It is not strength that matters, but accuracy of thought

Then he wrote:

[Nonviolent System: Exit Structure Design]

Leave no name

Do not establish an identity link with witnesses at the scene

Accept no praise; offer no further explanations

Leaving cleanly matters more than winning beautifully

He remembered the owner's "thank you." It had been sincere, and natural.

But he knew that a true hunter did not act merely to hear others thank him.

"Thank you" was social language, but what he wanted was not language. It was confirmation—I can solve the problem and get away unscathed.

He did not need anyone to remember him.

He only needed to know: I acted. I succeeded. I left no trace.

When he returned home that night, his mother saw a little dust on his trench coat and wanted to ask about it, but Ryan spoke first. "There's a demolition site nearby. It was dusty across the street."

She nodded and did not press further.

Late that night, he returned to his training notes and opened a new category:

[Practical Combat Expansion System · Module Establishment]

Module One: Perception Assessment (SP-JD)

→ Determine whether to intervene, determine the timing, determine whether the environment is useful

Module Two: Resources as Tactics (SP-MAT)

→ Scene utilization × concealed positions × immediate material conversion

Module Three: Combat Execution (SP-ACT)

→ Opening control / suppression zones / reaction assessment (contingency plans for deviations from expectations)

Module Four: Withdrawal and Trace Erasure (SP-CLR)

→ Exit routes × identity concealment × emotional neutrality × narrative avoidance strategies

After finishing, he silently closed the notebook.

The contents of that page were not a "game simulation," nor were they a "combat hypothesis."

They were—the "philosophy of action" born from his first direct conversation with the real world.

He knew this would not be the last time.

But he also understood that next time might be more dangerous and more complicated.

He was not fantasizing about becoming stronger. He was truly becoming a pre-Nen fighter with tactical thinking and real combat ability. At that moment, he was only one sufficient pressure away from truly awakening Nen.