A Brute Should Do the Dirty Work

Yak moved first.

Among Zoan users, those with the Ox-Ox Fruit all shared one trait: after transforming, they thought even less clearly than usual. Muscle memory came before thought, instinct before reason. He lowered his head, aimed his horns at his target, and charged.

His hooves punched two holes in the wooden floor. Splinters burst from the edges of the hoofprints and flew into the air. His head was low, both horns gleaming like bone under the lights, their tips aimed at Jack.

Less than five meters separated them. Yak ranked among the fastest Zoan users in a charge; over a short distance, he could even outpace a cheetah. His hooves struck the wooden floor faster and faster, leaving a shattered dent with every step. Splinters sprayed behind him like earth from a plowed field.

Jack stood still, light gathering around his left fist. Heartsteel's passive, Colossal Consumption, had finished charging, and the Blade of the Ruined King's passive had activated. He did not dodge or even shift his stance. He simply waited for Yak to reach him.

The horns were one meter from his waist.

Jack raised his right fist and met the charge. His knuckles pointed straight at the center of Yak's forehead, their hardened surfaces gleaming dully under the lights. At the edge of his vision, Colossal Consumption's charge bar flashed, then poured everything into his fist.

His fist struck Yak's head.

At the moment of impact, the air seemed to compress with a dull boom, like a pile driver slamming into the ground. Yak's charge dropped to a dead stop in a tenth of a second. His head snapped back, his neck cracked, and his body kept moving forward even though his head had stopped. Momentum lifted his hind legs off the floor and flipped him upside down. His back smashed through the floorboards, leaving him embedded in the floor with all four legs in the air, like an overturned turtle.

His eyes rolled back. His pupils dilated until only the whites showed. White foam streaked with blood spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin.

Jack glanced at his fist. The blood on his knuckles was Yak's, not his. The ridges of the horns had left a few shallow scratches, not even enough to break the skin. He shook off the blood and turned toward Iron Mask.

Iron Mask stood three meters away, his armored body gleaming gray-black under the lights. His fist was still raised, its surface marked by a shallow dent from Jack's earlier punch. He looked down at the dent, then back up at Jack.

Jack walked toward him.

Iron Mask raised his fist. Jack neither dodged nor blocked; he drove his own fist into Iron Mask's chest. His knuckles struck the armored muscle with a dull metallic clang. Iron Mask rocked and took half a step back. A dent about half a centimeter deep appeared in his chest.

Iron Mask glanced down at it, and the corner of his mouth twitched. His armor was so tough that ordinary punches meant nothing to him. But this man's fists were different. Every blow felt like a battering ram, shaking his organs.

"You're strong," Iron Mask said from behind his mask, his voice muffled as though he spoke through a sheet of iron. "But you can't break through my armor."

Jack said nothing. He raised his left fist again.

This time, Iron Mask did not take the blow head-on. He slipped to the right, his fist grazing past Jack's left cheek, the rush of air stirring Jack's hair. Then he swung his right fist up into Jack's ribs. Metal struck Hardened Skin with a dull thud. Jack rocked, and a blunt ache spread through his ribs.

Jack ignored the pain. He turned sideways and raised his right hand, spreading his fingers around Iron Mask's right wrist. Hardened fingers dug into armored skin, his knuckles locking against the gaps around the wrist bones. Red light flashed in Iron Mask's eyeholes. He tried to pull free, but Jack's grip held like an iron vise.

Jack's left fist struck Iron Mask's chest. A second punch. The dent deepened from half a centimeter to one, and cracks spread from his chest to his collarbone.

Iron Mask staggered and tried to punch Jack in the face with his left hand, but Jack moved first. The third punch hit the same spot. The dent deepened to two centimeters, leaving a clear hollow in Iron Mask's chest.

The red glow in Iron Mask's eyeholes dimmed for an instant. Something was wrong. It was not pain, but the loss of something more fundamental. His vitality was draining away. Every punch that landed took a portion of his life energy with it.

The Blade of the Ruined King increased attack, attack speed, and life steal. Its melee attacks also dealt bonus physical damage equal to nine percent of the target's current health.

I don't even know how I could lose.

No matter how strong Iron Mask's defenses were, they could not stop percentage-based damage. He could withstand an impact of ten thousand kilograms, but he could not withstand the percentage loss of his health. No armor, however thick, could block that kind of extraction.

Iron Mask began to panic. He stopped attacking and turned to defense, crossing both arms over his chest to protect the deepening dent. But Jack did not aim for his chest. His fist slammed into Iron Mask's left arm, cracking the armor. Another punch widened the crack from elbow to shoulder. On the third, the armor shattered. Shards of iron flew from his arm, exposing bloody muscle beneath.

Iron Mask screamed. The sound came through his mask, shrill as metal scraping glass. His left hand hung at his side, fingers trembling. Blood welled from the cracks in his armor and dripped from his fingertips.

He retreated two steps to put some distance between them. His chest heaved, his breathing as rough as a bellows. He stared at Jack, the red light in his mask's eyeholes flickering unsteadily like a bulb about to go out.

"Aren't you going to do something?" Iron Mask shouted, his voice loud enough to shake the entire building. "Capone! If you don't step in, I'm going to die here!"

Capone Bege sat in his chair with his legs crossed. His relaxed expression turned intent, the shrewdness in his eyes giving way to a hunter's cold stare. He watched Jack, his smile gone completely, replaced by absolute calm without a trace of emotion.

He rose from his chair, the hem of his coat fluttering behind him.

"Castle-Castle Fruit."

His body began to change. A gray-white sheen spread over his skin, not like Iron Mask's metal armor, but like a city wall: rough and heavy, as though built from blocks of stone. His body swelled. His shoulders widened, his torso thickened, and his limbs grew broader. His fingers took the shape of battlements, and his nails turned to cold-gleaming iron.

Capone Bege, the Castle-Castle Fruit user, had revealed his true strength.

Through every clash before this, Bege had hidden his strength. He had stayed behind his guards, behind Iron Mask, behind the negotiating table. Now he had finally stepped forward.

Jack turned and ran.