What Good Is Being Huge?

Jack stood beside Bege's right foot and looked up at it. At seven and a half feet tall, he was a giant among ordinary people, but next to Bege, he barely reached his ankle. Bege's calf was thicker than Jack's entire body. His bricklike skin was as solid as a city wall, with the lines of muscle faintly visible beneath the seams.

Bege lowered his head to look for Jack. He turned his neck, his gaze sweeping down from above and around his feet. Jack stood less than two meters from the outside of his right foot, but that spot was in his blind spot. To see his own feet, the twenty-meter giant had to bend at the waist.

"What are you hiding for?" Bege's voice rumbled down from overhead like thunder. "Weren't you putting up a good fight just now?"

Jack didn't answer. He drove a fist into Bege's ankle.

His fist struck the bricklike skin with a dull thud, like a hammer hitting a city wall. A shallow dent appeared in Bege's ankle, less than a centimeter deep, with fine cracks spreading from its edges like a spiderweb. The Blade of the Ruined King's passive effect triggered. A sliver of Bege's life force was drained away and flowed through Jack's fist into his body.

Percentage damage didn't play fair.

Bege's leg twitched. It felt like a mosquito bite, an itch with a faint, inexplicable discomfort beneath it. He frowned and looked down at the little figure beside his foot. Jack raised his fist again and struck the same spot. The dent deepened a little, and the cracks spread farther. A third punch. A fourth.

Bege lifted his foot to stomp on Jack, but Jack was already gone. He slipped between Bege's feet like an eel. When Bege's left foot came down, Jack darted beside his right; when his right foot came down, Jack darted beside his left. There was no pattern to his movements—left, right, forward, back. Every step took him into Bege's blind spots.

Bege grew irritated. His feet slammed down in the courtyard once, twice, three times, each stomp punching a crater into the stone paving. Fragments flew and dust billowed. The once-level flagstones were smashed into rubble, then ground to powder. But the little figure by his feet kept dodging, kept running, and kept sneaking in the occasional punch.

Every punch carried the Blade of the Ruined King's percentage damage. Bege's vitality declined slowly but irreversibly. It wasn't the loss that came from injury. His life force was draining away, his cells losing their vigor, his strength being siphoned off bit by bit.

Iron Mask and Yak stood at the edge of the courtyard. Neither dared come closer.

Most of Iron Mask's armor had shattered. His left arm was still bleeding, and the dent in his chest was deep enough to expose muscle. He watched Jack weave between Bege's feet, that impossibly nimble figure reflected in his eyes. He wanted to charge in, but one look at Bege's wildly stomping foot stopped him. The twenty-meter giant's foot was big enough to cover his entire body. If it landed on him by mistake, he would be crippled even if he survived.

Yak was more straightforward, but even he stopped. A huge lump had swollen between his brows, and he was seeing double: two Jacks swayed in his vision. He wanted to charge, but his body wouldn't obey. He stood at the edge of the courtyard on four legs, hooves shuffling in place, unable to bring himself to move.

"What are you standing around for?" Bege roared from above, anger in his voice. "Get him!"

Iron Mask and Yak exchanged a glance. Neither moved.

Bege swore. He raised his right foot to stomp on Jack, but Jack had already slipped beside his left. He raised his left foot, and Jack slipped back to his right. Bege was getting slower, his reactions duller.

Jack's fists never stopped. One punch, two, three—each one struck Bege's ankle and took another portion of his vitality. A fist-sized dent formed there. Cracks spread from his ankle to his calf, then from his calf to his knee.

At last, Bege couldn't hold out any longer.

His body began to shrink. Twenty meters, fifteen, ten, five, then two and a half. His bricklike skin receded, its gray-white sheen vanishing as he returned to his normal size. He stood in the middle of the courtyard, the hem of his coat hanging to his knees. His hair was disheveled, sweat beaded on his forehead, and he breathed as hard as if he had just run a marathon.

A fist-sized bruise marked his left ankle. The skin had caved in, his bone ached, and the muscles twitched. He looked down at the bruise, his pupils contracting. Every one of Jack's punches had hit the same spot with the precision of a measuring stick.

Jack stood three meters away, blood on his knuckles and his breathing steady, as though he had just finished warming up. He looked at Bege without a trace of expression. Then he raised his fist again.

Iron Mask moved.

He charged in from the right, his right fist raised and glinting like metal. Most of his armored skin had shattered, but that fist was still intact, its metallic sheen cold in the sunlight. He aimed for Jack's face. A clean hit could dent an iron plate.

Jack tilted his head. Iron Mask's fist grazed past his ear, the rush of air stirring his hair. Jack didn't dodge again. He raised his right hand, clenched it, dropped into a half-crouch, and drove a punch straight into Iron Mask's stomach. Iron Mask flew backward.

Yak charged in from the left. His left horn had snapped off halfway, but his right remained, its bony tip gleaming in the sunlight. A huge lump swelled between his brows, his eyes were half-closed, and blood seeped from the wound on his forehead and ran down his nose.

Jack pivoted halfway to the right, facing Yak head-on. He raised his right fist. At the edge of his vision, the charge bar for Colossal Consumption flashed, and all its stored power surged into his knuckles.

His fist slammed into the spot between Yak's brows. The same spot. The third time.

Yak's head snapped back with a crack from his neck. His whole body recoiled as though struck by a sledgehammer. His front legs lifted off the ground, his hind legs slipped, and he toppled backward. His back smashed into the ground, cracking the flagstones and kicking up dust. His eyes rolled back, pupils dilating until only the whites showed. Bloody foam spilled from his mouth and ran down his chin. His limbs convulsed against the ground, hooves scraping shallow furrows through the rubble.

Jack glanced down at him. Yak lay there, eyes still rolled back, more and more foam spilling from his mouth. Zoan users really could take a beating. That punch would have blown an ordinary ability user's head apart.

Suddenly, Yak stirred as if with one last burst of strength. He raised his hands from the ground, spread his fingers, and clamped them around Jack's right ankle. His fingers tightened, knuckles wedged against the ankle bone with the force of iron pincers. He held on with everything he had, knuckles whitening and nails digging into Jack's Hardened Skin.

Jack looked down at the hands. Yak's eyes were still rolled back, but he had used his last shred of consciousness to grab Jack's leg. Only one command remained in his mind: Hold him. Don't let him move. It wasn't a conscious decision. It was instinct, his body carrying out its final combat order.

Jack tried to lift his right foot. It didn't budge. Yak's weight and grip pinned him to the ground. His ankle was locked in place. To move, he would have to pry Yak's hands loose or break them.

Jack couldn't move. Iron Mask charged in again.