Spartan Training for Newbies! Courtesy of Bushin Festival Veteran Quinton

“You’re a total amateur, aren’t you? I can tell just by looking at you.”

Annerose marched toward me, stopping just within arm’s reach. Her sharp, light blue eyes glared at me from beneath a matching bob cut.

“A cheap sword and a frail body.”

She reached out and gave my blade, then my chest, a dismissive tap with her index finger.

“The blades are dulled for the tournament, but if you take this lightly, you will die.”

She fixed me with another stern look. I stared back into her eyes and took a moment to calculate. What’s the best reaction here...?

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” I said, pointedly breaking eye contact.

Right. My current persona was the ‘actually powerful but looks like a loser’ type. Being timid would be a total rookie move. The goal was to make her think: This guy looks like trash, so why is he being so cocky?

“Excuse me? What’s with that attitude? I’m going out of my way to look out for you—”

“I don’t need your concern.”

I even made sure to use the aggressive ore for my pronoun.

“You... Honestly, you’ve got some nerve—”

“Hey, kid. When someone gives you advice, the polite thing to do is listen.”

Suddenly, a man shoved his way into our conversation. He looked like a thug straight out of a pro-wrestling ring, but the heavy greatsword at his hip was well-worn, and the scars crisscrossing his face screamed ‘battle-hardened veteran.’

To be honest, based on the people around here, he was probably the strongest guy in the vicinity after myself and Annerose.

“The name’s Quinton. I’ve entered the Bushin Festival more times than I can count, and every year, weaklings like you show up just to kill the mood. Do everyone a favor—go back home and suck on your mama’s tits, yeah?”

Quinton’s blatant mockery drew a chorus of agreement and vulgar laughter from the crowd. I caught his eye with a side-glance and let a smirk play on my lips.

“At the very least... I’m stronger than you.”

Quinton’s face turned a deep, boiling red.

“Gyahaha! Quinton, the kid’s looking down on you!”

“You gonna let a little fly talk back like that, Quinton?!”

The heckling made Quinton’s brow furrow. He reached out and hauled me up by my collar.

“Listen here, brat. Watch your mouth. Who did you say was stronger than who?”

I didn't answer. I just gave him a mocking sneer.

“Looks like you need some discipline...!”

With a grunt, Quinton sent me flying. I collided with a passerby and tumbled onto the dirt.

“Nice! Get him!”

“Gyahaha! Don’t kill him yet!”

A circle of spectators formed around us in an instant. As expected of a bunch of ruffians—they knew exactly how this worked.

“Now’s your chance to apologize,” Quinton said, cracking his neck with a sickening pop.

“How truly pathetic,” I muttered, shaking my head with a sigh.

“I’ll kill you!”

Quinton pulled back a fist and charged. To be frank, he looked like a total amateur.

In this world, unarmed combat is basically non-existent. People are just objectively more powerful when they’re using weapons, so unless someone has an absurd amount of talent or is incredibly desperate, nobody bothers learning how to punch.

If there were an MMA tournament in this world, I’d be the undisputed champion. I’m that confident.

A dozen different ways to handle this flashed through my mind. I could counter with a right straight or a left hook for maximum impact. I could play it safe by stopping him with a jab or a front kick to gauge his movement. An even safer bet would be to just dodge without throwing a strike at all. I could meet him with a knee or an elbow, or even go for a double-leg takedown and some ground-and-pound.

If this were a serious fight against a real threat, I’d probably time a jab. I wouldn’t even clench my fist—I’d keep my hand open to extend my reach and jam my fingers into his eyes.

But there was no need to go that far for this guy. Besides... I’m not ready to reveal my hand just yet.

“Oraaa!”

Quinton’s fist sank into my cheek.

I let myself get blown back spectacularly, crashing into the human wall of the gallery.

“I’m just getting started!”

Quinton’s fists rained down on me. Left, right, left, right, right, right.

I didn’t fight back once. I just let him keep pummeling me like a punching bag until I collapsed at exactly the right moment.

“This guy’s a joke! He’s way too weak!”

“Gyahaha! He’s just a piece of trash!”

The sound of the crowd's mockery was music to my ears.

“Too scared to even throw a punch? You’ve got no spine, kid,” Quinton sneered, looking down at me.

“My fists are far too valuable to be spent in a place like this,” I replied, looking up at him with a grin.

“Looks like you still haven’t had enough—!”

“That’s enough!”

Annerose’s voice cut through the air, stopping Quinton’s raised fist in its tracks.

“You’re taking it too far. If you want to keep going, I’ll be your opponent.”

Annerose glared up at him, her eyes cold.

“Whoa, the lady’s stepping in!”

“Gyahaha! Take me on too, sweetheart!”

Despite the jeers from the crowd, Quinton’s expression turned grim. He clicked his tongue and turned away.

“What’s the matter, Quinton? Gonna go cry?”

“Boring! Is it over already?”

As Quinton stomped off, the crowd began to disperse.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d actually do that.”

Annerose offered me her hand. I ignored it and pushed myself up off the ground.

“If you’d wanted to stop him, you could have done it at any time. Right?”

Annerose flinched.

“I thought it would be better for you to learn a painful lesson here rather than having something irreversible happen to you during the Bushin Festival. But... this was too much. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

She reached out toward me again, but I blocked her with my hand.

“It’s fine.”

“Wait... what?”

Annerose seemed to notice. Despite the brutal beating I’d just taken, I didn’t have a single meaningful injury. At most, my lip was bleeding a little.

I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth with my thumb and turned to leave.

“The taste of blood... it’s been a while...” I muttered, just loud enough for her to catch.

“...! Wait! What’s your name?!”

I could feel her intense gaze boring into my back.

“...Jimina.”

I vanished into the crowd without looking back.

And then, I did a mental fist pump.

Yes! Nailed it!

I’d done it. The classic trope: “The scorned loser who the experts realize is actually a monster?!” It’s my absolute favorite pattern.

In my professional opinion, showing off your true power before a tournament even starts is third-rate. It’s no fun. What’s the point of revealing your hand in the least interesting setting possible?

It’s much better to be looked down upon by everyone before the opening ceremony. Then, once the matches start, people begin to wonder, “Wait, is that guy actually strong?” Finally, at the peak of the excitement, everyone realizes, “Holy crap, he’s a god!” That is the hallmark of a first-rate performance.

My mission for this Bushin Festival was simple: maintain total control over the audience’s perception until the perfect moment.

I hid in the shadows for a bit, holding a solo debriefing to reflect on my performance. Once I saw Annerose and the others leave, I quietly rejoined the line and finished my registration.