My bad for the late update.
So, here it is.
Enjoy
— X —
Kouta walked through the city, his attention fixed on the phone in his hand as he scrolled through dense research articles. Unbeknownst to him, Rika followed several meters behind, her curiosity having overruled her better judgment.
'Where is he going every day?' she wondered, keeping to the shadows as best she could.
Her tailing led her to a large, sprawling park. Kouta found an empty bench, sat down, and continued reading, seemingly content to just be still. He stayed like that for nearly an hour before finally standing up and heading to a nearby food truck, where he bought a serving of fried chicken.
From her vantage point, Rika caught a glimpse of his open wallet. It was thick with cash.
'Didn't he quit his part-time job months ago? Where is all this money coming from?' A wave of unease washed over her, spawning countless questions.
The surveillance continued. Kouta resumed his aimless-seeming walk, meandering through different districts. Rika's legs began to ache, but her determination to uncover his secret pushed her forward.
A few minutes later, her persistence was rewarded with a new mystery. A mature woman, Mila spotted Kouta and waved enthusiastically.
"Kouta! Are you out for a walk?" Mila called out, her tone warm and familiar.
"Yeah, just needed a change of scenery," Kouta replied, offering a small, genuine smile.
"That's good for clearing the mind. But please be careful reading while walking is dangerous," Mila chided gently, her manner almost motherly.
Kouta simply nodded in acknowledgment.
Mila smiled back. "See you later, then." She walked off, leaving Rika more confused than ever. What was their relationship? She had no time to ponder, forcing herself to continue following Kouta.
The rest of the day proved futile. Kouta did nothing but walk and read, leading Rika on a long, exhausting, and ultimately pointless journey. She returned home that evening, her mission a complete failure.
The next day, however, yielded different results.
This time, Rika observed from a greater distance as Kouta trained in a secluded clearing. She watched, astonished, as he moved through rigorous martial forms and grueling calisthenics with a focus and intensity she'd never seen in him. The boy she'd raised once quiet, reserved, and Quirkless was now a picture of sheer perseverance.
A complex mix of pride and dread tightened in her chest. She was happy to see him so driven, yet a deep, familiar fear chilled her heart. A frown etched itself onto her face. 'He's really serious about the Hero Course. A part of me hopes he fails… I can't bear to lose someone close to me to that world again.'
Unbeknownst to Rika, her surveillance efforts were anything but covert.
"Is she still there?" Kouta muttered under his breath, barely moving his lips.
His phone, connected to a private line, provided the answer. A2's voice, set to a volume only he could hear, responded. "Yes, she is still observing you from approximately eighty meters to the southeast."
"Looks like I won't be able to work on my main project for a while," Kouta murmured, feigning a stretch.
"That's alright, Kouta-kun. I can continue working on Project: Kamen Rider," A2 offered cheerfully.
"No. Just focus on completing the global data upload to your primary database. You can assist with the project once that is finished," Kouta instructed quietly.
A2 emitted a soft, almost cute sound of faux disappointment. "Okay. I will do my best until then."
. . . .
Another day gone by, another fight for more capital. Kouta currently in his 'Belial' persona waited in a stark fighter's lounge, reclining on a long chair with his hands tucked behind his head.
A single earbud played a randomized, wordless ambient track, its smooth tones meant to center his mind before the chaos. The calm was broken by a sharp knock on the door.
"Please head to the ring. The fight will begin soon," a voice announced.
Kouta rose, plucked out the earbud, and made his way out. This venue was different not a hidden basement or warehouse, but a massive, open-air arena on a private island, accessible only by invitation. A roaring crowd of thousands filled the stands, a sea of shadowy figures under the spotlights.
He stepped into the ring just as his opponent did: a man around twenty-five, wearing a casual jacket over a shirt. The man's hand rested on the hilt of a sleek, futuristic blade at his hip.
The announcer's voice boomed in English across the stadium. "From the right, we have the unstoppable monster, the man with an unbroken record, BELIAL!"
The crowd erupted.
"And from the left, we have the brutal, one-hit-kill assassin… THE TELEPORTER!"
Another wave of noise. Kouta's mind clicked into gear. A teleporter with a blade. Instantaneous attack vectors from any angle. He immediately replaced one of his active rules, placing a hand over his chest.
First Rule: "[I possess peak spatial awareness.]"
The effect was immediate and instinctual. It wasn't sight, but a profound, 360-degree knowing of the space around him, the position of the air, the texture of the ground, the exact distance to every edge of the ring. It felt as natural as knowing where his own limbs were.
He then set his second rule.
Second Rule: "[My physical strikes transfer kinetic impact directly to internal organs.]"
A quick, internal assessment. "This should be enough."
He began a light hop in place, loosening muscles he hadn't properly warmed up. Across the ring, The Teleporter settled into a low, precise sword stance.
"FIGHT… BEGIN!"
The Teleporter vanished.
He didn't run, he blinked, reappearing several meters closer in an instant, then again, and again, closing the distance in a disorienting series of jumps. On his final teleport, he materialized within striking range, his blade thrusting directly at Kouta's face.
Kouta didn't see it, he felt the displacement of air, the sudden presence of mass. His body moved before his conscious mind registered the attack, shifting left, then using the momentum to swing back with a vicious left hook aimed at the man's liver.
The punch only grazed the fabric of the jacket as The Teleporter vanished again, reappearing several feet back, a hand instinctively pressed to his side. A dull, deep ache throbbed beneath his ribs.
'He moved faster than my teleport recovery…' The Teleporter realized, sweat beading on his temple. 'No wonder this kid is undefeated.'
"I was a little too late," Kouta muttered to himself, resetting his stance.
The Teleporter adopted a new strategy, becoming a blur of motion. He began teleporting in a tight circle around Kouta, appearing and vanishing like a strobe light, a high-speed orbital bombardment meant to overwhelm.
Kouta simply closed his eyes.
The sudden, calm defiance made The Teleporter hesitate. He stopped his frantic movement, reappearing a cautious distance away, trusting the gut instinct that had kept him alive this long.
The crowd murmured in confusion at his sudden defensive posture.
Seeing the opening, Kouta moved. He rushed forward, a straightforward attack. The Teleporter vanished, reappearing behind Kouta for a stab to the kidney, only for Kouta to sprint forward without looking, the blade slicing empty air. Another teleport, this time to the left side, another stab, another effortless dodge.
'He's predicting my reappearance points… how?'
The fight settled into a tense, mesmerizing rhythm: The Teleporter would blink in for a kill-shot, Kouta would slip past it by a hair's breadth; Kouta would press an attack, forcing The Teleporter to blink away to safety. The crowd was electric; they hadn't seen a bout this prolonged and tactical from two fighters known for instant, decisive endings.
Under his mask, Kouta was smiling. Across the ring, The Teleporter was grinning too. This was a real fight.
It became a war of attrition. An hour passed, then two. Kouta, his body enhanced and optimized, moved with the same relentless efficiency. The Teleporter, however, was breathing heavily, his teleports becoming a fraction slower, his reactions dulled by fatigue.
He needed one perfect, conclusive attack.
The fighters reset, standing meters apart, each reading the other's exhaustion and resolve.
The Teleporter initiated his final sequence. He teleported forward in a rapid, straight-line series of jumps, building momentum, and at the last instant, unleashed a wide, concussive shockwave from a horizontal slash not to hit Kouta, but to disrupt his footing.
It worked. Kouta staggered, just for a split second.
Seizing the moment, The Teleporter expended his last reserves of energy in a final, desperate teleport directly in front of Kouta, blade thrusting for the heart.
But the split-second stumble was part of the dodge. Kouta's body was already leaning into the momentum, the deadly point passing over his shoulder. As The Teleporter materialized, committed and off-balance, Kouta was there.
He had already deactivated the organ-shattering rule. What followed was a simple, perfect uppercut.
CRACK.
The clean sound of a jaw meeting a fist echoed. The Teleporter's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious.
The arena exploded. The announcer rushed into the ring, shoving a microphone toward the victor.
"Incredible! Belial, any words for your fans and future challengers?!"
Kouta took the mic. His voice, filtered and cold, rang out in clear English across the stunned stadium.
"All you other fighters are bums. Try me, you frauds. You ain't beating me. You're trash."
He dropped the mic, turned, and walked out of the ring without a backward glance. The insult was deliberate, a gauntlet thrown. That statement alone would draw every major name in the underground, hungry to dethrone him.
Unbeknownst to the furious challengers he'd just provoked, Kouta was weaving the first threads of a legend. The future would know him as the undefeatable.