Although the match had started, Jurgen only stared at the opponents before him. He made no move, no attempt, he simply locked eyes with them, waiting for theirs in return. It was evident that fear had taken hold of him, its presence unmistakable, and the fat ass behind him did nothing to ease the tension, only cowering in fear and adding to the oppressive atmosphere.
The opponents, in turn, refused to make any move. It seemed as though they had acknowledged Jurgen as a threat, at least, that was the only respectable conclusion he could draw, a small but significant reassurance amid the unease. The tension grew heavier, almost suffocating, as their eyes remained locked, neither side daring to act. Yet the opponents were not composed; they were restless, impatience already gnawing at them as they ground their teeth, struggling to maintain their restraint.
Jurgen wrestled with his thoughts, uncertain whether to charge forward or wait it out, his mind caught in hesitation. In that same moment, a memory surfaced, a tall man with broad shoulders, wearing a black singlet that clung tightly to his muscular build, one hand resting against the brim of his black hat to keep it in place, his presence imposing and resolute.
"So are you a coward… or are you a Sunchaser?"
The words echoed sharply in his mind, firm and deliberate. Jurgen snapped his eyes shut, a newfound resolve flickering within him, faint but undeniable. He did not truly understand what the man meant by being a "Sunchaser" it was something he had heard a few times as a child without ever grasping its meaning — but whatever it was, it carried a certain weight, something compelling… something that felt undeniably cool to be part of.
This time Jurgen surged forward with this newfound, profound resolve, closing the space between himself and his opponents. He no longer dwelled in the fear that had rattled him; it became a conscious decision to face it once and for all. At worst, he reasoned, they would be stopped before anything more severe could occur. The distance between them collapsed in an instant, the air humming with the force of his momentum. At this point, he didn't even care about Bubbles, who trembled behind him, his focus fixed entirely on the two beasts who met him head-on in the same breath he had charged in.
A fist cleaved through the air the moment they met, but Jurgen wasn't weak to the point he couldn't handle a fight like this. He tilted his head just enough for the strike to barely graze his cheek, his own fist shooting forward the instant he dodged.
The opponent twisted in response, coiling low before driving an elbow toward Jurgen's ribs. Jurgen blocked instantly, catching the elbow with his palm, though the impact still sent a sharp, stabbing pain through him as he absorbed the strike. It was a two-on-one, he obviously didn't have the advantage — and the second adversary was already in motion.
A heel arced from his blind side, whistling past where Jurgen's head had been a heartbeat earlier; had he not anticipated the attack, his head would have snapped from the sheer force behind it.
Seizing the moment, he slapped his hand against the concrete and pivoted sharply, his legs spinning like a windmill in a storm, forcing both opponents to retreat instinctively. One leapt back, landing with measured grace, while the other vaulted over Jurgen, knees tucked as though it were nothing more than a casual exercise, before landing soundlessly.
Their coordination was flawless — too flawless for opponents randomly paired together. They understood each other's movements seamlessly, leaving Jurgen increasingly frustrated as he clicked his tongue, already calculating his next move. They hadn't come to waste time; they pressed him immediately, giving him no room to gather his thoughts. They had been right about one thing — Jurgen was a threat, and so they chose to overwhelm him, denying the young man, who possessed an almost refined combat instinct, any opportunity to regain control.
A storm of strikes erupted in fluid succession, punches followed by kicks, then elbows, coming from both of them in relentless rhythm.
Jurgen weaved through it, shoulders twisting, steps sliding with controlled precision, each dodge calculated and efficient, yet he was not untouchable, nor was he absolute. A fist skimmed his jaw, creating an opening for another to crash into his guard, forcing him back just enough to feel the weight of their combined power, but he responded immediately.
A straight punch fired from his fist, fast and sharp, cutting through the tension itself, grazing past the broader opponent who reacted slightly late but managed to deflect it. The deflection, however, exposed a brief opening at the opponent's center, which Jurgen seized, driving another punch straight toward it.
"Too slow!"
But before he could capitalize, the second opponent surged in, driving a knee into his stomach with crushing precision. Jurgen was forced into a split-second decision: land the blow he had committed to and gain a potential advantage, or defend against the incoming strike.
Ultimately, he chose caution — this was a two-on-one, and taking that hit blindly would leave him vulnerable without knowing the durability of the opponent he intended to strike. He crossed his arms just as the knee landed, the force reverberating through him, rattling his ribs and pushing him back slightly.
Before he could recover his balance, a fist came crashing down from above, it was the same opponent who had delivered the knee. Jurgen managed to slip just in time, barely avoiding the full impact, though the strike clipped his shoulder and drove him sideways, the momentum twisting his body like a blade in motion.
They did not relent, not for a single moment, denying the already strained Jurgen any opportunity to recover or reassess. In that instant, he found himself wishing, if only briefly — that he had been given a capable teammate; the tide of the match might have shifted, especially considering he was still holding his own against them.
They pressed him with relentless intensity, their barrage continuing without pause. Some strikes missed, but enough landed to steadily push him back. Jurgen exhaled sharply, planting his feet and forcing himself back into stance.
Two against one, he thought, his jaw tightening.
And that… fatty can't even keep up. His gaze flicked briefly toward Bubbles, who remained far removed from the chaos he endured.
That single lapse was all it took.