Quint Rauss [8]
"Good evening, all contestants, and welcome to the 57th National Prodigy Competition!"
A wave of cheers and excited roars filled the grand hall as everyone in attendance clapped in response to the greeting—including Quint and his master. The man standing on stage was the head of the competition committee.
Despite being an underground and highly secretive event, this competition was massive and majestic. It was held on a secluded island far outside the country. Participants and their officials had been flown in on private planes, each required to present their invitation tokens to board.
Around 5,000 people were in attendance—half of them participants, while the rest were their officials or members of the competition committee. The competition featured seven categories:
Marksman Hackers Strategists Mind Benders Bombers Poison Masters Close Combat
Quint was competing in the Close Combat category. To his surprise, his master had also brought along the little girl who always followed him. What shocked him even more was that she was participating in the Poison Master category.
Quint wouldn't have been so surprised if he had ever paid attention to the girl. But he never had. Despite the fact that she had always been around him, he had never once shown even the slightest interest in her. He only knew that she lived next door and somehow always managed to give him those healing capsules. It had never crossed his mind that she might be the one creating them.
"The Close Combat category, like all the others, has five grades," the announcer continued. "Participants will be placed in a grade based on their age. Each grade consists of 100 participants. In the first round, the system will randomly pair participants for one-on-one fights. The winner will be determined by two conditions: Knockout or Zero Points.
"A knockout (K.O.) occurs when a participant can no longer fight back, remain standing after 30 seconds, or if both feet leave the stage area.
"As for zero points, each fighter starts the match with 100 attack moves. Every time they attack, they lose a move. The first one to run out of moves automatically loses."
Quint turned to his master. His voice was low, meant only for the two of them. "Are we allowed to kill during the fight?"
His master gave him a thin smile. "By accident? Yes."
Quint nodded and turned his attention back to the head referee.
"The winner of the first round automatically advances to the Top 50. In the second round, the Top 50 will compete for a place in the Top 25. The third round will determine the Top 12, the fourth will cut it down to Top 6, and the fifth round will decide the four semifinalists.
"As for the losers, they will continue fighting to determine their best possible ranking. For example, those eliminated in the first round will fight again in the second round to secure a place in the Top 75…"
-
First Round.
Quint stepped onto the battle stage—a six-by-six-meter platform, raised about two feet off the ground. The surface was covered in a simple black material, neither too slippery nor too sticky.
As soon as he took his position in the corner, his opponent jumped onto the stage with a flashy somersault.
The crowd gasped. Some sighed in pity for Quint.
The boy standing before him was massive—almost as tall as Quint's master, with bulging arms and broad shoulders. Meanwhile, Quint…
Well, Quint was Eastern.
While he might have been slightly taller than the average 12-year-old Eastern boy, in this country, he was considered small—maybe even below average. Moreover, his intense physical training had deliberately kept his body from becoming bulky. His muscles were tight and compact, his frame lean and agile—just like his master. Speed and flexibility over brute force.
His opponent grinned widely, clearly underestimating Quint's small frame.
Quint gave him a thin, unreadable smile.
While his opponent hopped in place, trying to shake off nerves or excitement, Quint stood perfectly still—his face calm, his body relaxed.
The moment the referee dropped his hand, signaling the start, the massive boy charged forward and leaped—a powerful kick aimed directly at Quint's chest.
But Quint didn't block it.
He avoided it.
Effortlessly, he sidestepped, letting the kick sail past him. As he moved, he lightly punched his opponent's upper arm.
It wasn't an attack. It was a test.
The boy stumbled slightly, his momentum throwing him off balance.
He hadn't expected Quint to dodge. He had assumed the smaller boy would either take the hit or block it.
Quint's eyes glimmered.
With that single movement, he already understood everything.
The boy was slow.
The boy was powerful, but reckless.
And more importantly…
The boy had no idea where his weaknesses were.
Quint did.
The larger boy regained his balance and charged again.
Quint met him halfway, launching a sharp fist at his chest.
The boy blocked.
Quint smirked. Another mistake.
Immediately, he threw another punch—this time at the waist.
The boy staggered back.
Quint pressed forward, punching rapidly—chest, ribs, stomach. Each hit forced the boy back, step by step.
Then, in a single instant, Quint glanced at the floor.
One step left.
Time to end this.
Quint jumped.
He spun mid-air—360 degrees—before launching a high kick toward his opponent's head.
The boy blocked.
But as always, his block left an opening.
And Quint was already aiming for it.
Before his feet even touched the ground, he drove his leg forward—
—kicking the boy's armpit with brutal force.
The boy was launched backward.
He flew several feet—
And then, as he crashed down…
His feet landed outside the ring.
The referee raised his arm.
"No. 32—Win!"
Quint grinned. He bowed respectfully to the referee before jumping off the stage.
Still smiling, he ran toward his master, who was already walking toward him, holding out a towel and a water bottle.
But before he could say anything—
SMACK.
His master hit the back of his head.
Quint's smile froze.
That wasn't… the reaction he had expected.
"What were you doing, wasting your points like that?" his master scolded, clearly dissatisfied.
Quint's stomach dropped. He had expected praise. Instead, he was being rebuked.
"Couldn't you have finished him in one hit?" his master pressed.
Quint hesitated.
His master narrowed his eyes. "Did your profound power not work?"
"It… it worked," Quint admitted, lowering his head.
"Then why didn't you end it immediately? Was he really that strong?"
"N-No… I could have." Quint fidgeted slightly. "I just… I thought it would be too quick. It wouldn't be as interesting…"
SMACK.
His master hit him again.
"You think this is a show?" the man scolded. "The more moves you waste, the less points you have! Be efficient!"
"Y-Yes, Master…" Quint said quickly, realizing his mistake.
-
Second Round.
This time, his opponent was already on stage when Quint stepped onto it. Another tall boy, though not as bulky. He smirked when he saw Quint, clearly underestimating him.
After the referee signaled the fight to begin, the boy immediately launched an attack—a triple punch combination. Quint blocked them but didn't counterattack. The boy threw another fist.
Quint saw an opening. He blocked the attack with his left arm, but this time, he didn't just block. His left arm slithered around the boy's attacking arm, snaking up to his shoulder before twisting it backward. The boy cried out in pain and instinctively tried to use his left arm to free himself from Quint's grip.
Quint was faster. He grabbed the boy's left arm and locked it in place, rendering him unable to move. Releasing his hold on the shoulder, Quint delivered a sharp kick to his opponent's stomach.
The boy flew backward, blood spraying into the air before he crashed onto the ground with a loud boom and the sickening crack of bones. He struggled to get up but failed.
Quint remained standing in his corner as the referee began counting to 30. The boy didn't stand. The referee waved his hand, then announced Quint as the winner.
As he continued winning his third and fourth rounds with single attacks, his name spread quickly among the participants—especially those who had made it to the top six.
"You know, you could just forfeit this round and still qualify for the semifinals," Quint's master said to him during the lunch break on the second day.
In the fifth round, the first three semifinalists would be determined by direct victories. The fourth semifinalist, however, would be chosen based on the highest remaining points among the losers. Quint, with 388 points, had the highest score among the top six—breaking the previous Grade A fourth-round record of 380.
Quint glanced at his master. "No. I will fight," he refused without hesitation.
"To win a war, you don't need to win every battle," his master rebuked. "You need to strategize. If you sit this round out, you'll save energy for the semifinal."
"But I'll lose points," Quint argued. A fighter who lost in a round received no points. "Besides, I'm not tired at all."
His master shrugged. "If you insist, boy."
Soon, it was time for his match. This time, his opponent was a serious, composed boy.
When the fight started, Quint, as usual, remained still, waiting for his opponent's move. But this time, the boy also didn't move. They simply stood in their respective corners, silently watching each other.
One minute. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Neither made a move.
The audience grew restless, whispering among themselves, trying to figure out what was happening. Some started booing.
Quint studied his opponent. This boy was doing exactly what he did—waiting for an opening. What he didn't know was whether this boy also possessed a profound instinct like he did. Quint was patient. He could wait all day. But the referee's patience wasn't as thick as his.
"If neither of you starts fighting, I'll declare both of you the losers," the referee warned.
Quint rolled his eyes. Was he even allowed to do that?
To appease the referee, Quint stepped forward. His opponent did the same. Now, they stood face-to-face. Still, neither attacked.
Five more minutes passed. "This is your last warning," the referee snapped.
Quint suddenly launched a straightforward kick, deliberately revealing an opening.
As expected, his opponent took the bait. Dodging the kick, the boy aimed a punch at Quint's left chest. But the opening had been intentional—Quint had already prepared for the attack.
Just before the punch landed, Quint subtly shifted, allowing the boy's fist to pass through the empty space between his arm and body. Then, Quint clamped the boy's wrist with his armpit, trapping him. The boy's eyes widened.
Quint smiled. He pulled the boy closer and struck his chest with his palm.
The move seemed weak to the audience, but his master noticed immediately—Quint had infused spiritual energy into the strike.
The force sent the boy stumbling backward, clutching his chest. He gasped for air, his mouth opening and closing in shock. "You…" he wheezed, raising a trembling hand to point at Quint before collapsing unconscious.
The referee quickly checked his condition, then signaled for the paramedics. His expression was laced with irritation as he announced Quint's victory.
"Did you kill him?" his master hissed.
Quint shrugged. "No. But he won't be able to fight again this year," he said indifferently.
His master sighed in relief, then ruffled his hair.
Word spread quickly—Quint had nearly killed his opponent with a single counterattack. It wasn't uncommon for fighters to be seriously injured, sometimes even killed, in this competition. But that usually happened after grueling, drawn-out battles. No one had ever seen a fight end so decisively in just one move.
-
At the semifinal, Quint's opponent was a girl.
She was beautiful—long, wavy golden hair, piercing blue eyes. As he prepared in his corner, she walked up to him.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," she whispered in a soft, honeyed tone. "I hope we can cooperate."
Quint blinked as she flicked her hair and walked away.
The referee gathered them at the center. They bowed to him, then to each other. The girl smiled charmingly. Even the referee seemed momentarily dazed. It took him a few seconds to shake it off before he signaled the start of the match.
The girl immediately attacked.
Quint saw her movements clearly. They weren't fast. He could block them easily. But just as her strike approached, she whispered, "Let me hit you."
Quint hesitated.
It was only for a split second. But it was enough.
He reacted too slowly.
He dodged backward, bending his upper body at a sharp angle, but he wasn't fast enough. Her fist grazed his jaw.
Quint rolled backward from the impact before regaining his footing. He glared at her in irritation. His mind had gone blank for a moment—just from her voice.
"Quint!" His master's voice snapped him back to focus. "Deafen your ears. She's a Whisperer!"
Quint barely had time to process that when the girl launched another attack.
Once again, he saw it coming. But once again, her voice coiled around him like a spell. "Don't block me," she whispered.
Quint stood frozen.
The punch slammed into his chest.
Blood rose to his throat. He barely managed to stop himself from coughing it up. He staggered back, nearly stepping out of the ring. His chest ached—but his pride suffered even more.
He clenched his fists.
Now, he understood what his master had meant.
Her power wasn't her strength. It was her voice.
Quint stepped forward. The girl did too. Quint raised his fist, preparing to strike.
"Don't hit me, please," she whispered.
His fist stopped in midair.
She smiled. "Instead, let me hit you."
She launched her next attack.
Quint stood still, eyes locked on her incoming fist.
But this time…
He was ready.
He caught her wrist.
The girl gasped. Her eyes widened.
A second later, pain shot through her arm as Quint crushed the bones in her fingers.
She screamed and tried to grab his hand with her other arm. He caught that one too.
Slowly, he forced her own hand toward her throat, pressing it against her neck. Her own fingers wrapped around her throat, squeezing.
She fell backward. Quint followed, pinning her down.
Her legs thrashed. Her free hand clawed at the ground. Her feet stomped desperately.
The referee shouted, "Stop! STOP!"
Quint didn't hear him.
He had used his spiritual energy to temporarily deafen himself.
The referee rushed in and forcibly pried his hand away.
The girl gasped for air, her eyes rolling back. Her official jumped onto the stage, glaring at Quint before carrying her away.
With this win, Quint advanced to the final round.