The Four Fundamentals IV

The boulder shattered with a sound like a thunderclap.

Jagged shards exploded in every direction, some embedding into nearby trees, others thudding harmlessly into the soft forest floor. Dust clouded the air. Elion shielded his eyes with his forearm. When the dust settled, the boulder was gone—replaced by a wide, cracked crater where it had stood.

Jordan stood at the center of the blast zone, breathing heavily, one arm still outstretched, fingers curled from the punch he'd just thrown.

"...Whoa," he said.

Ronan didn't say anything.

Not immediately.

Because for the past two fundamentals—Pulse and Veil—Elion had been the star. The prodigy. The monster who grasped concepts like they were second nature. Jordan had lagged behind—not by much, but the gap was always clear.

Until now.

With Fang, the playing field had shifted.

Elion had mastered the technique first, yes. He was able to channel his aura through the needle within half an hour. Precision? Perfect. Control? Impeccable. He could write his name on a stone with nothing but the needle and a single strand of aura.

Ronan had been stunned.

But then Jordan caught up.

An hour later, the needle in his hand gleamed with a dense, wild aura—not as refined as Elion's but thicker. Hungrier. When Ronan asked them to etch stone, Jordan didn't write letters.

He carved scars.

The rocks split. Chipped. One even cracked down the middle when Jordan got too excited.

Ronan narrowed his eyes.

"Again," he said.

And Jordan did. Over and over. Until he could shape the aura to his fingertip, elbow, and even knee. The forest floor had the bruises to prove it.

Elion watched in silence. Not out of jealousy—but curiosity. Because while his aura felt like a calm river—steady, deliberate—Jordan's was different.

It was a firework. A fuse.

A bomb waiting to be aimed.

They both mastered Fang. But they didn't wield it the same. Elion's strikes left precise cuts and clean incisions like a scalpel.

Jordan's?

They left craters.

"This is…" Ronan finally said, stepping toward the cracked crater Jordan had made. He knelt, running a hand across the shattered stone, brushing away the dust.

"…a problem," he muttered.

Jordan blinked. "Uh, what? I thought I nailed it."

"You did," Ronan said. "Too well."

He stood and looked between them. "You've both mastered Fang. That's three fundamentals. In record time. But your auras…"

He pointed to Elion. "Yours is silent. Focused. It whispers."

Then he pointed at Jordan. "Yours screams."

Jordan grinned like that was the best compliment he'd ever received.

"That's not necessarily a good thing," Ronan added quickly. "If you don't learn to temper that force, it'll burn through you."

Jordan nodded, still catching his breath. "Noted."

Elion stepped toward the remnants of the boulder, crouching beside Ronan. He touched a fragment. It was warm. Still buzzing faintly with residual aura.

"He didn't just break it," Elion said softly. "He obliterated it."

Ronan gave a grim nod. "You both wield Fang. But his… has fangs."

He looked at them, something cold settling in his eyes. "You'll need to learn how to rein that in. Especially before we move to the last fundamental."

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

"Guard," Ronan said. "The Fortification."

He folded his arms again, tone-heavy. "And it's not for offense. It's for survival."

Elion and Jordan exchanged a look.

Based on what Ronan had briefed them earlier, the first three were about building power...

Then the last?

It might be the difference between staying alive—and being ripped apart.

Ronan let the silence stretch, then finally said, "Rest for now. You're going to need it."

He turned away, but his thoughts lingered.

Jordan's destructive power...

Elion's terrifying mastery...

And both of them only have learned the three fundamentals.

"Too fast," he muttered under his breath.

"Too damn fast."

Meanwhile, Elion then crouched near the other shattered remains of the boulder, running his fingers along one of the jagged fragments. He was still impressed by what Jordan had done.

'Is the nature of aura fixed? Or could I unleash destruction like Jordan, too?' Elion wondered.

He wasn't envious—just curious. Deeply curious. Could anyone shape aura into anything, or were they bound by their own nature? He wanted to know. He needed to know. Because if the Beast Slaying Arts held infinite paths… Elion intended to master every single one.

Elion noticed something. The edges of the shattered boulder still buzzed faintly with aura—like the stone hadn't realized it was dead yet.

Ronan caught the look in Elion's eyes. "That's the thing about Fang," he said. "It doesn't just strike. It lingers."

He paused, then added, "Some Slayers learn to hide that lingering effect—especially in stealth kills. Concealing aura after the hit makes it harder to track."

A few feet away, Jordan stood with his hands on his hips, chest still rising and falling from the effort. He stared at the wreckage he'd caused, eyes wide with pride. The grin on his face? Pure satisfaction.

"Okay," he said, practically buzzing, "that was awesome."

Elion smirked and flicked a pebble at him. "You just committed a war crime against a rock."

Jordan caught the pebble midair without even looking. "Says the guy whose needle wrote cursive on stone like it's a love letter. Mine went boom. Yours gave a lecture."

"A crater, Jordan," Elion said. "You made a crater."

Jordan's grin widened. "Exactly."

They both laughed—easy, earned laughter. The kind that tasted like progress.

Jordan plopped down on one of the less-demolished rocks and gave Elion a curious look. "You feel it, right? That snap when the aura locks in. Like… everything lines up."

Elion nodded, settling beside him. "Yeah. At first, I tried to push it like forcing water through a pipe. But it's not like that. The more I stopped trying, the more it just… went. Like it wanted to go."

Jordan snapped his fingers. "Right? It's like your body already knows what to do. You just have to get your head out of the way."

They sat in silence for a moment—comfortable, steady. Not awkward.

Just… there.

Then Jordan tapped his temple. "My aura's not chill like yours, though. Yours flows like a river. Mine?" He gave a soft laugh. "It's a damn wrecking ball."

Elion chuckled. "Yeah, I noticed."

"I don't think I'll ever be that precise with it," Jordan said, holding up his hand. "But this kind of power? The way it slams into things? That's me. And honestly... I love it."

Elion raised an eyebrow. "You love being a walking demolition crew?"

Jordan didn't miss a beat. "Absolutely. This—raw, stupid power? It makes sense to me. It feels like me. And for once, I don't feel like I'm catching up to the rest of the world. I'm in it."

Elion nodded, his smirk softening. "Yeah. I get that."

Because he really did.

Jordan had always been about motion—momentum, energy, pushing forward no matter the odds. His aura matched that perfectly: loud, aggressive, wild. A sledgehammer.

Elion's, by contrast, was measured. Flowing. Controlled like a current under glass. A scalpel.

Both deadly.

But in very different ways.

Jordan leaned back, hands behind his head. "You think Ronan's gonna hit us with the next one today?"

Elion glanced toward the tree line. Ronan was still there, leaning casually against a crooked trunk, arms folded, eyes sharp. Watching. Measuring.

"I think," Elion said, "we're just getting started."

Jordan's grin returned. "Good."

And for once, he didn't care that Elion had mastered something first.

Because this—this was the kind of fight he was built for.

Ronan stepped forward, brushing dust off his cloak as he stopped beside the ruins of the boulder. "Alright," he said, his voice cutting through the clearing like a clean blade. "No time to bask in the glory of your rock murder."

Elion glanced up, still crouched by a chunk of stone, calm and composed. Jordan, on the other hand, stood tall with both fists on his hips and a grin wide enough to break the laws of facial structure.

"Celebrating?" Jordan said, practically glowing. "I was waiting for you to start the next training."

Ronan didn't smile.

Instead, he crossed his arms. "Good. Because we're moving on to the last fundamental."

He took a breath, then said. "This next one is called Guard—The Fortification."

Elion straightened, already tuning in.

Jordan, on the other hand, fist-pumped. "Defensive technique... Let's go!"

Ronan tilted his head. "Correction. Survival arts."

"Survival?" The word hit Jordan differently.

Jordan went quiet for a beat—because the way Ronan said it, it didn't sound like a skill. It sounded like a reminder. A cold truth about what being a Slayer really meant.

Elion had been waiting for this. He needed a defensive skill—something that could keep him alive when offense wasn't enough. And the way Ronan framed it?

Yeah… this wasn't just another technique.

This was the line between life and death.

And Elion believed it.

Ronan paced slowly as he explained. "Guard isn't flashy. It's not graceful. But it's the reason True Slayers walk away from attacks that should turn them into red mist."

He held up a hand and tapped two fingers against his chest. "It's about inward flow. Not striking. Not precision. You're not directing aura to a single point like with Fang. You're wrapping it inward—layering it over your muscles, your bones, your nerves."

He glanced at Jordan. "With Fang, you turn a fist into a cannon."

Then to Elion. "With Guard? You turn your body into armor."

Jordan tilted his head. "So... like aura coating?"

"Not exactly," Ronan replied. "Coating is surface-level. Guard digs deeper. It's reinforcement. It doesn't just protect—it hardens. Strengthens. It cushions the blow and helps your body endure the aftermath. Even if you get hit, you stay standing."

Elion frowned slightly, absorbing every word. "So if Fang is about external attack… Guard is internal defense."

Ronan snapped his fingers. "Exactly."

Then he looked between them. "Here's the tricky part. Fang and Guard can't coexist at the same time. It is almost impossible."

"So it is not impossible?" Elion asked.

Ronan shook his head. "You can't fully commit to destruction and defense at the same time. You have to choose—where the aura goes and why."

He stepped over to a nearby boulder—the only one not yet shattered. "Mastering Guard is like bracing for a storm you can't dodge. You don't block the punch. You become the wall it breaks against."

Jordan's eyes lit up. "Okay, that's actually kinda cool."

Elion looked intrigued. "So what's the training?"

Ronan turned around and grinned—for real this time.

"You fight me."

Jordan froze. "Sorry—what?"

Ronan rolled his shoulders, then casually stepped toward the last unbroken boulder in the clearing. "Fastest way to learn is under pressure. Real danger. Real pain. Real hits."

The wind rustled behind him, catching the edges of his cloak like a silent drumroll.

"Here's how this works," he said. "You use everything you've learned so far—Pulse, Veil, Fang—and try to master Guard. Blend them. Adapt. Survive."

Jordan's eyes lit up. "You're not even giving us a chance to train our Guard, huh?"

Ronan chuckled. "Well, as I said, it is not for defense alone. It is for survival. Then try to survive."

Jordan turned to Elion with a grin that was fifty percent excitement and fifty percent we're gonna die. "Can we strike back?"

Ronan actually chuckled. "Be my guest."

As he said that, the atmosphere changed. He didn't wait for them to prepare.

The wind shifted.

Then Ronan moved.

No warning. No countdown. One moment, he was standing. The next—he was everywhere.

Elion barely raised his arms before a kick slammed into his side. He activated Guard just in time—the aura reinforcing his ribs—but it was nowhere near the required standard. The force still sent him skidding across the grass. His breath caught in his throat. It felt like being hit by a car wrapped in steel.

"That hurts," he said while clutching his side.

Jordan spun and ducked under a sweeping leg, throwing a knee upward with explosive force. Ronan blocked with one arm—but his cloak fluttered slightly from the impact.

"Good, but it does no damage," Ronan said.

"Elion, let's attack together!" Jordan shouted, already launching a second strike. His elbow came down, coated in pulsing aura—pure Fang.

Ronan deflected it again, but this time… he actually had to block. Because Jordan wasn't just fighting. His aura was flowing.

Each strike of his Muay Thai was sharpened by Fang—knees, elbows, shins. The aura didn't just follow the motion; it rippled through it. Scattershot sparks of pressure spilled from every clash, forcing Ronan to shift his stance and react.

He was holding back—of course. Ronan wasn't even using a quarter of what Elion suspected he could. But he was no longer just brushing them off like leaves.

He was fighting them. A little.

Elion wiped the dirt off his shirt, eyes narrowing with renewed focus.

"I need to be smart," he muttered.

As Jordan launched into another flurry of attacks and Ronan shifted into defense, Elion stayed back—silent, still, watching. He studied the rhythm of their movements, the angles of each strike, the way aura rippled through every exchange.

If he couldn't match their power yet, then he'd learn their patterns. Break them down. Piece by piece.

Observation would be his weapon.

For now, it was the only path forward.

He channeled Pulse and felt his aura move—circulating fast and sharp. Then Veil—cutting the pressure around his body. He tried to vanish mid-movement and reappear behind Ronan with a spinning strike; Fang focused on the tip of his palm.

But Ronan was already there.

"This isn't the perfect Veil you showed during training," he said, ducking without even looking—then driving a fist toward Elion's shoulder.

Elion had no time. He poured aura inward—Guard—and the impact thudded against his bicep like a hammer on a drum. He didn't fall. That was the win.

Ronan stepped back and nodded once—not praise, but acknowledgment.

"You're defending well," he said to Elion mid-duel. "But you're not a fighter. Not yet."

And he was right.

Elion moved with calculation, with timing—but not instinct. His attacks never landed. Not because he lacked power—but because he lacked battle rhythm.

Meanwhile…

Jordan moved like he was born in a ring. His fists cracked the air. His legs fired off kicks with clean, brutal precision. His Fang wasn't elegant, but it hit. It made Ronan feel it.

He was starting to push Ronan. Not much. Not truly. But enough for Ronan to step around instead of standstill. Enough to make Ronan think. And that was the scariest part.

Ronan wasn't here to crush them. He was here to sharpen them. And right now?

Jordan was becoming a blade.

"You've had combat experience," Ronan noted, deflecting a strike. "What do you call that fighting style?"

"Muay Thai," Jordan replied, eyes locked on Ronan. He didn't stop moving—not for a second. He was still focused on landing a real hit.

Elion gritted his teeth and tried again—this time timing his Veil to erase his presence mid-lunge, aiming for Ronan's blind spot with a precision-coated strike.

It missed by an inch.

Ronan countered with a low sweep—Elion blocked it with Guard, tumbling backward but staying on his feet.

"You're learning," Ronan said, eyes unreadable. "Both of you."

Then he spun—his foot crashing into Jordan's ribs mid-kick. Jordan flew back and rolled, coughing hard.

But he stood.

And smiled.

"That the best you got, coach?"

Ronan cracked a grin. "Not even close."

Elion gritted his teeth, watching as Jordan weaved in and out of Ronan's strikes with fluid aggression. Every blow crackled with Fang, and every movement forced Ronan to respond—not just tolerate. Meanwhile, Elion had barely scratched the surface. He hadn't landed a single hit.

And a creeping thought took root in his mind.

'If I don't step up now… I'll always be the bait.'

The realization hit hard. It wasn't just about training anymore—it was survival. He couldn't keep hiding behind analysis and instincts. He had to fight.

He shut his eyes for a brief second, reaching deep, trying to summon that flash of instinct from the night before—when he'd volleyed the ape-man's head clean.

'What was I thinking then?'

And then he remembered.

Soccer.

Not strategy. Not technique. Just instinct. His body had moved on its own—sharp, fast, precise. Back then, on the field, he wasn't just smart. He was dangerous. A monster in cleats. A wizard with the ball.

His eyes snapped open.

'Ronan isn't just a target,' he thought. He's the opposing player. I need to steal the ball. Mark him. Predict his move.'

He focused—not on Ronan's strength but on his rhythm. His balance. Elion imagined every limb, every vulnerable spot, as the ball—and he was going to steal or... shoot it.