Six months of training had reshaped Serik completely.His hair, jet-black and messy, was always damp with sweat.His eyes, a bright and piercing blue, had gained a sharp focus they never had before.He stood about as tall as Gon had been at his age—small, but sturdy.His arms were lean with developing muscle, his legs strong from running every day, and his shoulders no longer drooped the way they once had.He looked like a boy shaped by discipline, pain, and determination.
That morning, while Serik finished stretching, Jons approached him with a calm but unusually serious expression.
"Young master," he said, "this week, I have a special assignment for you."
Serik blinked and straightened. "What kind of assignment?"
"You will fight," Jons said. "Not against me. But against one of the assassins your father's family has been sending after you."
Serik froze.
"What…? Assassins… right now? Why would—"
He went pale, suddenly restless, eyes darting around as if someone might jump from behind a tree.
After a moment, Serik inhaled deeply and forced himself to calm down.
"So if I'm not dead yet, that means… you already dealt with them, didn't you?"
Jons showed a tiny smile. "Correct, young master."
Serik swallowed. "You… killed them all?"
"Every one of them," Jons replied without hesitation. "But now it is your turn. You need real combat experience. If you only train in safety, you will eventually reach a plateau. Your body and mind require real threat to grow."
Serik hesitated, then asked the question weighing on his chest."Am I supposed to kill him?"
Jons paused for a moment, closing his eyes briefly before answering."That is for you to decide. But only after you win. Without victory, there is nothing to decide."
Serik clenched his fists, determination replacing fear."Then first… I just need to win."
The days that followed were filled with unbearable tension. Every morning, Serik asked, "Is he here yet?"And every morning, Jons answered the same thing without expression:
"I will not help you find him. That is your job."
Serik grew frustrated. His nerves were stretched so tightly they ached, but eventually, after days without attack, he began to relax again. The fear faded into expectation, and expectation settled into readiness.
Six days passed.
On the seventh day, while Serik was doing morning endurance drills in the yard, the air changed.
He didn't know what killing intent was—but he felt something heavy slam against his chest, like a silent scream directed at him.
Serik spun around.
A middle-aged man walked through the yard with casual arrogance.He had bright red hair, tied back lazily.Dirty gray coat, boots covered in dust, a long diagonal scar across his chin.He held a pistol loosely at his side, and two curved daggers strapped across his belt.
The man smirked."Well, well. Didn't expect the kid to be the one I'd find first."He tapped his pistol against his shoulder."Name's Rudren Solas. Remember it if you somehow live long enough."
Serik stumbled back.Rudren lifted his pistol slowly.
No cover.No trees close enough.No escape.
Serik did the only thing he could think of—he ran toward Rudren.
If he stayed still, he would die instantly.
Just before Rudren pulled the trigger, something silver flashed across Serik's vision.
A spoon—thrown with terrifying force—struck the pistol, sending it spinning through the air and into the grass.
Rudren clicked his tongue. "Tch. A babysitter."
Jons stepped into the yard like he had been waiting the whole time, posture perfect, expression unreadable.
"Choose your weapon," Jons said calmly."Fight the young master. Win, and you live. Lose… and you die."
Rudren stared at him, wide-eyed. "You… you're serious?"
"Completely."
The assassin trembled, recognizing instantly that Jons was not someone he could ever defeat.He swallowed hard, then nodded.
"I'll… fight the brat."
Serik froze. His heart thumped violently.Serik realized at that moment that if Jons hadn't intervened, he would already be a corpse on the ground.
But this was his chance .His test.A moment to prove that six months of hell meant something.
Serik took one deep breath and steadied himself.
Rudren drew a dagger, spinning it between his fingers.He cracked his neck and smirked.
"Well, kid… hope you're ready."
They charged.
Serik tried to stay calm, remembering his footwork, but fighting a real adult was nothing like training with Jons, who held back. Rudren's movements were sharp, unpredictable, full of murderous intent. Serik dodged the first slash barely. The next grazed his shoulder. The third slammed into his ribs as the butt of the dagger struck him.
He coughed and staggered back, but refused to fall.
Rudren laughed. "Not bad. You're slippery. Like a puppy trying to live."
Serik attacked next, aiming for Rudren's wrist like Jons taught him. Rudren swatted him aside with ease, but Serik didn't stop. He kept moving, dodging, striking, retreating—never giving up. His heart pounded. His lungs burned. His legs screamed. But he kept going.
Rudren swept Serik off his feet with a kick and pinned him down with the dagger at his throat.
"I win," he whispered triumphantly.
He stood up proudly, grinning broadly at Jons.
"I beat him! I won! I'm done here—I'm leaving!"
He turned to walk away—
A fork struck the ground in front of his boot, burying itself inches deep.
Rudren froze.
Jons' voice was quiet, but colder than winter steel.
"I said you would live," he reminded him."I never said you could leave."
Rudren's face went pale.
"Be a good boy," Jons continued, adjusting his gloves."Stand up. And prepare to fight again."
Rudren trembled as he turned back to face Serik.
Serik wiped the blood from his lip and rose to his feet, eyes burning with determination.
Both fighters stood facing each other, battered, breathless, and ready.
Both thinking the same thing:
I'm going to win.