Weapons of Mass Destruction

Flashback Jean Durand

A young man, no more than seventeen, victoriously thrusts both arms into the air with a loud, primal scream. His muscles tense as he basks in the exhilaration of winning, of competing, of putting everything on the line to push the limits of his body.

That feeling of victory, the reward for all his effort, etches itself deeply within him. And he knows that he’s found something to strive for the rest of his life just to have that experience again.

Three white lights illuminate the judges’ panel nearby as the referees confirm the validity of his final lift for the meet.

His heart beating wildly, he steps off the stage. He doesn’t even head backstage; instead, he takes a seat nearby, waiting for his only competitor to make their attempt to match his lift. He watches, a sense of elation flooding through him as he sees his efforts affirmed, watching as his opponent tries and fails to deadlift the weight, struggling to even pull it to his knees. As if the bar had been glued to the floor.

Jean’s brother and sister rush to him, hugging and congratulating him.

It’s not often you set a national record at a mere seventeen years old.

The stage is bigger this time. The referees seem less friendly, the lights more revealing. Every step feels unsteady, and the weight that felt so light in training now seems unbearably heavy.

But not for Jean.

The ever-present big smile fades from the nineteen-year-old boy’s face as he scratches at the beard he’s just begun to grow.

He adjusts his belt, applies a final dusting of chalk to his palms, and slaps them together, sending a white cloud of chalk bursting forth. The slap echoes sharply, and with it, all other sounds fade away.

A few short steps. Pause. Adjust stance. Deep breath in.

One last look at the audience, at his sister, his brother. The referees.

Then, there is only the weight. And it moves. It moves so easily.

His muscles tighten, his skin hugging them tightly. His grip on the bar remains secure, and in one smooth motion, Jean pulls it up, waiting for the signal.

When it comes, he gently releases the weight.

Three white lights.

Jean raises his arms into the air in a triumphant gesture. But this time, his shout isn’t nearly as primal or excited. He’s a bit surprised. Was it supposed to be so easy? Why hadn’t anyone else lifted it?

He shrugs it off with a smile. It’s time to celebrate, not ponder useless thoughts. There must be more opponents to draw his focus. More records to break.

At twenty-four years old, Jean Durand retires from powerlifting.

He built his body to compete in the open category and lift the heaviest weights. Every record he sought, he has broken. Every opponent he aimed to defeat, he has conquered. There is nothing left for him to accomplish here.

Striving to relive that first taste of victory, Jean gives up the sport and turns his attention elsewhere.

Strongman.

Sports like rugby, hockey, football, and golf may get higher ratings, but Jean doesn’t care. He never liked team sports to begin with, and he’s declined offers from more teams than he can count.

No, he relies solely on himself. Money doesn’t matter; he’s only interested in chasing that feeling of victory, even after all these years.

And the title of the world’s strongest man has a nice ring to it.

At twenty-seven years old, Jean Durand becomes the World’s Strongest Man. After three fruitful years of learning, adapting, and growing ever stronger. After mastering every event and facing an endless parade of strongmen. After losing his first strongman competition. After placing second in his second competition. He finally secures the win.

Surrounded by cheers, Jean looks down at his hands. Covered in calluses, there’s even some bleeding. He stares down at them as the blood mixes with the white chalk.

That’s it? Did he do all this just to end up in the same place as before?

When his brother and sister rush to him again, he forces out a loud laugh and gently scoops them up, being careful not to hurt them.

Next year will be different.

It must be.

At twenty-eight years old, Jean Durand wins and successfully defends his title.

At twenty-nine years old, Jean Durand wins again.

The crowd erupts as the cameras zoom in, capturing the sweat dripping down his face and the intensity in his eyes. After lifting the trophy, he steps down for the post-event interview, his demeanor calm while carrying a sharp edge.

When the reporter asks what sets him apart, Jean leans into the microphone, his voice steady and deliberate. However, his usually friendly face reveals a strong dose of frustration.

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"I don’t do anything special," he begins, his words cutting through the noise. "But here’s the truth. Winning isn’t just about lifting the heaviest weights. It’s about stepping onto this stage and leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind who the strongest is."

He pauses, scanning the room, his gaze piercing. "To my competitors—ask yourselves, did you really come here ready to take this title? Or were you just hoping to see me stumble? Because from where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like you were prepared to face me."

Jean steps away, the trophy gleaming in his hand, leaving the crowd and his rivals behind.

At thirty years old, Jean Durand wins again.

As the cameras close in and the crowd surges with applause, he stands tall, trophy in hand, and addresses the reporters. His voice is calm but resolute as he declares, “The next competition will be my last.”

The announcement sends a ripple of shock through the gathered crowd. Gasps and murmurs spread like wildfire, and even his manager, standing at his side, buries his face in his hands in dismay. But Jean doesn’t flinch. His expression remains steady, unaffected by the noise around him.

Then, after a deliberate pause, he adds, “If any of my competitors felt so much as a shred of relief when I said that, maybe that’s the reason they’ve never beaten me.”

Later that night, after a long conversation, his manager, feeling he can’t hold himself back anymore, shouts, “A challenge, what do you mean challenge, someone to beat, to compare yourself to? So what? Jean, just take it easy, make some money, win competitions, get sponsorships, and retire to a nice villa by the sea. That’s what normal people want.”

“That’s not for me, Luis.”

“Damn it, man,” the manager sighs, downing another shot. “You were born in the wrong era. A thousand years ago, people like you led armies and fought to their heart’s content. But now? There’s nothing you can do about it.”

For a moment, a new idea lights up his eyes. “Martial sports? What do you think? I could get you some boxing matches, maybe MMA.”

“I would probably end up killing someone, Luis. I just want to compete and relive that feeling. That’s all.”

“Damn musclehead. And what will you do if you meet someone you have no hope of defeating, no matter how hard you try?”

Jean smiles brightly as he downs his shot. “I will always win in the end, Luis. You know that.”

“Yes, yes, but what if you really, really can’t win?”

Jean leans back, scratching his much longer beard as he gives it some thought. Finally, he shrugs with a faint grin. “Then I’d still be happy. It’d mean I finally know what my opponents have been feeling all these years. And I’d finally know if I have what it takes to rise above or if I’d break just like they did.”

POV Jean Durand

Noname doesn’t even try to fly his way into the air. He removes that sword he carries on his hip, the one I haven’t seen him use even once, and tosses it aside like trash.

Then, he surrounds himself in armor, forming it from a three colored mass of mana. It’s simple but beautifully functional in design, and it grows until he stands as tall as me.

Before the mask of his helmet covers his face, I notice the corners of his lips curling upward.

I use [Regulator] and, for the first time since I left the fifth floor all those months ago, I let my full strength flood through my body.

POV Nathaniel

Even as we face each other, I continue to weave armor around my body. In the back of my mind, I prepare to weave Ley Lines into the mix, focusing on the immensely difficult structure so that I can deploy it at a moment’s notice.

Then Jean takes a step, and the ground beneath him explodes into a crater. A huge smile lighting up his face as stones are hurled into the air by the explosion. He grabs a few and throws them at me. They crash against my armor and crumble to a fine dust.

I form a long spear and jam it into the ground, increasing its length as Jean throws another punch at me. The pressure alone blows away a shower of stones, grass, and even a boulder the size of a car, sending it rolling into the distance like a bowling ball.

Then he stands before me, punching my armor. The kinetic energy of his punch flows through its structure as I activate Counter Flow and take the blow head on. The resulting flood of energy winds up being much higher than expected. Far more than anything, he’s demonstrated so far, but I manage. I accept it, redirect it, and then I attack, throwing it back at him. His body is flung through the air, skipping across the ground like a flat stone on a lake.

Wraith Dance brings me closer, and I maintain the stance until I reach him as he finally recovers and begins to stand.

My fist meets his, and he punches me in the chest again. Counter Flow takes it all in, and my attack returns it. The forest behind him is torn, trees find themselves uprooted and sent flying, but he endures it, holding his forearms crossed in front of his body.

He punches, and I absorb it again, but this time, it’s stronger, and a crack forms in my armor. I restore it quickly, but before I can throw another punch, he hits me again, doubling the amount of energy I’ve absorbed.

My attack sends him flying and crashing into one of the pillars, burying his body within.

Quick Wraith Dance brings me back into range. I slow into walking, rolling my shoulders to warm up as I clench and unclench my fist.

Jean falls out of the pillar, covered in dust, scratches, and bruises. He moves his arm, and my head snaps back as he hurls a stone at my helmet, driving it with immense force.

The man smiles at that and pounds his chest, the dust falling from his clothes.

“Well, I don’t like using these skills, but what else can I do if you’re too scared to get close?” he smirks, reaching a hand toward me. “Pull.”

My [Eclipse] triggers multiple times, fighting the frequency of his skill, but my body still moves toward him at incredible speed. I cancel it and focus on absorbing my own inertia, coming to a stop right in front of him.

I duck under his swing and punch him in the chest, releasing kinetic energy as I do. Then I dodge an incoming kick and punch again, moving to the side to avoid another strike, delivering two of my own in return.

Each of his swings leaves a noticeable degree of damage in its wake. That incredible pressure would’ve surely torn my body apart without my armor and kinetic energy to blunt the impact.

“Pull,” he repeats.

This time, I’m ready to disrupt the effect, managing not to stumble for more than an instant.

All the debris he pulled in with me crashes against my body.

Resonance Flow activates, absorbing the energy of their motion in midair. But Jean’s already gotten a hold of my left arm.

“Got you.” He declares, squeezing down and crumpling my armor like tin foil, crushing flesh and bone in the process.

“It’s always the left arm.”

“What?”

Before he can ask more, I compress multiple tricolored orbs inside it and cut it loose, then kick him away. Teleporting through a [Ley Line] and searing the wound closed with thermal energy and recreating the arm from mana.

Something crashes against my armor at incredible speed, radiating a powerful mana signature.

It's my severed arm.

The moment I recognize it and teleport again, my arm explodes somewhere behind us, the shock waves crashing over me in rapid succession.

I allow my body to be pulled by Jean again and expand my armor around me, crashing into him at a speed boosted with kinetic energy. Two more arms form from my back, reaching out to restrain his arms while I press the attack with the remaining two.

Even so, I can’t hold him. That incredible strength swells inside his body, and he throws me off balance before punching me again, drilling a hole through my armor and body.

I shrink my armor, make it denser, and form a sword in my hand, slashing at his arm as he lifts it. The blade pierces his flesh only to stop as it comes into contact with his extremely durable bones.

A number of projectiles form above me and burst forth, each creating a booming shockwave as I boost them with kinetic energy. They pierce through his body, staggering him backward.

But there is no look of defeat to be found on his face.

None at all.

In fact, he just seems to be getting warmed up.