Chapter 514 - Jean Durand

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 test the limits of his body.

That victorious feeling, the reward for all the effort, etches itself deeply within him—something he will strive for the rest of his life to experience again.

Nearby, on the judges’ panel, three white lights shine—referees confirming the validity of his final lift at this powerlifting meet.

His heart beating wildly, he steps off the stage. He doesn’t even head backstage; instead, he sits nearby, waiting for his only competitor to attempt to match his lift. He watches, happiness affirming his efforts, as his opponent tries to deadlift the weight but fails to pull it even to his knees. It’s as if the bar is 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 only 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 so heavy.

But not for Jean.

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

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

A few short steps. Pause. Adjust his stance. A deep breath in.

One last look at the audience—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 doesn’t slip, and with 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 so primal or excited. He’s a bit surprised. Was it supposed to be this easy? Why hadn’t anyone else lifted it so far?

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

***

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 feeling of victory, Jean gives up the sport and turns his attention elsewhere.

Strongman.

Sports like rugby, hockey, football, and golf may draw bigger viewership numbers, but Jean doesn’t care. He never liked team sports and has declined more offers to join them than he can count.

No, he relies solely on himself. Money doesn’t matter; it’s only that feeling he chases, even after all these years.

And becoming 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 even stronger. After mastering all those events and facing all those strong men. After losing his first strongman competition. After placing second in his second competition. He now wins.

Surrounded by cheers, Jean looks down at his hands. Full of calluses, some bleeding. Blood mixes with the white chalk.

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

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

Next year will be different. It must be.

***

At twenty-eight years old, Jean Durand wins and 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 but carrying a sharp edge.

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

"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 I’d 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 nearby, 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 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 can’t hold back anymore and shouts, “Challenge, challenge, someone to beat, to compare 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 usually 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 bright idea lights in his eyes. “Martial sports? What do you think? I could get you some boxing matches, maybe MMA.”

“I would likely 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 can never beat, 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 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 felt all these years. And I’d find out 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 fly into the air. He removes that sword he carries at his waist—one I haven’t seen him use so far—and tosses it aside like trash.

Then, an armor surrounds him, a mana of three colors forming it. Simple but beautifully functional in design, it grows until he is as large as I am.

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

I activate [Regulator] and, for the first time since the fifth floor months ago, 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—an immensely difficult structure I might be able to deploy at once.

Then Jean takes a step and the ground beneath him explodes into a crater. A huge smile grows on his face as stones are hurled into the air from the explosion. He grabs them and throws them at me. They crash against my armor and turn to fine dust.

I form a long spear and stab it into the ground, increasing its length as Jean punches toward me. The pressure alone blows off stones, grass, and even a boulder as big as a car, sending it rolling away like a bowling ball.

Then he stands before me, punching my armor. The kinetic energy of his punch fills it. I activate Counter Flow and take it on. The amount of energy is much higher than expected. Far more than he has shown so far, but I manage. I accept it, redirect it, and then I attack, releasing it back at him. His body is flung, crashing through the ground like a flat stone skipping across a lake.

Wraith Dance brings me closer, and I use it again and again until I reach him as he stops rolling and stands up.

My fist meets his, and he punches my chest again. Counter Flow takes it all in, and my attack releases it at him. The forest behind him is torn, trees uprooted and sent flying, but he endures it, crossing his forearms in front of his body.

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

My attack sends him flying, crashing against one of the pillars and burying his body inside it.

Quick Wraith Dance takes me closer. I slow into walking, roll my shoulders to warm them up, 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—he hurled a stone at my helmet with immense force.

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

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

My [Eclipse] triggers multiple times, fighting the frequency of his skill, but my body is still pulled toward him at incredible speed. I cancel it and absorb the inertia of that movement, ending up right in front of him.

I duck under his swing and punch his chest, releasing kinetic energy. I dodge his kick and punch again, then move to the side to avoid another strike, delivering two of my own.

Each of his swings leaves damage behind. That incredible pressure would surely tear my body apart without my armor or kinetic energy.

“Pull,” he repeats.

This time I’m ready, and I disrupt the effect on me, only stumbling slightly.

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

Resonance Flow activates, absorbing the movement from all these objects in midair. But Jean already holds my left arm.

“Got you.” He squeezes, breaking the armor as if it’s tin foil, crushing my flesh and bone.

“It’s always the left arm.”

“What?”

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

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

It's my cut off arm.

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

I allow my body to be pulled by Jean again and expand my armor’s size, crashing into him with the speed I’ve increased using kinetic energy. Two more arms form from my back, reaching for his arms while I 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 my 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 but stops at those extremely durable bones.

Multiple projectiles form above me and shoot 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 defeat in his face.

None at all.

He seems to be getting warmed up.

***

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