The Birth of the Devouring Fist

Azar sat cross-legged on a high, secluded peak deep within the mountains, surrounded by a silent expanse of stone and sky. In this untouched solitude, he had spent days pushing his body to the brink, leaping across cliffs, pulverizing boulders, and testing his limits in every way he could imagine. Yet his mind was equally focused; memories of past battles churned in his thoughts as he sought something more—an evolution in his fighting style that would channel his full potential.

Bang's powerful, efficient strikes echoed in his memory, and he recalled the old master's strength and skill, refined over decades. His fight with the Deep Sea King had driven Azar to his physical limits, forcing him to unleash his power without reservation. And then there was Saitama, whose casual, effortless movements belied an unimaginable strength. Azar wanted that—an approach to combat that would turn his raw might into something disciplined, focused, and uniquely his own.

He closed his eyes, pulling from the techniques he had honed in his past life. Martial arts had once been his foundation, but now, with the unimaginable power he wielded, he needed something new, something to harness his vast strength in a way that made him unstoppable. He rose, stretching his arms, fists clenched as he mentally pieced together the fragments of his past and present experiences.

There was something else—something dormant that had stirred within him ever so slightly after his battle with the Deep Sea King. He had felt it faintly, almost like a pulse, drawing a fragment of power from his opponent with each strike. This "Law of Devouring" wasn't just an ability to absorb from fallen enemies; it was awakening to a new potential. The slightest touch in battle allowed him to siphon traces of strength, adding another layer to his combat prowess. If he could perfect this, his attacks could not only devastate but also subtly drain his enemies, making him stronger with every blow.

Azar shifted into a stance, feet firmly planted on the rocky surface beneath him, arms raised in front of him in a loose but ready position. He envisioned a technique that would embody both destruction and consumption, flowing from one strike to the next like a predatory dance. He took a breath and then moved, striking out with calculated precision. His fists whipped through the air, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next as he unleashed a powerful flurry, targeting an invisible opponent.

The energy in his punches felt different this time. With each movement, he focused on the pull of energy within, an insatiable core that drew from his surroundings as he imagined facing an opponent. He could feel the slight pulse of his devouring power responding to his attacks, a faint yet undeniable surge feeding back into his muscles with each strike. It wasn't as potent as when he absorbed a defeated foe, but even this subtle siphon could prove invaluable over time.

He slammed his fist into a nearby boulder, shattering it completely. Azar didn't stop; he spun on his heel, sweeping his leg around and pulverizing another nearby stone, following up with a series of rapid punches that sent fragments flying. Dust rose around him as he moved, each motion a blend of devastating power and relentless consumption, his mind focused on refining his technique into a single, seamless style.

As he continued his assault on the mountainside, his strikes grew faster and sharper. Every blow flowed into the next like a storm, and he could feel himself harnessing his immense strength with increasing control. Each punch siphoned power from the imaginary foes in his mind, every strike adding to his strength in small but unmistakable ways. He imagined the Deep Sea King before him, envisioning the draining pulse of the devouring law as he landed blow after blow. This, he realized, would allow him to grow stronger as a fight wore on, each hit slowly wearing down his opponent's strength.

After a few more minutes of relentless movement, Azar stopped, panting, his eyes glinting with satisfaction. He looked at his hands, feeling the pulse of power within, an embodiment of his evolution. This was his answer, a fighting style that blended his martial background with his newfound ability, a technique that would grow stronger the longer he fought. It was a force designed to wear down even the strongest foes, draining them while delivering relentless, bone-crushing power.

He smiled, the name coming to him naturally.

"Devouring Fist," he muttered, testing the sound of it. It was fitting. This style was not just about delivering blows; it was about consuming, devouring the strength of those who dared to challenge him.

To solidify the form, he launched himself into one last exercise, imagining a fierce opponent before him. He threw punch after punch, each one sharp and precise, every movement accompanied by a faint pulling sensation as his body instinctively tried to siphon strength from his imaginary foe. His attacks sent cracks splitting through the ground, his fists leaving indentations on the stone. He could sense the Devouring Fist responding, adjusting, and intensifying his own power, turning his hands into weapons that could crush stone and enemies alike.

Azar straightened, breathing deeply as he took in the devastation around him. His body was alive with newfound energy, his mind sharp with the satisfaction of discovery. This technique—his Devouring Fist—was everything he had hoped for. It was ruthless, it was relentless, and it was his.