CHAPTER 8: A LAYMAN'S ADVICE
After only one round of offense and defense, blood stained the dirt of the ring. It wasn't the shallow cut of a blade or broken glass; it was the raw, jagged wound caused by pure physical impact—the hallmark of brutal violence.
"Pfft..."
Komada exhaled sharply, clearing the blood from his nose so he could breathe.
He hadn't expected Ren Shiroki's dash to be that fast, but as a professional fighter, he had adjusted his rhythm and seized the momentum. Just as he was about to press his advantage, he heard Ren shouting something nonsensical—something about "finding out where he was wrong."
"Show you where you're wrong?"
The throbbing pain from his shattered nose reached his brain, twisting Komada's face into a grotesque, snarling mask of rage. He was truly incensed now.
"I was wondering why you didn't beg me for mercy if you were really forced into this. Now I see the answer. It's quite simple."
Komada reached up, grabbing his own work shirt by the collar and ripping the fabric apart with a violent tug.
"You're just a... lunatic!"
RRRIP!
The shirt fell away, revealing Komada's massive, bare torso. His muscles were defined like slabs of granite, radiating raw physical power.
The gamblers in the casino couldn't help but think: He looks like a temple guardian.
Indeed, tattooed across Komada's back was a massive, wrathful Nioh—the Deva King. The ink seemed to merge with his monstrous frame, as if a god of war had taken residence within his flesh.
"Where are you wrong?"
Komada made a move to answer, but instead, he balled up his torn shirt and hurled it at Ren's face to blind him. Simultaneously, he lunged forward, unleashing a devastating left hook.
Ren didn't have time for a full dodge. He tucked his chin and crossed his forearms, bracing to tank the heavy blow.
BOOM!
The impact sent him reeling back several paces. His forearms immediately began to swell and turn a deep, angry purple.
"You're wrong about the 'Weight Class' gap," Komada growled, rolling his wrist as he stalked forward.
"Boxing has evolved into seventeen distinct weight classes for a reason. Often, there's only a five-pound difference between them. That's to ensure 'fairness' and a 'spectacle.'"
"The weight difference between us is over fifty pounds. It's an impossible wall to climb."
"In this world, 'Strength' is proportional to 'Mass.' The small are suppressed by the large. The short are trampled by the tall. That is the only reality!"
Before the words had even fully left his mouth, Komada ground the ball of his foot into the dirt.
SCRATCH!
Even though he was still out of arm's reach, Komada threw a high kick. It wasn't meant to land; the soles of his shoes were coated in the loose dirt of the ring. He used the kick to spray a blinding cloud of sand directly into Ren's eyes.
Ren squinted, protecting his vision but refusing to look away. He knew the real killing blow was coming next.
Sure enough, Komada followed up with a massive front-kick.
THOOM!
Ren slipped to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. Komada's foot slammed into the wooden perimeter fence behind Ren.
CRACK-SHATTER!
The heavy solid-oak boards didn't just break—they exploded into splinters.
The onlookers gasped. That fence was thick enough to stop a motorcycle, yet Komada had kicked through it like it was made of balsa wood.
But the experts in the room—Metsudo, Fusui, Karura, and Ren himself—saw the truth.
He has steel plates built into those shoes.
"He fights dirty. If that connects, it's over..."
Ren flexed his numb fingers, trying to work the blood back into his swollen forearms. In his vision, the phantoms of Komada and Ryu were closing in again. He was effectively fighting a two-on-one battle.
"How do I break Komada's rhythm? And what the hell is Ryu's punch trying to teach me?"
Ren panted heavily, using frantic footwork to circle away. Every dodge was becoming more desperate, every "near miss" closer than the last.
As the match hit its fever pitch, the crowd's roars filled the building.
Outside the ring, Metsudo Katahara looked like he was having the time of his life. He was practically vibrating with excitement.
"Ho ho! It may not be an official Kengan Match, but this has a charm all its own!"
He turned to his drinking buddy, Akagi, with a wide grin. "Great, isn't it? But the official matches are even better! I have so many fighters I could recommend to you..."
Metsudo was babbling with joy, but Akagi looked completely bored.
"Hmm?" Metsudo tilted his head. "Akagi-kun, are you tired?"
"...You could say that."
Akagi gave a thin, distant smile and looked down at his glass. A single finger of gold whiskey remained, reflecting the cold light in his eyes. "Thanks for the invite, but once I finish this drink, I think I'll take my leave."
"Eh~?"
Metsudo knew Akagi was a man of cold, detached temperament, so he didn't take offense. Instead, he leaned into his "annoying old man" persona. "Why the long face? It's a rare night out! If you don't tell me why you're leaving, I won't be able to sleep from the guilt!"
Akagi paused, realizing it would be rude to just walk away without an explanation.
"This atmosphere... this 'excitement'... it's all fake."
Beside them, Fusui Kure blinked. "Fake? It looks pretty real to me. Are the gamblers all actors?"
"No, not the people," Akagi said, taking a sip of his whiskey. He scanned the crowd with a sigh. "Their passion only exists because there is a 'predetermined outcome.'"
"They see the blood, they see Komada's mass, and they see a guaranteed win. They aren't cheering for a fight; they're cheering for the money they've already mentally collected."
"To me, this isn't a martial arts match. It isn't even a gamble. It's just a routine performance following a script. There is no 'Win' or 'Loss' here."
Akagi lit a cigarette and gave a self-deprecating chuckle. "Maybe it's just my own quirk. I have no interest in things that don't have a true 'Win/Loss' stakes. Anyway, thanks for the drink. See you around."
Akagi blew out a cloud of smoke and turned to leave, but Metsudo's laughter stopped him.
"Ho ho! It hurts my feelings to be underestimated like that..."
Akagi stopped.
Metsudo's eyes turned razor-sharp, despite the smile on his face. "Do you think I'm the kind of man who enjoys 'shallow' entertainment? I'm old, Akagi-kun, but I'm not senile."
"The crowd doesn't matter. The only thing that interests me is the fighter in that ring."
Metsudo looked at the dirt, where Ren Shiroki was being driven back step by step.
"In the arena, there are men who fight for money, men who fight because they're desperate, and men who have a hidden agenda. But then, there is another kind."
"A purer kind."
Metsudo sniffed the air playfully. "My nose is still sharp. And that young man over there? He smells a lot like you, Akagi-kun."
Akagi didn't think much of himself, but Metsudo's words made him pause and look at Ren with fresh eyes. He studied the young man's movements for a moment.
"...I see. So that's how it is? Heh. You're right. There is an 'Error' there."
ZIP—BOOM!
Ren barely slipped a kick, only for the combined heavy punches of Komada and Ryu to slam into his guard. The force sent him flying into the wooden fence.
This wasn't a regulated match; there was no "out of bounds" reset. Leaving the ring meant nothing.
Ren slumped against the broken boards, his arms throbbing with white-hot pain. He could barely clench his fists. His stamina was almost zero.
And yet, the "Fundamental Error" Ryu was trying to show him—the key to the fight—remained just out of reach.
"Living toward death."
A low, calm voice cut through the noise, right next to Ren's ear.
Ren looked to the side. A silver-haired man was standing right outside the fence, holding a cigarette. Arisa and Fusui were standing next to him.
Ren didn't have time to ask who the hell he was. He gasped out, "Are you... giving me a tip? A technique?"
"No. I know nothing about martial arts. I'm a layman when it comes to brawling," Akagi said tonelessly. "But your spirit is already dead. You have no true desire to win. You only have a desire to 'avoid.'"
"People who lose everything at the gambling tables fall into the same trap."
"You are only thinking about 'dodging.'"
Akagi's cold, clear eyes locked onto Ren's. He flicked the ash from his cigarette.
"Think about it. 'Winning after a successful dodge' is a convoluted path. I've always found it inferior to simply... 'Winning.'"