CHAPTER 55: AND SO, WE BRAWL!!
CRASH!
The entire Cadillac was flipped onto its roof, its undercarriage exposed like a cat showing its belly.
Inside the wreckage, Yamamoto, the Yanagawa-gumi Patriarch, felt as though he had just survived a high-speed collision with a freight train. Dazed and bleeding, he scrambled through the shattered side window, coughing up glass dust.
The scene was so terrifying that Yamamoto wondered if he was hallucinating.
A nineteen-year-old boy... possessing the national-treasure level of inhuman 'Might' described in the legends?
"EEEEE—?!"
Seeing Hanayama stalk toward him, Yamamoto bolted. He began a frantic game of ring-around-the-rosy with the flipped car, desperate to keep the heavy chassis between himself and the monster in the white suit.
Hanayama's patience evaporated. A thick vein throbbed in his temple. He slammed a heavy fist into the car's wheel well, the impact buckling the steel. In one fluid motion, he reached out and snatched the rubber tire clean off the rim.
He gripped the inner edges of the tire with both hands. With a single, explosive pull, he tore the heavy industrial rubber in half.
"He... he shredded a tire with his bare hands..."
Yamamoto's legs turned to jelly. He couldn't even run anymore.
Hanayama braced a hand against the Cadillac's floorboards and vaulted.
ZIP!
Despite weighing over 160kg (350 lbs), Hanayama cleared the obstacle with the grace of an Olympic gymnast, landing squarely in front of the cowering Yakuza.
Desperate, Yamamoto reached for his katana.
But Hanayama was faster. His hand clamped onto the scabbard. His terrifying Grip Strength crushed the wood and metal, warping the sheath so badly that the blade was pinned inside.
Yamamoto turned to flee, but a massive hand snaked out. A single finger dug into Yamamoto's eye socket—not to gouge, but to anchor.
SHING!
With a violent yank, Yamamoto was forced back around to face Hanayama.
"This is war," Hanayama said. He looked at the man, who had already lost control of his bladder. Hanayama's voice was calm, almost educational.
"You stepped into this. You put a price on my head. That means you should have been prepared to pay the same stake. To play without resolve is to be... incomplete."
"Go back and practice your resolve."
Hanayama pinched Yamamoto's ears between his thumbs and forefingers. He gave a casual, sharp tug.
RRRIP!
A grip that could shred a truck tire made short work of human cartilage.
A high-pitched scream tore through the night. Yamamoto's ears were gone, tossed casually into the blood-stained gutter by a man who didn't even look angry.
Aside from Hina Hongo and Ren Shiroki, the rest of the group stood frozen, cold sweat drenching their clothes.
"Gulp..."
Nozomi Tenma swallowed hard, her voice trembling. "Flipping a car... shredding tires... tearing ears... is that guy even human? How much training does it take to reach that level?!"
"Heh... heh."
Kizaki let out a low, proud chuckle. He looked at the stunned group and shared the most famous secret of the Hanayama family.
"The Boss... Kaoru Hanayama... is a Natural-Born Powerhouse. And he is fully aware of it."
"Therefore... he never trains."
Kizaki looked up at the moon, his eyes filled with genuine reverence.
"In the Boss's eyes, a man born with 'Absolute Might' who still practices to improve himself is... cowardly."
"He believes that if you are already gifted with the talent of the Strong, then spending your time in secret training is no different from a 'Sneak Attack.' It's a dirty trick meant to steal the initiative from the weak."
"He calls it 'despicable.' So, he refuses to lift a single weight. He refuses to practice a single punch."
"To never strive for strength, yet to remain the strongest—that is the Survival Aesthetic of the man known as Kaoru Hanayama."
Kizaki laughed, looking at Nozomi. "And your friend, Ren-kun? He's the first person I've seen in years who actually wants to trade blows with a man like that."
Nozomi: "...Haha."
Her laugh was hollow. She wanted to tell Ren to run, but the air was already too heavy for words.
Kizaki made a quick call to the Hanayama-gumi street-crews to come clean up the mess and "interrogate" the survivors. They needed to find out who had funded Yamamoto's suicide mission.
"Boss, and everyone else—let's move. The Keisatsu will be here in three minutes."
In the Tokyo underworld, there was a silent agreement: as long as the violence didn't cross a certain line, the cops and the Yakuza stayed out of each other's hair. A street fight had happened, the civilians had called it in, and now it was time for the "Criminals" to vanish.
Fifteen minutes later.
They arrived at a basement bar a few blocks away. The owner was a regular associate of the Hanayama family, so he didn't blink at the bloodstains on the Boss's suit. He quickly arranged two tables.
Ren and Hanayama sat at a small glass-topped table in the corner.
The other six—Kizaki, Nozomi, Ichika, Hana, Yuzuha, and Hina—sat at a large circular table nearby.
Nozomi leaned toward Kizaki. As the head of Valkyrie, she tried one last time to negotiate their survival.
Kizaki smirked. "Nozomi-san, the Yakuza have a way of doing things. Since you're so desperate to keep your club... why don't we consider a One-on-One? The winner dictates the terms."
Nozomi blinked. "What does that mean?"
Hana Mitani whispered the explanation. "It's a Yakuza Duel. If two families have a dispute over territory or business, they each appoint a Representative. They fight, one-on-one. The result of that fight is legally and traditionally binding for both organizations."
Hana's expression was grim. "In short... it's a 'Deathmatch' to settle the ledger."
Nozomi felt a migraine forming. A One-on-One? The Hanayama-gumi would obviously send Hanayama himself. But Valkyrie? They were a startup female circuit. They had no one who could stand against a car-flipping monster.
Kizaki nudged her. "Why not ask Ren-kun?"
Nozomi shook her head vigorously. "After seeing what happened to that Cadillac? I don't have the heart—or the lack of ethics—to ask Ren-kun to die for my business."
"Oh? You've got spirit," Kizaki noted, impressed. "You aren't just looking for a payday. I think you might actually make it in this city."
He looked over at the corner table. "But honestly... our discussion might be irrelevant."
"Eh?" Nozomi looked over.
"The Boss says 'Fighting' has no meaning," Kizaki murmured, sipping a soda. "It's just an explosion of spirit. If you want to hit someone, you hit them. If you're the one getting hit, you'd better be ready for it."
"That's all a brawl is."
Ren and Hanayama sat across from each other.
Silence stretched between them.
The waiter brought two menus. They each ticked their drinks and handed them back. A minute later, the glasses arrived.
Hanayama reached out, sliding a bottle toward Ren. "This is Wild Turkey. It's a high-proof bourbon made from corn. It's my favorite. Try it."
Ren poured a glass, took a sip, and immediately winced. His features twisted as the fire hit his throat.
"Hah...!"
He blew out a breath of alcohol fumes. "Too sharp. It's bitter. It ruins the mood for a good punch."
Ren then reached for a bottle of Coke, pouring it into the bourbon until the glass was a dark, bubbling amber. "There. Now it's smooth. This is how you actually enjoy a drink."
"..."
Hanayama watched him, his clear eyes unblinking. He didn't say a word.
Ren held his glass up, looking out the window at the Shinjuku neon. "Fighting is best when it's 'Sudden,' don't you think?"
"In a dark alley, in a cramped bar... the size of the audience doesn't matter."
"A reason? We can find one easily."
"For example: I don't like your taste in whiskey, and you hate what I've done to your favorite drink. That's more than enough."
Ren set the glass down softly on the table.
"Hanayama-kun... let's scrap."
In that heartbeat—in Ren's vision—Hanayama was already moving.
The giant tightened his fist, his entire massive frame coiling like a prehistoric predator. He pulled his arm back in an exaggerated, full-commitment wind-up and launched a punch that looked like it could shatter a mountain.
SHING!
Ren tensed. He crossed his arms in a reinforced X-block and leaped backward, trying to use the air to bleed off the momentum.
But Hanayama's "Might" was too absolute.
The fist connected with Ren's guard. Even with the jump, Ren was launched like a pebble. He flew across the bar, crashing through a row of wooden stools before slamming into a heavy glass-topped table.
SHATTER!
The glass exploded. Sharp shards sliced through Ren's jacket and into his back. Blood began to soak his shirt instantly.
Ren lay in the wreckage, his breath stolen, feeling the white-hot sting of the glass.
A slow, predatory grin spread across his face.
Finally. A real monster.