CHAPTER 56: A SIP OF SPIRIT
CRASH!
The sudden, violent eruption of noise sent the few remaining patrons in the bar into a state of total panic.
"WAAGHHH!"
"BRAWL! IT'S A YAKUZA BRAWL!"
The customers scrambled toward the exits, clearing a wide circle of empty floor space. A second later, a roar that shook the very foundation of the building followed.
"SHIROKI!"
Kaoru Hanayama kicked aside a heavy leather sofa as if it were a cardboard box and began his relentless advance.
Ren Shiroki was still on the floor, his brain rattling from the impact of Hanayama's first punch. Even with a perfect guard and a jump to bleed off the momentum, the force had been too absolute. It hadn't been a punch; it was a physical spear of kinetic energy that had pierced through his forearms and into his core.
Ren didn't let out a breath. He couldn't afford to. He gritted his teeth, his jaw aching from the pressure.
The world's greatest "Brawl Genius"—the natural-born powerhouse. Hanayama's fists carried a weight that made Marco's biological enhancements look like child's play.
THOOM!
Hanayama's boot slammed into the floor, cracking the tiles. He loomed over the downed Ren, his right fist high, and drove it downward with the force of a pile-driver.
"Gah—!"
Ren barely managed to catch a single breath before the blow landed. He curled into a ball, using every limb to protect his vitals.
BANG!
The iron fist hit Ren's guard. The counter-force from the solid floor below pushed back up, causing Ren's body to bounce off the ground like a rubber ball.
Hanayama didn't waste a word. As Ren was suspended in the air, the giant unleashed a left uppercut.
WHAM!
The strike caught the airborne Ren, launching him straight up. Ren hit the ceiling with a sickening thud.
CRACK-SHATTER!
The synthetic wood panels of the ceiling splintered. The main chandelier exploded into a thousand fragments. Wood dust and glass shards rained down in a shimmering, lethal storm, illuminated by the sparking wires of the broken light fixture.
Ren fell back through the "rain," his face painted with his own blood, crashing back onto the floor. The pain was so intense he felt his very skeleton was being unmade. His vision went white, his pupils struggling to focus.
The violence was so sudden and so one-sided that it felt like watching a natural disaster.
"Wait... oi!"
At the far table, Nozomi Tenma had turned as white as a sheet, a fresh layer of cold sweat soaking her collar.
Kizaki, however, remained remarkably calm. "Nozomi-san, like I said... a brawl isn't a match. There are no points, no rounds. If you want to hit someone, you hit them until they stop moving."
"Ren-kun is terrifyingly strong, though. To take those hits and still keep his hands over his head? He's got guts."
Kizaki took a sip of his juice, his gaze never leaving the fight.
"But I'm afraid as a 'Martial Artist,' Ren-kun has just encountered the one opponent his techniques can't solve."
SHING!
Hanayama reached down, grabbed Ren by the collar, and hauled him back to his feet.
Because they were roughly the same height, Ren wasn't dangling. His feet found purchase on the floor. He swallowed back the metallic taste of blood and slammed his foot into the tiles, anchoring his weight. He funneled every remaining ounce of explosive energy into his left elbow, driving it toward Hanayama's chest.
[DRIVE COUNTER: PIERCING ELBOW]!
Hanayama didn't even try to dodge. He simply leaned forward and slammed his forehead into Ren's face.
THUD!
The strikes landed simultaneously. Hanayama grunted, sliding back half a pace. Ren's face "blossomed" into a fresh mask of gore; his nose and mouth erupted with new blood.
The disparity in durability was staggering. They weren't even in the same league.
This was the first time Ren's [Drive Counter] had failed to turn the tide. Hanayama didn't even let go of his collar. The giant's iron palm tightened, pulling Ren back in for a series of rapid-fire uppercuts.
BAP! BAP! BAP!
Ren was forced into a desperate shell-guard, his arms absorbing blows that felt like they were being delivered by a hydraulic press. Hanayama didn't use "Technique." His aim didn't vary by a single millimeter. He just hit the same spot over and over, each strike heavier than the last, until Ren's guard began to buckle.
ZIP!
The final iron fist broke through, aimed directly for Ren's chin.
Ren snapped his head back, moving with the arc of the punch to bleed off the power. The knuckles grazed his jaw, slicing the skin open with the ease of a razor blade and tracing a map of crimson across his features.
Hanayama followed through instantly with a kick to Ren's midsection, launching him across the room.
The onlookers watched in horror.
"That's a Yakuza execution kick!"
"He's going to kill him! Someone stop it!"
"You go stop him then, you moron!"
"Look at that force—he's going to hit the window!"
CRACK-BOOM!
Ren hit the massive floor-to-ceiling window of the second-story bar. The reinforced tempered glass didn't shatter yet, but a network of spider-web cracks erupted around the point of impact.
"Hah... huff..."
Ren leaned against the glass, forcing his body to stay upright. His hands were trembling as he raised them back into a guard.
Next second—
Hanayama dropped into a low, sprinter's crouch. He looked like an American football linebacker as he exploded forward, his massive shoulders leveled at Ren's chest.
The giant was a two-ton semi-truck at full throttle.
THOOM!!
Hanayama's shoulder slammed into Ren. The "Absolute Might" was the final straw for the weakened glass.
SHATTER!
With the barrier gone, both Ren and Hanayama tumbled out of the frame, plummeting into the night.
"WAAAAAGH! THE GLASS!"
"No way... they actually went through!"
The patrons and the Valkyrie squad rushed to the broken ledge, ignoring the glass shards cutting their shoes. They craned their necks to look down.
In the alley below, several tiered racks of promotional liquor bottles had been set up for a street festival. Ren and Hanayama had crashed right through them. The pavement was soaked in expensive bourbon and broken glass.
Splash...
A few seconds later, two silhouettes began to rise from the wreckage. They stood ten feet apart, facing each other.
The crowd above erupted in a roar of disbelief.
"They're fine?! How are they fine?!"
"It's like a movie! A damn Jackie Chan movie!"
"Are they... are they going to keep going?!"
Hanayama stood in the center of the mess. He reached down and picked up a stray bottle of Wild Turkey that had survived the fall.
"The flavor is excellent," Hanayama said. He didn't look for an opener. He gripped the body of the bottle in one hand and the neck in the other. He gave a casual, sharp pull.
CRACK-SHATTER!
The glass neck was torn clean off, leaving a jagged, open mouth on the bottle.
Hanayama tilted the bottle back and chugged the entire 101-proof bourbon in one long, continuous sequence. He drained the liter of fire in seconds.
CRUNCH.
He crushed the empty bottle in his grip and looked at Ren. "I like this drink. So... do we continue?"
"..."
Ren's vision was a pulsing red haze. He was swaying on his feet, his balance almost gone. But he forced his throat to work.
"Tastes bad. Too harsh."
Ren let his arms hang low. He licked the blood from his lip and let out a jagged grin. "I prefer something lighter. A fruit wine... or a crisp beer. Something with rhythm."
Hanayama nodded slowly.
Since the "Argument" over the drinks was still unresolved, the "Reason" for the brawl still existed. Neither man was finished.
"Hoo—!"
Hanayama blew on his knuckles and began to walk forward.
Ren's world was spinning. Between the fall and the trauma to his skull, his brain felt like it was floating in a vat of high-proof spirits. His skin felt hot, glowing with a feverish intensity.
"My body... is starting to warm up..."
Ren's nose began to leak fresh blood. He opened his bloodshot eyes wide.
THUD.
Hanayama stepped into range, pulling his fist back for a final, decisive wind-up.
But Ren moved first. He didn't lunge; he flowed forward. He delivered a sharp strike with the heel of his palm to Hanayama's chest.
THWACK!
Hanayama didn't budge. Ren shifted his weight, stepping with his right foot and switching hands, delivering a second palm-strike.
THWACK!
The repeated application of force finally caused Hanayama's heavy gait to hitch. His follow-up punch whistled harmlessly past Ren's ear.
In that moment, Ren finally saw him clearly.
The new phantom was leaning against Ren's shoulder—a lean, stylish youth with long hair tied back and a wild look in his eyes. He carried a wooden liquor gourd at his hip.
The phantom patted Ren's shoulder, took a massive swig from his gourd, and wiped his mouth with a smirk.
Haha! How is it? Finding the beat yet?
JAMIE SIU—the Master of the Drunken Style—gestured for Ren to follow his lead.
Ren and the phantom moved in perfect synchronization. Ren stepped deep and launched a third palm-strike into Hanayama's solar plexus.
[JAMIE: SWAGGER STEP]!