CHAPTER 72: THE CHAOTIC BRAWL
The situation was shifting with every heartbeat. Even for a man like Yukio Tonegawa—the legendary Number Two of the Teiai Group—reality was starting to feel like a fever dream. He stood in the dimly lit corridor, blinking at Ren.
"What do you mean, 'Sadakuni is committing a hostile takeover'?"
Tonegawa was well aware of the Kakerou Club's absolute authority, but he wasn't a naive salaryman. He knew that rules only existed as long as there was a "Might" strong enough to enforce them. If Sadakuni was willing to flip the table, it meant he possessed a level of violence that either matched or exceeded the combined power of Kakerou and Teiai.
But who was backing him? What "New Power" was reckless enough to wage war on a Teiai vessel?
While Tonegawa's corporate brain was spiraling through spreadsheets and contingency plans, Ren Shiroki was already on the move. He rolled his shoulders, his joints popping like dry wood. He was centering himself, preparing for the inevitable clash.
"Oi... wait!"
Tonegawa tried to grab Ren's arm. Seeing the three mercenaries at the end of the hall, he hissed a warning. "They're pros! They're armed! We should retreat and find Chairman Hyodo! We need to verify the situation! Kakerou must have a protocol for—"
SHING—!
The sound of Ren throwing a shadow-punch cut through Tonegawa's panic.
"Victory and defeat... they're mostly just a messy brawl," Ren noted casually. "The challenge is right in front of us. Why waste time thinking when we could be doing?"
Tonegawa stared at him, unable to comprehend the youth's logic. To Tonegawa, every move had to be calculated. Blindly jumping into a struggle was the mark of a fool.
"I—"
Tonegawa started to argue, but a flash of silver interrupted him. A combat knife, thrown with lethal precision, whistled through the air and grazed his cheek.
SLICE.
The sting of the cut and the warmth of the blood sliding down his face changed Tonegawa's expression instantly. The panic vanished. In its place was the cold, focused resolve of a man who had survived the predatory boardrooms of the Teiai Group.
He realized now: there was no "Middle Management" in a war zone.
"I'll stay out of your way," Tonegawa whispered, his voice steady. "Watch your back."
Without another word, he dove into a side-niche behind a heavy fire cabinet, providing himself with a solid barrier.
"Perfect. Simply perfect!"
Ren flexed his wrists, his eyes locking onto the three IDEAL operatives. His mind entered the familiar state of high-speed processing.
They were foreigners—likely Westerners. Two held combat knives in reverse grips, while the leader carried a long, jagged tri-edged trench spike. Their stances were grounded and economical. These weren't street thugs; they were soldiers.
The hallway was narrow, barely three meters wide. A direct charge would lead to a pincer ambush.
SO... WE WON'T GO DIRECT.
Ren's foot slammed into the floor. He lunged forward with a burst of speed that looked like he was going to tackle them head-on.
But as the mercenaries braced for the collision, Ren's rhythm broke. He didn't step forward; he leaped to the side, his boot slamming into the right-hand wall.
THUD!
Using the vertical surface as a springboard, he vaulted across the corridor, his other foot catching the left-hand wall.
ZIP!
In a blur of "Parkour-style" acrobatics, Ren closed the gap. He didn't come at them from the front; he dropped from the ceiling, landing right in the center of their formation.
At this range, the 3-on-1 advantage vanished. The mercenaries couldn't swing their weapons without risk of hitting each other. Their formation was shattered.
"F-FUCK!" the leader cursed, swinging his trench spike in a desperate horizontal arc.
Ren leaped, his legs splitting into a mid-air 一字馬 (vertical split). He used the soles of his shoes to kick the two flanking mercenaries in the chest, pushing them back and creating a void. As his feet hit the deck, he lunged at the leader.
[ZANGIEF: MACHINE GUN CHOP]!
BAP! BAP! BAP!
Three rapid-fire hand-blade strikes slammed into the leader's collarbone and shoulder. The kinetic energy was focused into the edge of the palm, driving the bone downward. The mercenary's arm went limp as his clavicle shattered. He collapsed, retching and gagging.
The two other mercenaries recovered and lunged. One went for a low-line disemboweling strike, while the other moved to circle behind for a kidney stab.
SHING!
Ren didn't retreat. He raised his left leg in a high knee-block to deflect the low strike and simultaneously reached out with both arms. He caught the flanking mercenary by the tactical vest.
Before the man could even process the grip, Ren pivoted his entire 97kg frame. He bent his knees and arched his back, hauling the mercenary over his shoulder in a high-velocity arc.
[ZANGIEF: RUSSIAN SUPLEX]!
BOOM!
Ren drove the man's head and shoulders into the corner where the third mercenary was standing. The two collided in a mess of tangled limbs and cracking bone. They were left in a heap, out of the fight.
"Hoo... huff..."
Ren exhaled a cloud of heat, the adrenaline beginning to cool. Just as he relaxed his guard, a shadow moved at the edge of his vision.
He pivoted and threw a reflexive punch upward.
CLANG!
He struck "Something" out of the air.
Tonegawa peered out from behind the cabinet. He saw a handle-less blade buried deep into the ceiling tiles directly above Ren's head.
He looked at the lead mercenary. The man was holding a specialized handle that looked like a large pistol grip. It was equipped with a heavy-duty compression spring.
Ren looked at the shallow cut on his forearm where the projectile had grazed him. His eyes narrowed.
"A Spetsnaz Ballistic Knife..."
Ren recognized the weapon from his deep-memory files. A specialized tool of the Soviet special forces—a knife that could launch its blade like a bullet.
This wasn't a corporate dispute. These guys were state-level specialists.
Tonegawa's brain was already processing the data. He noticed something else.
"Ren-kun... they're wet."
The mercenaries' tactical gear was dripping. There were puddles forming on the carpet.
The Espoir was still docked, but the Teiai security on the pier was absolute. No one could have walked up the gangplank without being spotted.
They didn't come from the land. They had swum to the ship from the open harbor.
"Could it be...?"
Tonegawa hurried to the other side of the corridor, bracing his foot on a pipe to look through a small, circular porthole. He squinted into the pitch-black water of the bay.
Far out in the darkness, a silhouette was looming.
At the same time, high up in the observation nest, Fusui Kure adjusted her scope. The sound of the waves had changed—a low, rhythmic thrumming that didn't match the Espoir's engines.
She tracked the noise. Her black-and-white eyes focused, pulling a shape out of the void.
A small, unmarked cargo vessel was approaching the Espoir from the seaward side. It was riding low in the water, its deck covered in heavy waterproof tarps.
As a Kure Clan specialist, Fusui could identify hardware by its silhouette alone. Her breath hitched.
"Eh? Seriously...?"
"Ren-chin! We've got a problem!" she whispered into the comms. "It's not just a takeover. That ship in the harbor?"
"Those tarps aren't covering food. They're carrying Short-Range Ballistic Missiles!"