CHAPTER 73: BATTLEFIELD COMBATIVES
The Spetsnaz ballistic knife used by the mercenary had been specialized for the deep underworld.
Beyond the industrial spring designed to launch the blade, the handle was packed with a micro-charge of black powder to increase the projectile's muzzle velocity at short range.
Fortunately, Ren Shiroki's "Attention" was in a state of hyper-focus. He hadn't been caught by the sneak attack.
The scent of burnt cordite drifted from the hollow knife handle, making Ren's nose itch.
His mind was operating in Overdrive, his eyes flickering as he processed the combat style of the three men.
Military CQC.
It was a form of martial arts born in the trenches—designed for rapid lethality. It combined the use of bayonets, tactical knives, and batons with high-efficiency unarmed strikes. It prioritized the environment and the systematic destruction of the human body's most fragile points.
Compared to Q-Taro's amateur killers, these three were a class above.
The cut on Ren's forearm had already stopped bleeding, though it stung with a cold, metallic heat.
As he centered himself, a new shadow flickered into existence behind him. It was a man with a hard-boiled, stoic expression and a physique built like a brick fortress. His arms were thicker than Ren's thighs.
The phantom's hair was his most defining feature—a golden "flattop" cut so precise and broad it looked like a decorative mantle.
The phantom produced a butterfly knife, flipping it through his fingers with blurred speed. Upon closer inspection, the "blade" was actually a high-end comb.
After using the tool to adjust his hair, the phantom let out a sharp "Hmph." He crossed his massive arms and stood back-to-back with Ren, his resolve flowing into the youth's mind.
On the battlefield, never look away. The opportunity to counter exists only for a fraction of a second. You must be calm enough to see the window open.
Ren turned his head. The shadow was gone.
The fallen mercenary in front of him tried to reach for a hidden sidearm. Ren mimicked Suedo's high-speed snap-kick, his foot-blade catching the man's jaw with a sickening crack. The mercenary went still.
"Still... not quite right," Ren muttered.
He stood on the balls of his feet, trying to grasp the phantom's "Will."
"Turning the limbs into blades... it's not just about speed. It's about the 'Instant' of calm."
Before he could experiment further, Fusui's voice crackled in his ear.
{ Ren-chin! An unmarked weapons-smuggling vessel is closing in. }
{ I'm seeing heavy hardware. They've got ATACMS multi-launch systems under those tarps. This isn't just a hit squad; it's a small army. }
{ Operatives have already entered the water. They're boarding the ship through the lower service hatches. They intend to seize the bridge. }
{ Over. }
Fusui prepared to cut the line, but then she paused.
{ Wait... there's a 'Heavyweight' on the smuggling ship. He's looking right at the observation nest. Big guy with an afro and a wild grin. He looks dangerous. }
{ But his eyes aren't as good as mine. He can't see my position. I gave him the finger and he didn't even react. }
A weapons-smuggling ring didn't scare a daughter of the Kure Clan. But the "Target" of those missiles made even Fusui uneasy.
Sadakuni wasn't just gambling for money. He was planning a massive terrorist strike to manipulate the global market and dismantle the Kakerou Club from the inside.
IDEAL and Sadakuni were a match made in hell. And based on the mercenaries' earlier demand, it was clear that IDEAL had its sights on the Kengan Association as well.
Ren Shiroki didn't consider himself a superhero. Neither did his masters—Ryu, Zangief, or Jamie.
But they were men of character. They wouldn't sit idly by while innocents were targeted by missiles. Ryu and Zangief had fought side-by-side with allies to dismantle the Shadaloo organization. Jamie, inspired by the "Twin Dragons," had taken it upon himself to protect the rhythm of his city.
Some things were beyond profit. To back down now would be to admit his "Might" was a lie. If he ran, he'd never be able to look his masters in the eye again.
Ren began to strategize.
The upper deck was being adjudicated by Kakerou. He trusted Akagi wouldn't lose to a man like Sadakuni, and Yagyo would maintain order in the Grand Ballroom.
The real danger was the Lower Deck.
The mercenaries were invading from the waterline. And if Ren's intuition was right, Baku and Marco were likely trapped in the middle of the lower-deck chaos.
"To the bottom," Ren whispered.
Tonegawa, who had been hiding behind the fire cabinet, stepped out. He didn't know Sadakuni's grand plan, but he knew Chairman Hyodo.
"The Chairman predicted a 'Riot,'" Tonegawa noted, his brow furrowed as he followed Ren. "He's abandoned the lower deck to consolidate his private guard around the VIP lounge. He's prioritizing his own life over the ship's cargo."
Tonegawa was an executive, but he had a sense of responsibility toward his team. The agents on the lower deck were his people. He couldn't let them be slaughtered by foreign mercs.
The two men sprinted through the companionways, reaching the main lower-deck hall.
They pushed the doors open. The atmosphere inside was a toxic cloud of negativity.
The hundred or so debtors were trapped in the room, their nerves frayed. They were ready to tear each other apart.
Tonegawa didn't waste time. He threw the main exits open. "Emergency! The event is cancelled! Everyone get to the lifeboats immediately!"
The debtors, predictably, didn't move.
"What?! You're cancelling?!"
"We've been waiting for hours!"
"Give us our money back! Pay us for our time!"
Tonegawa felt his blood pressure spike. This was the problem with "Trash." Even when someone tried to save their lives, they looked for a way to turn it into a profit.
"I don't have time for this!" Tonegawa roared.
He was about to start dragging people out when—
BANG!
A single gunshot echoed through the hall, silencing the debtors instantly.
A squad of IDEAL mercenaries burst through the opposite service doors. They were bristling with SMGs and sidearms, the muzzles leveled at the crowd.
"Attention, everyone," the lead merc said in broken Japanese. "If you value your lives, stop the noise."
He raised his smoking gun toward the ceiling.
"Now... who can tell me where the new Kengan Member is hiding?"
The debtors stood frozen, their legs turning to jelly. No one spoke.
Just as the mercenary lost his patience and prepared to fire into the crowd, a shadow emerged from the side.
Ren Shiroki stepped into the light. He held a high-grade military smoke canister—a gift from Fusui.
SHHH—TOSS!
The canister hit the floor. A thick wall of white chemical smoke erupted, swallowing the mercenaries and Ren in a blinding fog.
"!?"
The mercenaries cursed, their vision obscured. They hesitated to fire, afraid of hitting their own teammates in the confined white-out.
WHOOSH!
Ren lunged into the smoke. He delivered a flying knee that caught the lead mercenary in the temple. Before the man could fall, Ren caught him by the neck, using his armored body as a human shield as he charged into the rest of the squad.
The hall dissolved into total chaos.
Tonegawa watched from the exit, a cold sweat drenching his back. One man against an armed squad? Unarmed? It's suicide!
But as he looked for a way to help, he noticed something strange.
In the corners of the hall, several men in black suits—Teiai enforcers—remained standing. They hadn't fled. They hadn't followed Tonegawa's order to retreat.
"You lot! Move!" Tonegawa barked.
Then he stopped. He looked at their faces.
He knew every Teiai agent on his payroll. He had memorized the roster. These men were wearing the uniform, but their faces were cold, hard, and unfamiliar.
Who are they?
SHING—CLICK!
The "陌生黑衣人" (Stranger Black-Suits) suddenly reached under their suit jackets. They produced compact submachine guns and leveled them at the IDEAL mercenaries.
"...?!"
Tonegawa realized the truth in an instant.
These weren't Teiai employees. They were a second group of mercenaries, hired personally by Chairman Hyodo to stay hidden in the "Trash" and act as a counter-infiltration unit.
The Chairman hadn't been "Spiteful." He had been Trapping.
Mercenary faced mercenary. Muzzle faced muzzle. A cold, perfect stalemate descended on the lower deck. No one dared to fire the first shot.
The "Might" was balanced.
And because the violence had reached a plateau, the "Rules" of the ship suddenly returned to the board.