CHAPTER 76: THE ART OF DEFENSE
Defense.
To a man like Mepu Kiro—who was a master of the "Sweet Science" of boxing and several specialized internal martial arts—the word was synonymous with the basics.
Ren Shiroki's defensive maneuvers were, on paper, incredibly simple. He kept his arms high, his torso coiled, and he minimized his profile to reduce the target area. He used his biceps and forearms to shield his vitals or deflect Mepu's strikes along a calculated tangent.
It was fundamental. It was Day One material for any boxer or Karateka.
And that was exactly why Mepu was so unnerved.
Why?! Why is it that when this brat takes his stance, the 'Pressure' is so high? Why does it feel like there isn't a single opening in the world?!
"..."
Beads of cold sweat began to trace paths through the grime on Mepu's forehead. He reset his rhythm, launching back into his high-speed "Butterfly Step." His feet danced across the carpet, a blur of motion as he began to circle Ren like a shark testing a cage.
Ren's posture didn't change. He remained in his deep crouch, arms braced. Only his eyes moved, tracking Mepu's center of mass with a terrifying, unblinking focus.
No matter where Mepu moved—even when he circled into Ren's blind spot—the result was a haunting, mathematical absolute: No Entry.
Mepu recalled a video he'd seen on the deep web years ago—a fragment of history. The founder of the Goshin-ryu Aiki Jujutsu, Master Kihē Mikogami, had once faced a dozen armed disciples with nothing but his bare hands and a withered, elderly body.
In the video, the disciples had stared at the old man for several minutes. They never attacked. Eventually, they simply dropped their weapons and bowed in surrender. At the time, Mepu had scoffed, dismissing it as a theatrical performance for the cameras.
He never imagined that one day, he would be the one standing in that disciple's shoes. This defied logic. This defied biology.
Mepu's eyes sharpened. He lunged into Ren's rear flank, unleashed a sudden, vicious low-line roundhouse kick. He aimed for the back of Ren's knee, hoping for a "Surprise Entry."
But Ren's focus was a sphere, not a cone. He spun his lead leg back, catching the kick on his shin and immediately resetting his center.
THUD.
The kick connected, but it had no effect. Mepu's face twisted into a snarl of pure rage. "Is this Aikido?! Some kind of magic trick?!"
"Hmm... what?"
Ren blinked, then shook his head. "Not magic. I'm just focusing on the Rhythm. I'm trying to see the exact microsecond when you decide to move."
Mepu's blood boiled. "Don't toy with me! Are you telling me you're only defending?!"
"Yes," Ren replied with total sincerity, resetting his arms. "I'm practicing. I'm trying to stay calm and see the 'Instant'..."
Ren's gaze remained fixed on Mepu, peering through the gap between his fists. It was a look of cold, clinical observation. It made Mepu feel like he wasn't a fighter, but a specimen in a jar.
Driven by a surge of desperate insecurity, Mepu dove back in.
BAM! BAM!
The cycle repeated. One man was the storm; the other was the mountain.
Upper Deck. VIP Monitoring Room.
The spectators watched the screen in stunned silence. They had never seen a Kengan match develop this way. Was this even a "Fight"?
Kaede Akiyama adjusted her glasses, her breathing shallow. She had seen Ren's "Speed" against Suedo. She had expected a lightning war. "Why has he changed his style? Why is he obsessed with the Defense?"
"Is there something wrong with 'Defense'?" Suedo asked, looking amused.
Kaede hesitated. She knew the importance of defense in professional sports, but this felt different. In business, if you only defend, you eventually lose market share.
"Exactly," Suedo said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. "In combat—in any struggle for existence—'Defense' isn't an act of cowardice. It's a tactical necessity."
"I've heard stories of Pro-Wrestlers who take pride in absorbing every strike an opponent has just to break their spirit."
"I've seen brawlers who don't even know how to block, relying on pure meat to survive."
"A man who gives up on defense earns a certain kind of respect. But a man who can defend against everything? That man is far more terrifying."
Suedo grinned, his eyes fixed on Ren.
"My Master, Doppo Orochi, perfected the Karate Mawashi-uke—a circular block that distills every defensive technique in history into one motion. He calls it the 'Apex of Defense.'"
"He once told me: 'Bring your arrows. Bring your cannons. Bring your flamethrowers. I will receive them all.'"
Kaede understood the theory, but the sight of Ren being pushed back made her heart hammer against her ribs. "Even a master can make a mistake. He's giving Mepu a hundred free chances to land a lucky blow!"
Suedo let out a bark of laughter. "Is he? Look at his face, lady. Shiroki is having the time of his life. He's found a world-class striker to act as a sparring partner. Why would he end the session early?"
Kaede froze. He's using a Kakerou Referee for 'Target Practice'?!
Lower Deck.
Mepu's barrage continued. He incorporated high kicks, spinning back-fists, and elbows. He funneled his internal Fa-jin into every point of impact.
But as the minutes ticked by, something impossible happened. Ren Shiroki began to sync with the "Tempo." His forearms began to sway in a subtle, rhythmic counter-motion. He was no longer just tanking the hits; he was angling his skin to ensure Mepu's "Sanding Knuckles" slid off harmlessly. The lacerations stopped forming.
Mepu's eyes bugged out.
He's reading the micro-vibrations of my strikes?! He's adjusted to my terminal velocity!
The realization hit Mepu like a physical blow. He felt a wave of profound, soul-deep humiliation. He was being used.
Mepu Kiro was the Tenth Referee of Kakerou. His pride was built on the foundation of his own Excellence.
From childhood, he had been better, faster, and smarter than everyone around him. He had never needed a dream because everything was already within his reach. He was a perfect being.
Or so he thought, until he met Sadakuni.
Sadakuni was everything Mepu was not. He was raw. He was radical. He was a man who would discard his own life—and the lives of thousands—without a second of hesitation to achieve his "Revolution."
Mepu had been mesmerized by that jagged, unyielding will. He had sworn to follow the Revolutionary to the end. For Sadakuni, Mepu was willing to break the sacred laws of the Referees. He was willing to cheat. He was willing to be "Ugly."
For the sake of the Master... I will have that Membership!
SHING!
Mepu suddenly ripped off his suit jacket. He hurled it into the air, but not at Ren.
He threw the black fabric directly at the main security camera mounted in the corner of the hall.
The lens was smothered by the silk. Upstairs, the monitor went grey. Mepu had created a five-second "Dark Zone"—a window where the official Kengan Referee was blind.
ZIP!
Mepu reached into his waistband. He produced a handle that looked like a large, industrial flare-gun grip.
A Spetsnaz Ballistic Knife.
At this range, the blade would fire with a muzzle velocity of 60 km/h. Ren's "Might" was flesh and bone. Biology cannot stop a supersonic piece of hardened steel.
Mepu centered the grip on Ren's throat.
CLICK!
He pulled the trigger.
The spring released with a metallic scream. But in the microsecond the blade left the handle, Ren Shiroki shifted. He dropped his guard. He wasn't defending anymore.
He executed a high-tension backflip. As his body rotated through the air, his right leg whipped upward in a violent, vertical arc.
[GUILE: FLASH KICK]!
SHING!
Ren's heel-blade caught the ballistic knife mid-flight. The steel projectile was batted upward, whistling past Ren's face to bury itself deep in the ceiling tiles.
Ren landed in a perfect crouch, his eyes cold and his expression one of deep disappointment.
"Using a knife in a scrap, Mepu-san?"
"You just ruined the 'Flavor' of the night."