CHAPTER 96: THE CENTERLINE BARRAGE
Katsumi Orochi stood his ground.
His abdomen throbbed with the heat of Ren's Shoryuken. His pupils were nearly unfocused, his mouth hanging slightly open as blood-tinged saliva dripped from his lip.
That mid-air flip he had performed was the opposite of Ren's [ENGINE]. It wasn't a manual override; it was pure, sub-conscious reflex. It was the reaction of a man whose very cells were saturated with the "Way of the Fist."
Even when his conscious mind was rattling, the martial arts buried in his nervous system rose up to protect the vessel.
This was the genius of the Final Weapon. He had the natural talent, the years of grueling discipline, and the "Rebirth" that only comes from a life-or-death struggle in the underground of the Tokyo Dome. He had transcended the level of a mere athlete.
Katsumi's chest felt like it had been pierced by a hot iron. His thoughts were a chaotic slurry, but a single command remained fixed in his brain: Fight.
In his daze, he allowed Karate to drive him. His body settled into a defensive posture.
Left foot extended in a "False Step." Palms open and reaching forward. Eyes fixed on the horizon.
The Maeba-gamae—The Frontal Wing.
Unlike the standard forward-leaning Karate stance, the Maeba-gamae emphasized the hands. It followed the philosophy of "Control and Counter," creating an open but impenetrable defensive shell.
To attack was to defend. To defend was to attack.
This was the signature move of his father, Doppo Orochi. Because it was a traditional, minimalist form that required decades of mastery to utilize effectively, Katsumi rarely used it.
But now, at the razor's edge of his limit, he had finally tapped into the Old Man's legacy.
In the silence of the night, Katsumi felt a sudden, profound certainty.
In this stance, he felt he could receive anything—fists, feet, elbows, or even the missiles from the ship in the harbor—and return it with interest.
As he breathed, his vision cleared. A weary, dry chuckle escaped his throat.
"Haha... I never thought I'd experience the world the way the Old Man does..."
Katsumi didn't shift his stance. His eyes locked onto Ren Shiroki. He noticed Ren wasn't rushing in; the youth was taking the micro-second to catch his own breath, managing his redlining stamina.
Can't give chase? Or sensing the trap?
Probably both.
Katsumi made his move. He didn't abandon the Maeba-gamae. He began a slow, agonizingly deliberate sliding step toward Ren. He was a fortress that was slowly moving into the enemy's territory.
Across from him, Ren raised his arms, settling back into Guile's defensive form.
Kyara raised an eyebrow from the sidelines. "Hoh? That Karateka has a deeper well than I thought. He's pulling from the ancestors now."
Because the two men were moving so slowly, every spectator could see the tension.
The "Experts" in the crowd felt it—two invisible "Defense Spheres" had manifested around the fighters. They were like two high-tension shields. Any strike that entered that radius would be parried instantly and met with a terminal counter.
The Spear versus the Shield is a classic drama. But Shield versus Shield? That was a paradox.
Step... step...
Katsumi's lead foot finally crossed the threshold. The two spheres touched.
The crowd held its breath.
But Ren and Katsumi didn't strike. They allowed the distance to close further, their presence grinding against each other until they were inches apart.
"What are they waiting for?! Why aren't they hitting?!" a debtor screamed.
Katsumi's eyes were narrowed, his peripheral vision covering Ren's entire body like a net.
"My father's version is a masterpiece, but I think mine is just right for this moment."
"After all... this is Katsumi Orochi's Karate."
TAP.
Katsumi's palm brushed against Ren's forearm.
In that micro-second, Ren's defensive rhythm was disrupted. Forced to act, he launched a full-commitment straight punch.
[DRIVE IMPACT: SHOCK STRIKE]!
WHOOSH!
It was a perfect strike—unassailable and powerful.
But Katsumi's open hands didn't block it. His palms rotated in a circular motion, his wrists guiding Ren's fist away from his centerline with the effortless grace of a master.
Suedo roared, "The Mawashi-uke! The iron defense! Shiroki's guard is broken!"
The next micro-second—
"HEI-YA!"
Katsumi ground his teeth, blood spraying from his gums as he launched a rapid-fire sequence of straight punches.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Ren was struck in four vital points along his vertical axis: Throat. Sternum. Solar Plexus. Bladder.
[SHINSHINKAI: CENTERLINE FOUR-STRIKE BARRAGE]!
Suedo's knuckles were white as he gripped the railing. "That move... it's terrifying no matter how many times I see it. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of that 'Might'!"
"General Katsumi won!" Suedo bellowed. "He's got him!"
"NO!"
Fusui Kure shouted, her eyes wild with [Removal]-fueled intensity. Her teeth were bared.
"Ren-chin hasn't yielded! He's using his consciousness to manual-override the trauma!"
"I've never seen a man stay standing after a hit like that... his will is rewriting his biology!"
Ren was reeling. The pain was a vertical line of fire through his core, feeling as if his body were being split in half by a saw.
But the [ENGINE] roared in his mind. He didn't retreat. He reached out with both hands, grabbing Katsumi by the shoulders as he began to fall.
SHING!
Ren used his falling weight to anchor Katsumi. As his back approached the deck, Ren's right leg whipped upward, his boot burying itself in Katsumi's stomach.
He didn't just kick; he used the leverage to hoist the 115kg giant over his head.
[RYU: CIRCLE THROW]!
BOOM!
Katsumi hit the deck with a thunderous impact. He clutched his stomach, retching a mixture of bile and blood onto the steel.
Even with his focus, Katsumi hadn't expected Ren to have the consciousness left for a grapple after the centerline barrage. The impact was absolute. Katsumi struggled to find his footing as he vomited onto the deck.
"HACK... cough!"
The agony pulled a memory to the surface—a memory of a legendary night in the Tokyo Dome.
Faced with the world's greatest brawler, Kaoru Hanayama, Katsumi had been beaten into this same state of retching despair. He had been pushed to this same limit.
The feeling was identical.
Ren Shiroki and Kaoru Hanayama used entirely different styles, but they possessed the same level of "Might"—a terrifying, unyielding intensity that demanded respect.
As they both struggled to their feet, Katsumi noticed a detail.
Ah... I see...
He took a deep breath, forcing the pain down. He lunged forward with a testing kick. Ren countered with a kick of his own.
CLACK.
Their right shins collided mid-air. The sound was like two iron pipes hitting each other.
The fabric of Ren's trousers and Katsumi's gi couldn't take the friction; they shredded at the point of impact, exposing the skin of their calves.
The spectators gasped.
Both men had nearly identical scars on their lower legs. A circular, jagged ring of torn tissue that looked like a permanent bite-mark.
Katsumi let out a pained, bloody grin.
"It seems we share more than just a battle-spirit, Ren-kun. You fought the Boss, too."
THUD.
Katsumi found his balance. He took a long, final breath, his voice dropping to a gravelly, eager rasp.
"Shiroki-san... I have one more move. The move I dedicated to Kaoru Hanayama. Do you want to see the 'Might' that finished the Legend?"