CHAPTER 152: SIKORSKY
The man who had suddenly appeared pushed his way through the crowd with an arrogant indifference, moving as if he owned the very air of the Underground Arena.
Fusui Kure kept her face forward, but her pupils tracked the stranger.
Based on his features and skin tone, he was clearly Russian. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with short blonde hair. He wore a long, deep-brown trench coat over a high-collared shirt, paired with rugged trousers and combat boots.
Height: 190cm (6'3"). Weight: Roughly 100kg (220 lbs).
Strong, Fusui realized. She could sense a level of "Might" radiating from him that surpassed almost every professional fighter she had seen in the Association.
The man reached the railing of the VIP box, looking down at the blood-stained sand where Ren and Kureha were still recovering.
"Heh. Shaking hands after a struggle? What a harmonious, lovely atmosphere for a 'Match.'"
"But that is all it was. A match. It doesn't qualify as combat."
The man spoke with a lazy, detached tone, offering a cold critique of the fight.
Beside him, Fusui Kure rested her hands on her hips, looking like she was just stretching. In reality, her fingers were an inch from the suppressed 9mm tucked into her waistband. She felt a wave of cold, ruthless killing intent coming from the Russian—a jagged, unrefined "Scent" that she recognized immediately.
It was the same aura her brother, Raian Kure, radiated. The scent of a Murderer.
"Hmm?"
The man turned his head, acting as if he'd only just noticed the legends standing in the box. He gave a thin, shark-like smile. "Greetings. My name is Sikorsky. I was invited here by a certain... benefactor."
"I didn't expect to find a place like this in the middle of Tokyo. It smells wonderful."
Sikorsky took a deep breath, cackling. "The scent of high-grade blood is everywhere. Even this little girl smells like she's spent the afternoon at a slaughterhouse. How unexpected."
Nearby, Baki Hanma rubbed his nose, looking bored. "Oi, Mr. Siko... whatever."
He didn't bother struggling with the foreign name.
"You sure you aren't just smelling yourself? You've still got blood under your fingernails. You didn't even bother to wash up before coming to the party."
Sikorsky looked at his hands and realized Baki was right. He casually wiped the dark stains onto his trench coat, his blue eyes remaining fixed on Fusui.
"I've heard rumors that somewhere in this country, there exists a family born for the slaughter. The Kure Clan. Recognizable by their ink-black eyes."
"I've been wanting to pay them a visit. I wonder... can they finally let me taste the flavor of defeat?"
"..."
Fusui's eyes narrowed. She had identified him.
Sikorsky. One of the five death-row convicts who had escaped during the Synchronicity.
According to the MPD files, he possessed a finger-grip so powerful he could scale a 100-meter missile silo by clinging to microscopic rust-pits. During his escape, he had beaten the wrestling legend Alexander Gallen into a coma.
"Haha... hunting the Kure Clan?" Fusui laughed, her voice light but dangerous. "That sounds like a very fast way to get buried, Mr. Convict."
She was searching for the window to draw her weapon when she suddenly froze.
She looked toward the opposite side of the arena, scanning the far VIP tiers.
Sitting in a darkened booth were several figures. In the center sat a wiry, ancient man—the Kure Patriarch, Erioh Kure. Behind him, leaning against the wall with a manic, bloodthirsty grin, was her brother Raian.
Great-Grandpa and Raian are already here?!
Fusui realized the "Undercurrent" was becoming a tidal wave. She took a half-step back, choosing to stay in the shadows and observe for now.
Seeing the girl back down, Sikorsky lost interest.
"It doesn't matter. My target isn't a girl. It seems tonight is full of interesting diversions."
Sikorsky scanned the group again.
"Even a common schoolgirl here looks like she has experience with firearms. These people are far more interesting than some Judo champion or that Kanji Igari fellow."
"By the way... the blood on my knuckles? I think it belonged to Igari. Hahaha!"
Nozomi Tenma felt her pupils shake. Kanji Igari? The legendary pro-wrestler?! This guy attacked him?
Seeing Nozomi's fear, Mitsuyo Kureishi stepped in front of her, shielding her with his frame.
Kureishi offered a thin, clinical smile. "You're quite the lively one, aren't you?"
Sikorsky's eyes lit up. "Aha! Now this is better! You look much stronger than that Judo trash!"
"Want to find out?" Kureishi whispered. "Against a death-row inmate... I tend to be much more 'Direct' with my adjustments."
The tension in the box reached a breaking point. But then, a voice—ancient yet vibrant—echoed from the entrance.
"Haha! What a beautiful sight!"
The group turned to see a white-haired man in a traditional kimono approaching, flanked by his personal guard.
Metsudo Katahara, the Chairman of the Kengan Association.
"Keep following your paths, Warriors," Metsudo said, his eyes scanning the pit.
"The Strong should be arrogant! The Strong should be blind to the world, right up until the moment they are crushed into the dirt!"
Tokugawa scurried over to greet him. The two "Old Bastards" started bouncing on their heels like children.
Metsudo cackled. "I'm here as promised, Tokugawa-kun! And I brought Sikorsky along for the ride!"
Tokugawa clapped his hands. "I've been waiting for this! Finally, the pieces are on the board!"
After the greeting, Metsudo walked over to Arisa Sakurai.
He enjoyed the girl's spirit, but he knew the next phase of the night wasn't for civilians. He signaled one of his top-tier bodyguards.
"Arisa-chan, I think it's time for you to head home. The 'Show' is moving beyond the boundaries of a match."
Arisa didn't argue. She had a "High-Level Instinct" for danger. She nodded and prepared to leave with the guard.
But before she went, she looked at Ren, who was being helped off a stretcher by Nozomi.
"Fusui-nee... Kureishi-san... actually, Nozomi-nee, could you look after my brother? He's a bit slow when he's tired. Thanks a bunch!"
Nozomi blinked. "Ah... sure."
Fusui and Kureishi shared a look.
"Do we look that unreliable?"
"Hey, I don't only care about Ren-kun's skeleton..."
As Arisa was ushered out, most of the general audience began to filter toward the exits.
But a few key figures remained. Others were just "Entering," emerging from the shadows of the tunnels. There were familiar faces and dangerous strangers.
"My, my. It's getting crowded," Metsudo noted, leaning on his cane. He looked at the departing crowd. "But before we begin the formal explanation... it seems someone wants to jump the gun."
The next micro-second—
ZIP!
A man disguised as a spectator burst from the crowd. He drew a long, serrated blade from his sleeve and lunged directly for Metsudo Katahara's throat.
The bodyguards prepared to move, but someone was faster.
SIKORSKY.
The Russian moved the instant the assassin twitched. He cleared the distance in a single, high-speed slide.
"!?!"
The assassin froze, his blade inches from the target, as Sikorsky reached him. Sikorsky didn't use a palm or a grapple. He fired three rapid-fire punches into the man's face.
BAP! BAP! BAM!
The strikes were heavy, but the man didn't fly back.
Upon closer inspection, the assassin's face had been transformed. Three deep, jagged "Meat-Grooves" had been carved into his forehead, his cheek, and his jaw. The flesh had been manually "Scooped" out by Sikorsky's knuckles, exposing the raw, red subcutaneous tissue beneath.
SQUELCH!
Blood erupted from the furrows. The assassin collapsed, his face a ruined mask of gore. He went limp instantly.
"Hmm. It seems I moved 'First,'" Sikorsky said, turning to look at the group with a taunting grin.
"Are you surprised?"
"A 'Match,' by definition, is a performance. It is a competition with rules."
"No matter how many times you practice, a drill is just a drill. It cannot compare to Real Combat."
Sikorsky spread his hands, his eyes glowing.
"A person who waits for a Referee to say 'Start'... is not a warrior. He is a toy."
He looked at Ren and the others.
"And thus... I win again."
☆☆☆
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