CHAPTER 167: THE ROAD OF BLOOD
Dusk had passed, and the moon was swallowed by thick, drifting clouds.
The night had turned an absolute, heavy black. On the narrow path leading toward
the "Amusement Zone," a faint, metallic scent drifted through the trees. With
every step forward, the smell of iron grew thicker, until it was suffocating.
"It's blood," Fusui Kure noted, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the roadside
grass. She pointed to a few spatters of vivid crimson on the leaves.
"It's from several different sources. Someone got here before us and engaged
Speck. The exchange was... one-sided."
Ren Shiroki nodded, his expression hardening. He continued to pick his way
through the shadows with Fusui by his side.
Suddenly, they both stopped.
Lying in a clump of bushes was a fully armored riot officer. His specialized FRP
helmet was shattered into several pieces, and his face had been physically
driven into the skull, creating a grotesque, concave ruin. Blood bubbled from
his mouth and nose, his eyes rolled back in a vacant, dying stare.
"!?!"
Ren had expected violence, but this level of raw anatomical destruction was a
shock. He pulled out his phone to alert the precinct, but a call from Ichika
Iori beat him to it.
"Oi! Ren-kun! Thank god you picked up!"
Ichika's voice was frantic, a mixture of panic and professional dread.
"The situation has changed! Listen to me!"
"I told you the station was sending a team to secure Speck, right? They arrived
five minutes ago. I thought even if they couldn't arrest him, they could at
least pin him down until the seniors arrived. I was wrong!"
"Ren-kun, do not engage! The outcome is catastrophic! The Metropolitan Police
are trying to regroup—just stay back!"
Ren waited for her to finish before speaking. his voice was calm, but his eyes
were glowing. "Ichika-san, you have men down. Many of them. They're in critical
condition. You need to send the paramedics into the park, now."
Ichika knew that tone. Ren wasn't running. But as a friend, she couldn't let him
walk into a blender.
"You're already at the scene?"
Ichika gasped. "Then you must see the equipment they're wearing! These aren't
standard patrolmen!"
While Ichika talked, Ren and Fusui knelt by the dying officer, turning him onto
his side so he wouldn't choke on his own blood. As they moved deeper into the
grove, they found more bodies.
Seven... no, eight officers lay scattered along the path. It was a massacre of
elite state-level violence.
"This is the Anti-Terrorism Special Operations Unit," Ichika's voice said over
the speaker, becoming a somber rumble.
"Every man in that squad was hand-picked. Minimum height 178cm, minimum
weight 80kg. They underwent a 400-day high-intensity training cycle. If they
dropped a single pound under the limit, they were sent back to the regular
force."
"Captain Akoya was one of their primary instructors."
"Their gear is state-of-the-art. Special FRP helmets with five times the
strength of standard issue. Reinforced acrylic masks that can stop a direct
handgun round. High-impact neck collars to prevent cranial shock."
"They have full-body trauma plating. And their weapons? They're using
Impact-Slug Launchers—firing 800g steel spheres at 47 meters per second. That's
a handheld cannon! It's designed to punch through a human skull at fifty yards!"
Ichika's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Seventeen elite, fully armed soldiers. And Speck dismantled them in three
minutes. Their armor was no better than wet paper to him. The unit is...
effectively erased."
Ren Shiroki listened patiently to the briefing.
He understood Ichika's motive. She was trying to warn him that "Might" in its
traditional form—armor, guns, numbers—had failed against the convict. She didn't
want him to try and fight a monster with his bare hands.
But the warning had the opposite effect.
Even as he looked at the blood staining the emerald grass, even as he felt the
suffocating killing intent drifting from the amusement area... Ren's steps
became lighter. A predatory spark ignited in the depths of his pupils.
"Understood, Ichika-san. Thanks for the intel."
Ren ignored her final scream to stay back and hung up. He tossed the phone to
Fusui.
"..."
SHING!
Fusui used the toe of her boot to flip up a twisted piece of metal—a shattered
Impact-Slug Launcher. She caught it and inspected the damage. The reinforced
steel barrel had been bent into a "U" shape by a single physical strike.
"He did this with a fist? That's... exaggerated," Fusui muttered.
She looked at Ren. "Want me to use the tools in my bag? To me, sniping is also
'Real Combat.'"
"I appreciate it, Fusui. But first... I want to try this myself."
Ren's voice was steady, but his breathing had found a rhythmic, high-frequency
pulse. Fusui held his hand for a second; she could feel his muscles radiating
heat. He was already at the "Zero Point."
"Fine. I'll find a high-ground position and wait for the signal."
Fusui gave his hand a final squeeze and vanished into the dense trees.
Ren was about to proceed when a high-pitched cry of shock echoed from the
clearing ahead.
"WAAGHHH!"
Ren frowned, rounding a corner to see a new visitor.
Standing on the lawn was a middle-aged Westerner with a mane of shaggy silver
hair and a salt-and-pepper beard. He wore a simple button-down shirt and loose
casual trousers, looking remarkably unremarkable.
He held a bottle of wine in one hand, looking like a drunkard who had wandered
into the wrong party. He was staring at the fallen riot officers with a face
full of genuine horror.
"Oi! You lot!"
He waved frantically at Ren. "There are bodies everywhere! We have to do
something! Call an ambulance! Someone is going to die!"
Ren studied the "Drunkard" for a long ten seconds. He noticed the man's
eyes—they weren't bleary from alcohol. They were clear, sharp, and analyzing
every entry wound on the officers.
Ren let out a soft laugh and kept walking.
"Go find someone else to play with, you old fox," Ren muttered as he passed the
man.
"..."
The silver-haired man blinked, his look of panic vanishing into a mask of
serene, weary amusement.
Fusui's voice echoed from the trees. "Your acting is terrible, Oji-san. Ren-chin
doesn't fall for scripts."
"Heh... is that so?"
The man—Dorian—sighed. He knelt by a dying officer, his fingers moving with
surgical precision to set an open fracture. Despite his "convict" status, he was
treating the man's wounds with perfect professional care.
He watched Ren's silhouette disappear into the dark amusement zone.
"The youth of this city... they have a reckless lack of fear."
Dorian lit a cigarette, his eyes narrowing. "No warrior fights a match they
can't win. But I suppose a 'Street Brawl' has its own rules."
"I'll just finish my 'First Aid' and come watch. I wouldn't want Speck to have
all the fun, after all."
Ren Shiroki walked through the gate of the "Amusement Zone."
The area was silent. The merry-go-round and the Ferris wheel were dark skeletons
against the clouds.
Speck was there.
He sat on a park bench, his massive frame dwarfing the wood. He was still
wearing the tattered black tracksuit, now soaked in the blood of the special
operations unit. He was calmly smoking a cigarette, looking like a grandfather
enjoying a quiet evening in the park.
As Ren entered the light of a single flickering lamp, Speck's face split into a
manic, wide-eyed grin. The muscles in his neck pulsed.
"Hee... I knew someone was coming."
He looked at Ren, his eyes glowing with a void-like hunger.
"So, kid. Are you the one who's finally going to let me taste the flavor of
Defeat?"
☆☆☆
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