CHAPTER 169: THE MASTER OF REAL COMBAT
Speck wiped his face with a broad, blood-stained hand, then smeared the residue
onto his tattered tracksuit. His eyes narrowed into two crescent moons of pure,
shimmering malice.
"Hee... I knew you were angry."
He kicked off his sandals, standing barefoot on the cool pavement. A twisted,
unnatural smile split his face.
"Though, honestly, kid... when I'm hitting people, I don't usually bother asking
for their names. So I have no idea who your 'Friends' are."
"Are they alive? Are they dead? What a shame—"
Speck's taunt echoed in Ren's ears.
The ink-wash lines of Ren's mind began to churn with a new, vibrant energy. A
silhouette materialized beside him—lean, athletic, and radiating a restless,
competitive heat. The phantom stared at Speck with a look of undisguised
disgust.
Unlike Ryu's stoic weight or Zangief's boisterous mass, this new Master was
"Lively." He felt like a best friend who had just arrived to back you up in a
schoolyard scrap. He didn't hide his emotions; his "Might" was fueled by the
fire in his heart.
{The wind doesn't hate anyone, Ren. It just passes through.}
{But honestly? This guy... I can't stand people like him.}
The phantom rested a hand on his hip, his feet moving in a light, rhythmic
bounce.
{I once lost a friend. He was murdered.}
{The killer was a 'Martial Artist' too, but he used poison and hidden strikes.
He was devious. He had no honor.}
{That man didn't just disregard life; he spat on the very soul of the struggle.
He mocked the bonds of the spirit.}
{I couldn't forgive him. My mind went blank. All I knew was the urge to swing my
fists until the world stopped spinning.}
The phantom clapped Ren's shoulder.
{You're doing great, disciple! Even with the fire in your gut, you haven't lost
yourself. You're still 'Ren Shiroki.'}
A Master isn't just a teacher; they are a witness who learns from the growth of
the student.
Ren felt the weight lift from his heart. His body became light and responsive.
His hands opened into loose claws, and his feet began to "Tap" the concrete with
a rhythmic, floating grace.
Speck blinked, his grin widening at the sight of Ren's shifting posture.
"Interesting. Trying a new stance?"
"It might be a terminal error, kid. Learning a new trick on the day of the
execution usually leads to a shallow grave. But... you look like you've done the
homework."
THOOM!
Speck didn't finish the thought. His rear foot slammed into the pavement, and
his 230cm frame exploded forward. He moved with a speed that felt like a
localized explosion—a volatile burst of "Might" fueled by pure, unadulterated
hunger.
SHING!
As he lunged, Speck's massive hand hooked downward. Like a backhoe digging into
the earth, he snatched a handful of loose gravel and asphalt from a broken patch
of the walkway, clenching it into a jagged, stony fist.
"HEI—YA!"
Speck anchored his weight and launched a full-power upward hook.
Ren didn't retreat. He tilted his neck at a sharp angle, the stony fist
whistling past his chin. The edges of the gravel caught his jaw, tearing a
shallow furrow through the skin.
"Hee!"
Speck's grin turned manic. He prepared to hurl the remaining stones into Ren's
eyes as a blinding follow-up.
Next microsecond—
"HRAAAGH!"
Ren stepped deep into the pocket. He ignored the sting on his face and drove his
left elbow into the center of Speck's chest.
[DRIVE COUNTER: PIERCING ELBOW]!
The technical counter hit like a hammer. The impact was heavy enough to force
Speck's heels to skid across the concrete, leaving two distinct, charred "Tire
Marks" on the pavement.
"Cough... hack!"
Speck's chest throbbed with a dull ache. He let out a dry, pained cough, but his
momentum didn't stop. He swung the hand filled with gravel, trying to crush
Ren's skull with the weighted fist.
"!?!"
Ren parried the strike with his forearm, the stones shattering against his skin
like a spray of fireworks.
"Eh?"
Speck froze for a fraction of a second. He didn't understand why the attack had
failed. Ren's arm felt like it was made of solid, high-tensile steel. He had
left a massive opening.
But Ren didn't follow up. He had seen the "Tell." He realized Speck's confusion
was a bait—a fake "Stiffness" meant to lure him into a grapple. Ren back-dashed,
resetting the distance.
"..."
Speck stood up, his grin returning with a vengeance.
The first exchange was over. One man was fighting for the "Flavor" of defeat.
The other was fighting for the answer to "Might," fueled by a cold, protective
rage.
The stalemate was perfect.
The Hillside.
Fusui Kure sat cross-legged on the grass, her tactical backpack resting beside
her. She was watching the fight in the amusement zone through the lens of her
binoculars.
"He's sturdy, Ren-chin. You aren't finding a breach," she whispered.
Her [Removal] was active, the veins around her eyes allowing her to analyze the
biological data of the two fighters.
"Speck's muscle density is high, but it's not scientific like Shinogi's. It's...
Distorted. His metabolism is a monster. His body is literally rewriting its own
cellular damage in real-time. It's an evolutionary abnormality fueled by his own
savagery."
Suddenly, Fusui sensed movement behind her. She reached for the suppressed
handgun in her waistband, but her hand stopped halfway. She recognized the
scent.
An old, "Strong" scent.
"It's you," she said, looking back.
Standing in the shadows was a thick-set middle-aged man with silver-white hair
and a scruffy beard. He wore a simple button-down shirt and a loose suit jacket,
looking remarkably like a neighborhood shopkeeper.
"A pleasure, little Kure," the man said.
Fusui blinked her black-and-white eyes. "I could tell you were strong from a
mile away, Oji-san. So... who are you? A Kengan Member? An Assassin?"
The man offered a lazy, modest smile. "I just run a local Dojo. Nothing fancy."
Fusui tilted her head. "Should I run a background check?"
"Please don't. Youth these days are so competitive," the man sighed, rubbing his
jaw.
"Motobe Izo."
Fusui's eyes widened. She knew the name. Even in the circle of the world's
greatest assassins, the name Motobe Izo was spoken with a specific kind of
respect.
The Master of Motobe-style Real Combat Jujutsu.
A 53-year-old veteran who was still a titan in the "Other Side." He was a
contemporary of Doppo Orochi—a Grandmaster who viewed the world as a permanent
battlefield.
"Whoa! A big shot!"
Fusui grinned, reaching into her pack. She pulled out a bottle of Oolong tea and
tossed it to him. "Have a drink, Master. Take a seat."
Motobe caught the tea and sat down on the grass, lighting a cigarette. He looked
down at the "War Zone" where Ren and Speck were circling each other.
"Ren Shiroki," Motobe murmured. "I thought he was just another hot-headed youth
from the Arena. But his understanding of 'Real Combat' is deeper than it should
be."
"I suspect he has some very impressive teachers. Or rather... a collection of
them."
As a master of the "Total Fight," Motobe could see the shadows of multiple
styles overlapping in Ren's movements.
"But regardless of his talent... his opponent is a death-row convict. A man who
exists in a world that a sanctioned fighter cannot comprehend."
"Fighting him with the logic of an athlete is a recipe for a catastrophe."
Motobe took a pull of his tea and sighed.
"I was going to tell those two to run. I tried to lure them away with a script,
but... my resolve wavered. I should have just been blunt."
Fusui laughed. "Ren-chin had the advantage in that last exchange, didn't he?"
"For a second, yes," Motobe nodded. "But Ren-kun is still fighting like a
'Martial Artist.' He's looking for the 'Match.'"
"Since this isn't a regulated match, and since you and the police are providing
the 'Field Support,' he should be using the resources of the environment."
Motobe made a gesture with his hand, a mysterious smile on his face. "Like... a
gun, for example."
Fusui reached into her waistband and pulled out her 9mm. "You mean this?"
"No," Motobe shook his head, his eyes glinting. "Handguns won't stop Speck. The
police already tried the high-velocity slugs and failed. To put a hole in a
monster like that, you need a submachine gun. At minimum."
Fusui reached back into her tactical backpack. She pulled out a compact,
high-performance SMG and held it up.
"So... you mean this?"
Motobe Izo: "..." Motobe: "..." Motobe: "Wait... really?"
He stared at the weapon. It was perfectly maintained. It was a high-end,
military-grade prohibited item. And she had just casually brought it to a public
park.
"Is that... legal?" Motobe managed to ask.
Fusui waved it off with a giggle. "Don't worry about it! Half the police force
are Kure associates. For a girl of my standing, this is just a 'Self-Defense
Tool.'"
Motobe realized then that the "Kure Clan" was a much larger variable than he had
calculated. He looked at Fusui's callused palms and the way she handled the
weapon.
She's a specialist, Motobe realized. A Master of Lead.
"You're a kind one, Oji-san," Fusui said, her eyes fixed on Ren. "I want to help
him, I really do. But Ren-chin wants to do this himself."
"Like your 'Real Combat' philosophy, Ren-chin has his own obsession with the
Struggle."
"I'm just going to watch him for now."
Motobe Izo went quiet. He was a warrior, and he understood the "Will" of a man
who had stepped onto the field with a resolved soul.
"Then I shall watch with you. Let's see the 'Real Combat' of the man who broke
Kureha Shinogi."
"By the way..."
As a master of hidden weapons, Motobe couldn't hide his professional curiosity.
"You got any 'Big Stuff' in there? A sniper rifle, perhaps?"
Fusui nodded. "I didn't bring the heavy-duty rail, but I have a lightweight
breakdown model."
She fumbled in her bag, then paused. "I'll let you play with it, Oji-san. But do
you have a business card? Ren-chin has this weird hobby of collecting 'Monster
Profiles.'"
Motobe Izo produced a card for his Dojo.
The two "Specialists" traded items, both feeling a surge of satisfaction. The
Master of Real Combat and the Master of Ballistics had officially formed a
long-term partnership.
Motobe looked at the rifle. "Aramid fiber reinforcement... high-tension grips...
kid, you have excellent taste in hardware!"
"Right?!"
The two "Abnormalities" began a deep-dive discussion on ballistics and
engineering, their "Bond" growing stronger with every technical detail.
☆☆☆
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