Chapter 444: Mr. 2
"Welcome, my friends!"
Jun Guevara flashed a brilliant, radiant grin, looking even more welcoming under
the morning sun.
Ren Shiroki stared at the man's weathered, rugged face, the data banks in his
mind spinning at redline as the pieces snapped together.
Jun Guevara. Titles: [MR. 2], the [SECOND UNCHAINED]. The man who forced the
President of the United States to bend the knee—the legitimate second generation
of the "Freest Man on Earth"!
Under normal circumstances, Guevara would have infiltrated the Arizona State
Penitentiary to challenge Biscuit Oliva on his own turf. Here, because Oliva was
operating inside The Inside, Guevara had simply tracked the scent of freedom
into the Ward, breaching through the Seven Ohma gatehouse!
Ren understood now.
No wonder Chairman Katahara's intelligence network drew a complete blank on the
Seven Ohma sector. If the invader holding that gate was a sovereign warlord like
Mr. 2, it was no surprise at all. Everything lined up!
Guevara had initially locked onto Ren, but seeing the youth lost in
contemplation, his dark eyes shifted toward the massive figure beside him.
"And welcome to you too, Tiger~!"
Guevara laughed, flashing a thumb. "After our little dance, I wanted to treat
you to breakfast, but you insisted on brooding alone in the dirt. You broke my
heart, brother."
Takeshi Wakatsuki's brow twitched. A rare, helpless grimace crossed his scarred
face. "I hardly consider that an 'exchange'... at least, not from your
perspective."
"Gwahaha!"
Guevara put his hands on his hips and barked with laughter, turning toward a
group of shivering thugs nearby. "So! What's on the menu this morning, boys?"
The camp slowly came alive as the local outlaws scrambled to start the
cook-pots.
Even though Ren and the others had eaten field rations earlier, nobody in their
right mind would turn down a bowl of hot, fresh stew in the autumn chill. They
rolled up their sleeves and pitched in.
Despite being the new "Boss" of the sector, Guevara didn't sit idle like a king.
He grabbed a kitchen knife and went to work on a crate of potatoes, his
blade-work so clean, rhythmic, and blindingly fast that diced cubes flew into
the pot like machine-cut dice.
The menu was simple: Ward-Style Hunter's Stew and Rice.
The crew sat around the cleared campfire, basking in the warm morning sun and
the cool autumn breeze, watching the steam rise off the massive iron pot.
Seeing Ren still staring at him with that analytical gaze, Guevara finally
couldn't help himself.
"Take a good look, Mr. Ren!"
Guevara leaned forward, his charisma washing over them like an ocean wave. "I
heard about how you handled the Three Wolves sector. I love your style. I
respect it from the bottom of my heart!"
"The boss of that sector... General Zhang, right?"
"The way you took him down—bypassing the foot soldiers, vaulting the wall, and
putting the fear of God directly into the commander's face... pure, tactical
brilliance!"
Guevara sliced through an onion with a flick of his wrist.
"When facing a massive faction, decapitating the leader is the exact same logic
as targeting a vital point in hand-to-hand combat. Cut the head off the snake,
and the body dies."
Guevara chuckled, flashing a wink. "Though, if you had ordered them to start
rebuilding the tenements like I did, it would've been a ten out of ten, hahaha!"
Ren listened quietly.
Despite the scruffy stubble and the weathered lines around his eyes, Guevara
wasn't old at all. He was older than Baki Hanma, but younger than Ren himself.
Yet his speech, his cadence, and his natural gravitas carried the weight of an
absolute sovereign. He possessed the natural, magnetic leadership of a
revolutionary born to command armies.
That was Jun Guevara's singular aura.
Guevara looked around the circle, gesturing expansively with his ladle. "As of
this morning, Two Tigers, One Dragon, and Seven Ohma are under my personal
jurisdiction. Don't be shy! If you run into any trouble in my backyard, just
drop my name!"
Hearing this, Fusui Kure's curiosity finally boiled over.
"Guevara-san..."
The girl adjusted her dark sunglasses, her mismatched eyes darting toward the
narrow utility locker bolted outside the shanty door—the cramped metal box where
Guevara had spent the night.
"Why were you sleeping inside a standing locker?"
"Because I am a warrior," Guevara answered without missing a beat. "When it
comes time to lie down and sleep comfortably... I'll have all of eternity to do
it once I'm dead."
"—"
The entire camp went dead silent.
Aside from Ren, none of them knew the classified history of the sovereign nation
Guevara had built from a forgotten island of outcasts. But that single,
effortless answer was enough to prove one thing:
Jun Guevara's Will was the absolute, unyielding truth.
Ren let out a soft, admiring breath. "...As expected of [MR. 2]."
"Oh?" Guevara arched a thick eyebrow, amused. "You know the meaning behind that
title, Shiroki?"
Ren nodded slowly. "Mr. 2 doesn't mean you're ranked second. It means the Second
Generation—the second 'Unchained,' the second man on Earth recognized by global
satellite surveillance as an absolute sovereign beyond the laws of nations."
Hearing this, Himuro, Fusui, and Wakatsuki felt their breath catch in their
throats.
They didn't know Guevara's background, but they knew Biscuit Oliva. To hear this
young man addressed as the legitimate successor to that title conveyed an
astronomical amount of weight.
In many fields, the second generation surpasses the original. Which meant...
this man's raw combat lethality might very well rival—or eclipse—the King of the
Black Pentagon!
Just what kind of monster have we walked into...?!
"Gwahaha! Am I really that famous?"
Guevara laughed, setting the ladle down. "So, Mr. Ren. What brought a fighter
like you into the mud of The Inside?"
Ren thought about it honestly. "I want to know the answer to a question: What is
Strength? To find out, I have to fight. I have to face true monsters and throw
myself into difficult situations. That's why I came."
"Oh! Splendid!" Guevara's smile broadened.
Then, Ren added in the same calm, casual tone:
"—And you, Guevara-san... are ridiculously strong."
Freeze.
The temperature in the camp plummeted. The air seized as if an invisible vice
had clamped down on the clearing.
Ren wanted to face strength. And Ren had just declared Guevara strong.
The mathematical conclusion was instantaneous:
Ren Shiroki wanted to test his fists against Mr. 2!
Right here?! Right now?!
"So that's how it is..."
Guevara's thick eyebrows settled, the playful warmth vanishing from his eyes,
replaced by the cold, glorious glint of a warrior standing on a battlefield.
He murmured a low, ancient phrase under his breath:
"It is a good day to die."
His signature battle cry. A phrase that carried enough psychological weight to
crush the lungs of a lesser man.
Ren Shiroki stood his ground. Jun Guevara lowered his center of gravity.
Two distinct, towering auras expanded simultaneously, crushing against one
another like rival weather fronts. The localized air pressure warped, the visual
distortion making the shanties behind them ripple like mirages in the desert!
The surrounding outlaws broke into cold sweats, and even Fusui, Himuro, and
Wakatsuki clenched their fists, their bodies instinctively coiling for a
catastrophe.
Then—
"SOUP'S READY! TIME TO EAT, EVERYONE~!"
An outlaw shouted from the cook-pot, breaking the tension like a shattered pane
of glass.
Neither Ren nor Guevara was the type to ruin a good meal.
The suffocating bloodlust vanished into thin air, replaced instantly by the
boisterous noise of a dozen men ladling hot stew into metal bowls. The crew
scattered across the dirt, slurping hot broth in peaceful camaraderie.
Himuro Ryo watched Guevara from the corner of his eye.
The man's presence was undeniable. Unlike Ren, whose aura was an urban crucible
forged in the street, Guevara's presence felt like the eye of a hurricane—an
eerie, untouchable stillness standing firm in the center of an apocalyptic
squall.
Who is this guy? And how powerful is he to make the Wild Tiger concede defeat
without a full match?!
As Himuro pondered the riddle—
BZZZZ—!
Two or three fat, persistent flies buzzed into the clearing, orbiting the
steaming stew pots and diving toward the bowls. In a gutter like the Ward,
insects were inevitable, but during breakfast, it was an unwelcome nuisance.
An outlaw lunged to swat them, but Guevara raised a casual hand, stopping him.
Guevara set his bowl down on an empty crate and strolled past the outlaw. As he
walked by, his hand flickered out in a motion so fluid it looked like a breeze
brushing past silk.
Whish!
The outlaw didn't even register the touch.
By the time the guard blinked, the heavy 9mm sidearm on his tactical belt was
gone. It was already spinning in Guevara's fingers!
The draw speed was so absolute that not a single person at the table saw the
fingers close on the grip!
"Oho! Kept it clean and oiled, I see!"
Guevara smiled serenely, his dark eyes tracking the erratic flight path of the
three flies dancing through the morning air.
The spectators held their breath.
Is he going to shoot them? With bullets?!
Instead, Guevara's wrist snapped with explosive, whip-like acceleration.
He swung the pistol through the air, the muzzle carving three distinct,
whistling arcs through the space around the food pot!
SHICK-SHICK-SHICK!
Before anyone could comprehend the trajectory, Guevara had already drawn back
his hand. With a smooth, effortless click, he slid the weapon right back into
the outlaw's holster!
Looking closely at the muzzle—bzzz-bzzz-bzzz—the faint sound of buzzing could be
heard from inside the dark rifling of the barrel!
In less than half a second, Guevara had swung the hollow barrel through the air
with such astronomical precision and speed that he had scooped all three flies
out of the sky alive, trapping them inside the chamber!
"Urban planning requires hygiene, boys. Flies around the food are bad for
morale."
Guevara gave the outlaw an easy pat on the cheek, chuckling. "After breakfast,
let's get a sweep crew together and clear the garbage piles around the
perimeter, alright?"
The outlaw nodded frantically, his head moving so fast it left an afterimage,
terrified of making a single mistake.
Witnessing that impossible display of dynamic visual acuity, startup velocity,
and spatial control, even Ren Shiroki's eyes narrowed in genuine awe.
Just what kind of monster is this 'Second Generation'?!
The answer arrived sooner than expected.
A breathless sentry came tearing through the camp gate, screaming a frantic
report:
"Boss! We've got an emergency!"
"A lone challenger just breached the border from the Four Turtles sector! He's
calling you out directly!"
The sentry gulped, describing the intruder:
"He's a mountain of a man! Bald head! Long, snow-white beard! Insane physical
strength, and his face is covered in horrific, weathered scars!!"
☆☆☆
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