The real fight begin.
Mokichi pressed immediately. following a combo of a jab, a cross, then a sharp kick biting into my calf after. He then dropped low for a hip toss, his grip caught my sleeve and waist with his hips already turning.
The throw was already in motion before I reacted.
I closed the distance before he could complete the turn, planting my feet and forcing my weight down. His hips twisted, but the leverage was gone. The momentum of the throw collapsed, and we slid apart with nothing gained on either side.
Mokichi didn't give me room to breathe. A jab feint flashed in my face, the cross followed, then his level dropped. He shot in hard for the single-leg, arms locking around my lead leg as he drove forward.
I dropped my weight fast, hips slamming down as my legs kicked back, killing the takedown under me. As he tried to adjust, I drove a knee up into his body. He grunted, the sound short and ugly as the air was forced out of him.
We crashed together at close range, chests almost touching.
Knees traded in tight. Mine thudded into his ribs. His dug into my thigh. Elbows sliced through narrow gaps. One caught my cheek, hot and sharp, with the blood following immediately.
I answered with a short palm strike to his solar plexus. Compact and clean.
He absorbed it on the guard and fired back with an elbow toward my temple. I ducked at the last second, feeling the air rush past where my head had been.
We shoved off each other and stepped back. Reset. Both of us breathing harder now.
For a brief moment, neither of us moved. The pause was small, almost accidental, but it was enough.
Enough time for the crowd to remember that something half-buried in their memory, lining up with what they were seeing right now.
Then, a sudden sharp voice cut through from the mid-tier seats. A grizzled veteran fighter with a half scarred face, his eyes widening from recognition.
"Wait... that fighting style... is that him? THAT'S HIM!"
The murmurs spread outward. Some confused by the outburst while others hesitating and searching their memories in trying to recollect anything about him.
Another voice followed, older this time. Calm and confident. A suited executive leaning back in his seat with a knowing smirk. "About time someone remembered him."
"He's Ying Zheng. The blindfolded kid who cleared thirty-six straight starting at twelve years old. The heir to that batshit crazy cult named the Army of God, that cult once tried to terrorize this land with chemical weapons." He paused for a second then continued.
"Don't know why the leader suddenly died but all i know is that his heir, Ying Zheng, stopped fighting in kengan matches after that. They called him the 'King of the Beginning' back then. Much popular than Cosmos as well, but somehow many informations about him got suppressed. Making him quite unknown this days."
Gasps rippled through the stands. Whispers piled on whispers.
"Is that the one who vanished suddenly?"
"Thirty-six wins and zero losses before he was even legal? Against real Kengan fighters?"
"Shit… I remember the tapes. He fought blindfolded the whole time and never lost."
The tone of the arena shifted. Consfusion drained away, replaced by stunned silence, then a low, uneasy hum of awe. "He's a real deal..."
The sound swelled back in, louder now, their excitement peaking.
"Don't let him breathe, Robinson!"
"King! Push him!"
I felt the shift in the air, the whole arena now finally remembered who I am and that I wasn't some random blindfolded kid.
'Heh, took them long enough.'
The chants sounded different now. When they shouted out King it wasn't a calling card anymore. It carried weight and expectation.
Mokichi didn't give the crowd time to settle into it. He moved again. Jab feint, cross, then a sharp low kick aimed at my lead leg. I checked it with my shin, the impact rattling up the bone, and stepped in to close the distance.
I snapped an elbow toward his jaw. Short. Mean. He leaned back just enough to avoid it, but I followed immediately with a palm strike into his ribs. It landed solid. He grunted, then answered with a tight hook that skimmed my shoulder.
We drifted apart again.
I wiped the blood from my cheek. My ribs already ached.
He's good. Really good. Just not good enough.
And honestly? The pattern was starting to feel… repetitive.
I tilted my head, smirking under the blindfold.
"I'm bored."
The words slipped out quiet but the arena was so keyed up they carried. Mokichi paused mid-step. Eyes narrowing slightly, still gentle, but curious. "Bored?"
I rolled my shoulders. "Yeah." I let my stance change. Feet squared more. Knees softer. Hands open, hanging lower. Weight centered.
Mokichi smiled, calm as ever. "You're strong," he said. "But don't get cocky and think you'll defeat me easily."
I laughed under my breath. Not loud and not in a mocking way either. Just pure honesty.
"Cocky?" I said. "No."
My feet slid a fraction wider. The floor felt different when I stood like this. Not planted. Not light. Just… ready to move in any direction at once.
"I'm just done pretending you can keep up."
Mokichi's smile didn't fade, but something behind his eyes sharpened. He shifted his guard, elbows tighter, weight coiled. He felt it too. Whatever I'd been doing before, I wasn't doing it anymore.
He stepped in first.
Fast. Cleaner than before. Jab straight down the center, no feint this time. I didn't retreat. I turned with it, letting the punch slide past my cheek as my hand brushed his wrist, guiding it off-line. Not a block. A suggestion.
His follow-up cross came anyway. I was already inside it.
I cut across his center, shoulder brushing his chest, my forearm threading under his arm as his punch overextended. His balance tilted. Just a hair. Enough.
I turned my hips and pulled.
Not hard. Not yet.
Mokichi felt it and reacted instantly, posting his foot, trying to square back up. Good instincts. Veteran instincts. But the moment he resisted, I let go and stepped through, my other hand settling against his elbow, redirecting the force he'd created himself.
He stumbled half a step. The crowd gasped. It wasn't dramatic. It was worse than that.
It was effortless.
Mokichi reset fast, eyes widening a fraction now. He came again, changing angles, throwing a looping hook meant to force space. I flowed under it, spine folding, then straightened as my palm rose into his chest. Not a strike. A push, placed right where his balance lived.
His feet left the ground.
Just barely.
He landed awkwardly, skidding back, catching himself before he fell. The arena exploded at that. Shouts, disbelief, something close to fear creeping into the noise.
Mokichi breathed out slowly, steadying himself. When he looked up again, the gentleness was still there.
But now there was respect.
"So that's it," he said quietly. "Aikido."
Aikido.
A martial art born from the idea that conflict doesn't need to be met head-on to be ended. Created by Morihei Ueshiba, it wasn't designed around domination or brute damage, but around control. Balance and harmony. The idea that you don't need to stop force to defeat it.
Somewhere along the way, it got a bad reputation.
People saw the demonstrations. The dramatic falls. The students flying away from a light touch like they'd been struck by a truck and started flying. It started looking fake with the cooperation of the people being dressed up as mastery of it's art. A scam of an art they call it.
That was never Aikido.
Real Aikido doesn't ask you to stop an attack. It assumes you can't. A punch is already moving and a grab already being committed. Momentum already paid for by the enemy. So instead of resisting it, you accept it. Step into it. Turn with it. Let the force finish traveling... just not in the direction it was meant to be.
It's circles, not lines.
Water, not walls.
When someone pushes, you don't push back. You guide the push until it has nowhere left to go. When someone pulls, you don't resist. You let the pull overextend itself, then take what balance it cost them.
The throws aren't magic. They're book keeping. Every ounce of force an attacker spends has to be accounted for somewhere. Aikido just makes sure it comes due at the worst possible moment.
It's not about never getting hit. It's about moving through the hit. About entering at the instant an attack commits, when the attacker has already given up the option to change their mind.
That's why it looks so calm.
That's why it feels so unfair.
By the time you realize you're falling, the decision was made by your own body.
I smiled.
"Now you're seeing it."
I didn't rush him.
That was the first thing that felt wrong to everyone watching.
There's no forward burst, no pressure. I just… drifted. A shallow arc to my left, weight rolling from heel to toe like I was water performing nature's course.
Mokichi advanced anyway. He had to, it's still a fight and still a match after all.
His jab snapped out again, sharp and disciplined.
I let it touch me.
The glove brushed my cheekbone as I turned with it, my head continuing the line his fist had already chosen. The impact didn't stop. It continued, carried forward by my movement instead of crashing into me.
My hand met his forearm mid-extension, not grabbing, not blocking. Just there. Guiding. His punch finished longer than he intended, his shoulder opening a fraction too much.
That fraction was enough.
I stepped around him, not past him. Around. My body curved while his stayed straight, and suddenly his own momentum was pulling him forward with no target at the end of it.
He tried to retract. Too late.
I turned my hips and drew a circle with my arm.
Mokichi's balance folded inward. His feet scrambled to catch up, but the force was already committed. He wasn't being thrown.
He was being allowed to fall.
He hit the mat on his side, rolled through instinctively, and popped back up fast, eyes wide now. Not shocked. Calculating.
He came back heavier this time. Cross instead of jab. Power committed.
I didn't dodge.
I entered.
The punch slid across my shoulder as I stepped inside its arc, my spine turning with it, my hand catching his wrist only after the strike had passed its peak. I rotated, letting his arm finish the circle he'd started, and suddenly his own shoulder was dragging his body forward.
I dropped my center.
Mokichi's feet left the ground clean this time.
No slam. No violence for the sake of it. Just inevitability. He spiraled down and hit the mat on his back, breath punching out of him as the circle completed itself.
The arena went quiet in a way that wasn't anticipation.
It was realization.
Mokichi rolled to a knee while breathing harder now.
He got up slowly while checking which parts of him still worked. One hand pressed into his ribs for a moment, then he lowered it. Blood traced a thin line from the corner of his mouth. Sweat clung to his brow. His eyes, though, stayed steady. Calm. Not broken yet...
"You're not hitting me straight on." he said, mostly to himself. "You're using my momentum to your advantage. Look's like simply attacking won't do." He then changed his stance.
His fingers coiled, the index and middle finger together, thumb pressing against them like a corkscrew ready to bore in. His stance shifted, lower, tighter, elbows drawn in. The air around him seemed to tighten too.
"Let me show you." he said in a low but clear voice. "The secret technique of Baritsu."
==========
AN: So this was meant to be shorter and I was going to end it after another thousand of words but it kept growing and growing like fire but I guess it's better cause it's going to be hotter too. Anyways, spoiler alert the fight will definitely end next chapter.
Word Count: 2,048