The "Arena" was the designated spot where members of this branch engaged in free sparring.
Word had spread quickly, and every Organization member currently at the base had flocked to the site. They sat in the stands, whispering amongst themselves, debating whose orders they would actually be following on future missions.
Most of them didn't take this overly young, white-haired kid seriously. To them, his sudden arrival and immediate promotion to branch leader were nothing more than the result of some inexplicable favoritism from "That Gentleman" and Tequila. Sarello may have made some minor mistakes, but in their eyes, he was the only one fit to lead them.
If Kaiser fell to Sarello... even if they begrudgingly followed orders out of respect for the Boss, they would never truly be loyal.
On the ring.
The battle had begun, but neither side was in a hurry to strike. Sarello loosened his joints, carrying himself with the posture of a man who had already won.
"Kaiser, I think you should just give up now." Seeing the trusting gazes of his subordinates in the crowd, Sarello's ego inflated even further. "Even dozens of cartel mercenaries combined couldn't do a thing to me. What chance do you have? If I ruin that pretty, delicate face of yours later, I'm worried the higher-ups might hold it against me."
Satoru didn't reply. Instead, he slowly raised his hand and extended a single finger.
"What? Is your silence a confession of defeat?" Sarello noticed that Satoru hadn't even taken off his sunglasses, which only solidified his perception of the boy's arrogance.
"I'm saying..." The white-haired youth lightly wagged his finger. "You're too weak."
Sarello's expression instantly darkened. "You'll pay for those words."
He wasted no more breath and lunged at Satoru, fist swinging. The strike was sharp and fierce, seemingly enough to shatter his opponent. But Sarello was mindful; he was already in hot water with the Boss. If he actually broke the VIP sent from HQ, the consequences would be catastrophic. Thus, this terrifying-looking punch used only thirty percent of his power—just enough to pin the kid to the floor.
Huh?
Sarello suddenly froze. The next second, the entire arena fell into a deathly silence.
Aside from Tequila and Sake, who exchanged a knowing glance and looked entirely unsurprised, everyone else was questioning if their eyes were failing them.
"A... a single finger?! He blocked that punch with just one finger?"
Javier, sitting in the audience, felt a tidal wave of shock crash over him. As one of Sarello's closest confidants, he knew his boss's strength intimately. Six months ago, he had watched Sarello knock a traitor unconscious with a single punch in a fit of rage.
Yet, on the stage, the boy everyone had dismissed as "eye candy" had effortlessly extended a finger to intercept the attack, rendering that boulder-sized fist completely harmless.
Only Sarello knew the true nature of what he was facing. Using thirty percent of his strength was indeed held back, but it shouldn't have felt like a mantis trying to stop a carriage. This kid... was definitely supernatural.
Realizing he had underestimated his opponent, Sarello decided to go all out. He used everything in his arsenal—punches, kicks, ruthless strikes—trying to break through Satoru's defense. But the boy remained unmoved, calmly dodging every attack with leisurely precision.
Five minutes later, Sarello wiped the sweat from his face, staring at the boy—who still had his hands in his pockets—as if he were a monster. He couldn't find a single opening. Every one of his movements was anticipated and dodged with pinpoint accuracy. This kid he had looked down on from the start had been toyed with him on purpose.
Satoru let out a yawn. "That's it?"
"I gave you all this time, and this is the best you can do...?" His head tilted slightly to the right, narrowly avoiding a desperate lunge from Sarello. "Then, it's my turn."
He snapped a roundhouse kick outward. The speed was so immense it was impossible to dodge.
Too... too fast!
Sarello's pupils shrunk. Caught square in the abdomen, his body was sent flying past the edge of the ring, crashing heavily onto the ground near the front row of the stands. He clutched his stomach, his body too weak to stand, as the metallic taste of blood flooded his throat.
Sssss—
How long had it been since he had been this humiliated? The gangs and the police in all of Mexico gave him a modicum of respect, yet all his pride had been crushed by this youth.
"Boss!"
His confidants rushed forward anxiously, but they were intimidated by Satoru's slow approach and didn't dare move. Having received a boost in impression points from Tequila, Satoru was in a good mood. He knelt beside Sarello, cheerfully removed his sunglasses, and said, "You really are weak."
Sarello had wanted to make him cry just moments ago; now, he was the one on the verge of tears. Satoru's evaluation was like a bloody dagger to his heart. He looked up, trash talk on the tip of his tongue, but the words died in his throat.
With the sunglasses gone, the white-haired boy revealed his true face—snow-like lashes and magnificent cerulean eyes. He looked so harmless, like an angel who had fallen to earth. Sarello swallowed the blood in his throat, his frustration turning into pure bewilderment.
Is this guy an angel or a demon?
While Sarello questioned his reality, Satoru glanced around the room.
"The former leader has fallen. Anyone else want to challenge me?"
No one dared to make a sound. If Sarello, the strongest in the base, had been insta-killed, the rest of them would just be fodder.
"Excellent~"
Satoru snapped his fingers.
"From now on, I am your new leader."
The crowd exchanged glances and decided to follow the principle of "the wise adapt to their circumstances." They bowed their heads—heads they had previously held high in disdain—to the boy who was nearly twenty years their junior, and shouted in unison:
"Yes, Leader!"