CHAPTER 4: DRIVE IMPACT
To prevent the siblings from making a run for it, the Zanshi-gumi goons had been stakes out the perimeter for three days.
The evening breeze was cool and refreshing.
Sugaya Inoue, the Yakuza sub-boss, arrived at the Shiroki property as promised, accompanied by the two black-suited Teiai debt collectors.
Ren Shiroki was standing in the middle of the clearing, facing his repeatedly patched-up sandbag.
Inoue was about to bark an order to move out, but Arisa stepped out of the corrugated shack, cutting him off. "It's still early. My brother is warming up. Do not disturb him."
"Tsk, what a pain," Inoue muttered, checking his watch. He didn't push it, but he was clearly annoyed. He paced around the grass, lit a cigarette, and grumbled, "Brain-damaged trash... he should just accept his beating like a good little boy. What's with all the posturing?"
As he spoke, he noticed the two Teiai agents had frozen in place. Their expressions were filled with disbelief.
"Huh?"
Inoue turned his head toward the "warming up" Ren.
Ren was in a side-facing stance—lead shoulder high for protection, rear elbow tucked, weight perfectly balanced between the balls of his feet and his heels.
It was Ryu's signature stance: the "Ansatsuken" foundation designed for total offense and defense.
Forward: A lightning-fast jab followed by a heavy cross. Backward: A guard that covered the chin and most of the vitals. Mobility: High-speed sliding steps in any direction.
It had only been three days, but with Ren's prior experience and the high-fidelity phantom of Ryu as a constant reference, he had mastered about seventy to eighty percent of the form.
"Hoo..."
Taking a deep breath, Ren pulled his left hand back and unleashed a lead uppercut, pivoting his entire body into a mid-level roundhouse kick with his right leg, before snapping back into his guard.
On paper, it was a basic combo. But the execution was haunting. Ren's movements were incredibly slow, yet there wasn't a single millimeter of wasted motion.
At every micro-second, he looked like a bronze statue—vivid, powerful, and perfectly balanced. The definition of his bare upper body was so sharp that you could see exactly which muscle fiber was firing at any given moment.
Inhale... Exhale...
The world around them seemed to pulse in rhythm with Ren's focus. He stared straight ahead.
For a brief, hallucinatory moment, Inoue and the two agents felt a chill. They swore Ren wasn't facing a sandbag, but a massive, invisible opponent!
"Here I come!"
Ren let out a low growl. His rear foot slammed into the dirt, his lead foot sliding forward to carry his entire body's momentum in a high-speed dash.
WHOOSH!
This footwork maximized explosive power, allowing for a high-speed lunge over a short distance. It was a move he had refined while trying to dodge Fusui's "gunshots" and surviving Ryu's straight punches.
It was the [DRIVE IMPACT]!
But just as the onlookers gaped in awe, something went wrong—
BOOM!
Something went flying—but it wasn't the sandbag. It was Ren.
As if he had been struck by a physical truck, Ren was launched backward. He tumbled across the dirt, rolling several times before slamming hard into the perimeter wall.
The sandbag merely swayed gently. It hadn't been touched.
"What the hell just happened?!"
Inoue and the agents stood mouth agape. A man had just been "knocked back" by a stationary sandbag?
That was a level of weirdness usually reserved for sci-fi movies.
Ren spat out a bit of bloody saliva and nipped back up to his feet with a "Kip-up" jump. Only then did he notice the group waiting for him.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. Let me change my shirt."
He wiped the remaining blood from his nose, towelled off the sweat, and put on a clean set of clothes. He was ready.
The Yakuza and the agents traded confused glances. None of them could wrap their heads around what they had just seen, but time was tight. They had to move.
As Ren moved toward the car, Arisa tried to follow, but Ren stopped her.
"We had a deal."
Ren ruffled her hair. "You're staying here. Besides, it's just a comeback match. Nothing exciting to see, right?"
Arisa looked worried, but she finally nodded.
Ren breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn't some old-fashioned overprotective guy; if this were an official Kengan Match with corporate sponsors and high security, he wouldn't mind her coming. But this was a "private" underground bout involving Yakuza and the Teiai Group. The danger level was an unknown variable.
"Exactly. We aren't running a babysitting service!" Inoue barked from the passenger seat, gesturing for the driver to start the engine.
On the road, the agent sitting in the back seat with Ren couldn't stop staring at his face.
There were visible bruises and faint welts—marks of a recent beating.
"Hey..." the agent said, confused. "Did you go out and find someone to spar with during these three days?"
Ren thought about it and shook his head. "Find someone? Not really. I just did some 'simulation' practice. Similar to what boxers call 'Shadow Boxing.'"
The agent was a boxing fan. He knew the term—practicing against an imaginary opponent to work on form and movement. But that only made him more confused.
"Shadow boxing? You can beat yourself into a pulp just by shadow boxing? You were literally bleeding a second ago! How is that possible?!"
Ren remained quiet for a moment. Then, he held out an empty hand, fingers splayed.
"Imagine for a second that I'm holding half a freshly cut lemon in my palm. The juice is glistening on the pulp. You can smell that sharp, citrus scent. It's super sour."
"And then—"
Ren suddenly thrust his palm toward the agent's face and grinned. "Imagine you just took a big lick of it!"
"Wha—"
The agent flinched. He had followed Ren's instructions so closely that his tongue actually recoiled from the phantom acidity. Even the two men in the front seat felt their mouths water instinctively.
Ren showed them his empty palm.
"The human body is a miracle. You only imagined the sourness, and yet your brain forced your body to produce saliva."
"If you take that a step further—if your visualization is high-fidelity enough while shadow boxing—you get very real feedback."
It was a concept the Yakuza and the agents had never heard of.
The Teiai agents, who spent their days dealing with cold numbers, found the analogy fascinating. But for Inoue, who already hated Ren, it just made him uneasy. He felt like Ren was looking down on him.
Wasn't this kid's brain fried? Why is he acting so cool and chatting up the Teiai guys?
"Che!" Inoue snarled, his brow furrowing. "I don't care if it's lemons or plums! Just don't pull any stunts tonight!"
Ren didn't even look at him. Instead, he used the Yakuza boss as a "bad example" for the agents. "See that? High stress leads to a dark psyche. It makes you prone to useless anger."
The agents, who also lived high-stress lives chasing debtors, felt a strange sense of camaraderie. "So... how do we fix that?"
"Build some muscle," Ren leaned back against the seat and laughed. "Exercise more. It keeps the mind happy."
The agents nodded thoughtfully. Inoue's forehead veins looked like they were about to pop.
Shiroki Dojo Grounds.
Ren had been gone for ten minutes. As the sun dipped below the horizon, Arisa leaned against the wall, pacing nervously. She couldn't sit still.
She knew her brother was trying to protect her, but she couldn't help but worry.
Suddenly, another car pulled up from the opposite direction.
Arisa tensed, ready to bolt, but the rear door opened to reveal Karura waving at her.
"Arisa-chan! Over here!" Karura chirped. "We're here to pick you up!"
Arisa blinked. "Pick me up... for what?"
The driver's side window rolled down. It was Fusui Kure. She grinned and patted the car door. "To watch your big brother scrap, obviously!"