Chapter 430: Halftime Intermission
On that day, the outlaws of the Three Wolves sector learned the name of an outsider—
Ren Shiroki.
A few among the mob who occasionally slipped outside the walls recognized the name from the black market's underground circuits, along with his title: [THE SOUL COMBATANT].
He wasn't an athlete. He wasn't an assassin. He wasn't a corporate mercenary.
He was a warrior of raw, unadulterated power.
The bald lieutenant swallowed hard, cold sweat tracing a line down his jaw. Around him, the other outlaws were visibly trembling.
The Inside was an ecosystem identical to the primeval wild.
For those bred in the gutters, survival required a specific gift—one far more vital than raw punching power: the instinct to instantly measure the lethality of a predator.
Every man facing Ren right now understood that this single combatant had the destructive yield of a live bomb.
This guy... he's the kind you cross the street to avoid!
Terror took root in their minds, carrying with it a chilling realization:
Ren Shiroki had entered these frames with the absolute resolution to die.
By contrast, the hundred-man mob surrounding him held what appeared to be the "Advantage." Yet that very advantage was their fatal weakness.
Because they had numbers, they instinctively tried to preserve their edge. They took it for granted that they were the guaranteed victors.
And wanting to protect an advantage was a fatal vulnerability!
The moment a man tries to preserve his skin, he loses the resolve to stake his life. He stops fighting like a beast!
Logically, it makes sense, the bald outlaw thought, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Yet a stubborn voice inside him still clung to denial. No matter what kind of martial philosophy one preached, the cold reality of one man versus a hundred remained absolute. Who in their right mind would actually choose to trade fists with an armed garrison?!
He looked at Ren, appraising the scars mapping the youth's skin.
And he's doing it... completely bare-handed!!
Perhaps he was only bluffing to stall for time? To complete some high-stakes bet or hold out for reinforcements? A calculated move to take a manageable risk, score a payout, and stroll away unscathed...
That had to be it, right?
—No.
The outlaws killed that thought the second it surfaced.
They were being naive!
No matter how much they tried to pump themselves up, they could not purge the psychological trap: they were relying on their numbers, and that reliance was rotting their focus!
The rest of the mob remained frozen.
The bald lieutenant hesitated for a breath, then threw his metal baton to the dirt. He unbuckled his tactical belt, dropping his combat dagger and his semi-automatic pistol alongside it.
He raised his bare hands, stepping forward to face Ren alone. He had cast away his "Advantage" and embraced the resolve to die!
"Nice. That's perfect!"
Ren bared his teeth in a savage grin. He settled into his side-facing guard—lead left arm low, left shoulder protecting the chin, right fist tucked against his ribs.
The bald outlaw drew a lungful of air, roaring, "COME—"
The word died in his throat.
His eyes widened in utter disbelief.
Ren's lead left side seemed to liquefy, fading into the air as if his arm had dissolved into pure ether!
What... is that...?!
[SOUL-LEVEL RELAXATION]!
BOOM!
Ren's left leg materialized and rooted into the asphalt, firing simultaneously with his right. The explosive torque shattered the pavement beneath his feet as his right fist drove forward like an armor-piercing artillery shell!
[ED: PSYCHO STRAIGHT]!
POW—!!
Forward momentum fused with a straight punch of pure kinetic mass. The blow buried itself straight into the lieutenant's solar plexus.
"Guh—?!"
The man hadn't even processed the entry before the shockwave ripped through his abdomen, forcing stomach acid up his throat.
Screee—!
Ren slid past the man's flank, pivoting on the ball of his foot to face his back.
In that millisecond, the bald outlaw felt a strange wave of relief. If he hadn't discarded his weapons, the impact of Ren's straight punch would have knocked the baton from his grip, drawing his focus to the dropped weapon. Because he was empty-handed, he stayed locked into the struggle. His eyes managed to track Ren's pivot!
"YAAAH!"
The lieutenant spun around, fighting down the vomit in his throat, and swung a desperate, wide right hook.
Whoosh!
Ren ducked beneath the trajectory, staying low as he lunged forward at extreme velocity.
[LUKE: AVENGER]!
He penetrated the lieutenant's inner pocket, driving his entire mass into a crushing shoulder charge!
BAM!
The impact blew the lieutenant's guard wide open.
Ren didn't let him recover. His hands clamped onto the man's right wrist. Using his own shoulder as an immovable fulcrum, he hoisted the 100kg brawler off the ground and hurled him forward with catastrophic force!
[RYU: SHOULDER THROW]!
BOOM—!!
The lieutenant slammed face-first into the asphalt. Due to the violent angle of the throw, his right shoulder joint tore free from the socket with a sickening, wet crack!
"AAAAAAAGH!!"
The man let out a blood-curdling scream, rolling across the dirt, clutching his dislocated arm. He was completely out of the fight.
"Hah... hah...!"
Ren's heavy breathing cut through the screeches of pain, deep and resonant.
That crushing presence came directly from his techniques. More specifically, it came from the overflowing impulse sealed within those techniques—the primal urge to extinguish the life before him.
The Satsui no Hado.
This wasn't just a brutal brawl against outlaws. This was Ren Shiroki's private crucible.
Both the [RELAXATION] derived from Psycho Power and the [SATSUI CHOICE] born from the Murderous Intent were being forged into second nature under the heat of real combat!
The crippled lieutenant was dragged away by his panicked flunkies. The rest of the mob surged back in.
Yet, not a single one among them possessed the resolve to discard their weapons and face Ren empty-handed as the lieutenant had. Consequently, not a single one could keep pace with Ren's frames.
BAM! CRACK! THUD!
Blood sprayed in crimson arcs. Broken teeth and shattered blades scattered across the sand alongside howling screams.
As the body count climbed, a name that hadn't been spoken in decades began to surface in the outlaws' terrified minds:
Gaoh Mukaku.
The madman who had fought alone for thirty years, attempting to unify the entire lawless Ward through overwhelming martial violence. The man who had ultimately named an army of orphans "Tokita Niko," birthing the legendary Niko Style.
Mukaku's legend had been carved into the stones of The Inside.
And now, the solitary [SOUL COMBATANT] standing at the threshold seemed to resurrect that ancient nightmare—
He had sealed the Three Wolves Gate alone. Nobody was getting out!
With dozens of their ranks broken, the outlaws' terror metastasized into a desperate tactical shift.
"Form a wall! Grind him down with a war of attrition!!"
They abandoned reckless rushes, switching to conservative, defensive containment. They even dragged out smuggled riot shields, locking them together to wall him in.
Yet in a crowded melee, a shield wall had a fatal flaw: the front rank couldn't back-step!
[DRIVE COUNTER: INVERTED IMPACT]!
BANG!
Ren drove a front kick into the lead riot shield, blowing it wide open! He sprinted forward, leaping toward the monolithic concrete wall of the gateway!
[DRIVE IMPACT: SHOCKWAVE]!
BOOM!!
His fist detonated against the masonry, blowing a ragged, man-sized breach straight through the wall and into the adjoining buffer warehouse!
Ren dove through the hole, vanishing into the shadows!
"—?!"
The outlaws gasped. One brave thug rushed up to peek through the breach, only for Ren's hand to shoot out from the dark, snatch him by the collar, and drive a snapping side-kick into his ribs!
POW!
"GAH!!" The thug vomited blood as he was launched backward out of the hole, painting a red streak across the floor.
After that, not a single man dared approach the breach. Nobody knew whether Ren was still lurking on the other side or if he had maneuvered deeper into the complex.
"That psycho mapped out the terrain before he engaged!"
"He played us!"
"He's not reckless... he's running a guerilla war!!"
The thugs cursed, but fear kept their feet glued to the floor. They fell back to tend to their wounded, scattering scouts to keep watch on the breach.
Inside the dim warehouse, Ren leaned against a concrete pillar, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He exhaled a long plume of warm steam, his eyes glittering.
"Hah... this is amazing."
He retrieved his hidden rucksack, tore into a high-calorie ration bar, and rinsed his parched throat with water.
Hours drifted by. Ren roamed through the massive, cavernous complex. Whenever a scout spotted him, or whenever Ren felt like hunting, a violent, brief clash would erupt. Relying on the warehouse walls, Ren completely neutralized their firearms, dismantling his pursuers in close-quarters hand-to-hand before melting back into the gloom.
By late evening, the sky had bruised into dark purple.
Most of the garrison had withdrawn to their camp to lick their wounds, unwilling to lose more men in the dark. Only a few desperate thugs kept searching, hoping to score a cheap kill under cover of night.
Near another breach in the wall, one such scout finally cornered Ren—only to be met with a lightning-fast left jab.
THWACK!
The scout's nose flattened, teeth popping out of his gums as he collapsed onto his back with a limp thud.
"..."
Outside the hole in the wall, a solitary figure stood waiting.
His right arm was encased in a fresh plaster cast, supported by a sling tied around his neck. It was the bald lieutenant whom Ren had dislocated that morning.
"Still prowling in the dark? You really don't know when to quit, do you?" the lieutenant muttered, kicking the fallen scout aside and glaring at the scouts watching from a distance. "Listen up! If you aren't ready to have your face rearranged, get lost! You won't last half a frame against him!"
The remaining cowards scrambled into the night.
Silence finally settled over the alley. The lieutenant hesitated at the edge of the breach, intimidated by the killing intent radiating from the shadows, and settled for leaning against the wall outside to light a cigarette.
Fwoosh.
"Look, kid..." The lieutenant blew smoke into the night. "I won't ask why you're doing this. Your goal is pretty obvious."
He flicked his ash. "The Inside has been crazy lately. First, an international syndicate offers astronomical bounties to hire local muscle, and then an outsider like you kicks down the door..."
Ren sat behind the concrete breach, listening with interest. "Other outsiders? Who? A massive Black guy with world-class muscles, maybe?"
"Don't know the details. The sectors don't share intel," the lieutenant shook his head. "I only heard that several gates have been challenged by outsiders with their own agendas. Plenty of local bosses have taken a beating."
Ren nodded. "And you? What are you doing here?"
"Passing the time," the lieutenant smirked around his cigarette. "You fight in the underground, right? Then you must know the Kengan Association."
"I've got an old friend from the Three Wolves sector who fights as a Kengan representative. Heard he's doing pretty well for himself. Maybe you know him."
Ren thought for a second. The puzzle pieces clicked into place.
Before he could answer, footsteps echoed from the mouth of the alley, accompanied by a lazy, familiar voice.
"Man... you guys really threw down, didn't you? Even the damn wall is in pieces."
Ren and the lieutenant looked up.
Stepping into the pale moonlight was a handsome young man with sharp eyes, casual street clothes, and hands in his pockets—the Kengan fighter born from the gutters of the Three Wolves sector:
[THE ICY EMPEROR] Himuro Ryo.
☆☆☆
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