CHAPTER 107: USED CORRECTLY
Doppo Orochi. 10th Dan Black Belt.
Founder of the Shinshinkai, creator of Orochi-style Karate, and the man known by titles like "The Bushin,""The Man-Eater," and "The Tiger Slayer."
He was a living monument to the martial arts. He had once stood alone against a wild Siberian tiger—a two hundred and sixty kilogram engine of apex predation—and killed it with his bare hands.
He was a Grandmaster of the Era.
A simple collection of this man's words could be published as a bestselling scripture on morality and "Might."
"A warrior's purpose is to 'Stop the Spear.' To end the struggle."
The Grandmaster offered this lecture to Ren Shiroki with the poise of a saint.
THWACK!
Then, he launched a savage upward kick into the spree killer's groin.
The sound was a sickening, wet POP. Mimura's pelvis sprayed blood, the fabric of his beach shorts instantly turning a deep, heavy crimson.
"GAHHH! AGH! NOOO!"
Mimura let out a shrill, animalistic wail and collapsed into a fetal position, his body racking with involuntary tremors. His carving knife clattered onto the concrete, forgotten in the wake of the agony.
Ren watched the move, his eyes widening.
As expected of a legendary master. It wasn't a "technical" kick; it was a fundamental application of kinetic force. The precision and velocity were so perfect that the act of violence looked like a piece of high art.
"Haha! I knew you'd understand, Ren-kun."
Doppo slowly retracted his leg, a pleasant smile on his broad face. He looked around at the stunned spectators—at the trembling Nozomi and the wide-eyed Yuzuha in the pool.
"People often talk about the 'Way of the Warrior.'"
"They say 'Might' is a tool for building character. A positive byproduct for social harmony and physical fitness."
Doppo reached out, slowly tightening his hand into a fist.
The wrist was as thick as a tree branch. The palm was a slab of hardened leather. The knuckles were crusted with calluses and old scars.
As Mimura continued to shriek on the ground, Doppo scanned the crowd of "Normal" people. He saw families on vacation, children who had almost been sliced, and teenagers frozen in terror.
"But the real reason we train? The only reason that matters?"
"It's to be the Strongest when the brawl starts."
"It sounds shallow? Fine. It's enough for me."
"In a bar, on a sidewalk, at a pool—wherever you go..."
"When an innocent child faces the threat of a blade."
"When the weak are being dismantled by the cruel."
"When a war arrives at your doorstep."
Doppo's gaze shifted to Fusui Kure, lingering on her black-and-white eyes for a second.
"When your family is in danger... or when a punk ruins a perfectly good date with a beautiful girl..."
"In those moments, nothing is more 'Correct' than a Hard Fist."
As he spoke, the downed Mimura, fueled by a final, desperate surge of adrenaline, crawled toward his jacket. He couldn't lift the knife, but his left hand clawed for the bottle of industrial sulfuric acid in his pocket. He wanted to drag everyone down with him.
As his fingers closed around the glass—
BANG!
Doppo's lead foot snapped forward in a front-kick. It caught Mimura in the solar plexus, the force so absolute it visibly deformed the man's back.
"PUH—!"
Mimura sprayed a mist of blood. In his death-throe, his fingers tightened. The acid bottle shattered inside his pocket.
The chemical liquid soaked into his thigh and palm. Thick white smoke began to hiss off his skin as the acid began to dissolve his flesh. Mimura's final scream was a sound of pure, unadulterated karma.
Before the man could even settle into the dirt, Doppo added a follow-up. A high-line roundhouse kick whistled through the air.
THUD.
The kick caught Mimura in the side of the neck, snapping his head at a terminal angle. The man was launched sideways, crashing through a secondary glass partition and disappearing under a mountain of shards.
"And for the record," Doppo noted, putting his hands on his hips and letting out a long breath. "My legs are just as hard as my fists."
He looked at Ren. "It's been a while since I played teacher. Ren-kun, how was the lecture?"
Ren rubbed his chin, a pained grin on his face. "If the great 'Bushin' goes around giving advice like that to teenagers, the juvenile delinquency rate in Tokyo is going to skyrocket."
"Haha! You think so?"
Doppo's eyes crinkled into half-moons as he laughed.
While they talked, the second threat was moving.
Ginji Nagashima, the "Fanatic Demon," was walking across the field of broken glass. The tempered shards were blunt, but his barefoot weight was enough to slice his soles. He didn't care. He left a trail of bloody footprints on the concrete, his vacant eyes fixed on the remaining crowd.
He was a broken gear in a lethal machine.
"Pain is also Destiny," he whispered. "The heretics must be purged."
His pupils rotated, locking onto a group of bystanders. He prepared to lunge, but his path was blocked by a wall of muscle.
Doppo Orochi stood in front of him.
Nagashima turned to retreat, only to find Ren Shiroki blocking his exit.
They had him pincered.
"I see," the fanatic muttered. He dropped into a deep crouch, pulling his arms back into a sharp "M-shape." His fingers were pressed together into twin Spear-Hands.
The "Might" that could pierce structural glass was ready to be unleashed. He aimed for Ren's throat.
"You are also heretics," he droned.
ZIP!
Nagashima spun, thrusting both Spear-Hands at Ren.
But Ren was faster. His [ENGINE] was already idling. He pulled his right fist back and launched a downward hammer-strike aimed at the cultist's shoulder.
[RYU: OVERHEAD CRACKER]!
CRACK!
A clean, crisp sound of bone shattering echoed across the deck. Nagashima's clavicle snapped like a dry twig. His right arm went limp, hanging uselessly at his side.
He tried to strike with his left, but Ren executed a high-knee lift that jammed the trajectory, redirecting the "Might" of the strike into the air.
SHING!
Ren launched a series of horizontal hand-blade strikes, slapping them into the side of Nagashima's head with the rhythmic speed of a piston.
[ZANGIEF: MACHINE GUN CHOP]!
BAP! BAP! BAM!
The third strike shattered Nagashima's jaw. His mouth hung open at a grotesque angle, blood and saliva leaking onto his chest. He spun like a top from the impact.
He completed the rotation only to find Doppo Orochi waiting for him.
SHING!
Doppo's left hand shot forward, his fingers clamping around Nagashima's throat like a hydraulic vice. He gave a violent, terminal yank.
CRACK-SQUELCH!
Doppo's grip tore the skin and muscle from the fanatic's neck. Nagashima's Thyroid Cartilage was crushed and partially severed.
Doppo stepped deeper, closing the distance until they were chest-to-chest. He drove the heel of his right palm downward into Nagashima's groin.
THOOM!
The pubic bone shattered.
"Guh—!"
The agony was so intense it bypassed Nagashima's religious trance. The "Demon" finally showed a normal human expression of absolute suffering.
Doppo reached out with his left hand, his fingers "sinking" into Nagashima's chest. His grip strength was so immense his fingertips found the edges of the man's ribcage. He caught two ribs and pulled backward.
SNAP-POP!
A spray of blood erupted. In Doppo's hand were two white, jagged shards of bone.
Open Rib Fracture.
THUD.
Ginji Nagashima, the man who had murdered fifty-six people, collapsed into the bloody water of the pool deck. He was out of the game.
Ten minutes later, the Metropolitan Police arrived to secure the scene.
A medical examiner checked the bodies before standing up and removing his stethoscope. "Suspect Mimura and the fugitive Nagashima... they're gone. There's no coming back from trauma like this."
A young detective sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. Get them to the morgue. We'll do a token 'resuscitation' attempt at the hospital for the paperwork."
Nearby, Ren and Doppo were being interviewed for the official report.
Ren shrugged. "We didn't want to use those moves... though we used them correctly."
Doppo added with a serious nod, "In unarmed combat, there are moves meant to be 'Sealed.' Moves you never use on a lesser opponent."
"When a fighter is defeated, you apply Sun-dome—you stop an inch short."
Doppo looked the detective in the eye. "But those two weren't fighters. They were monsters. You don't apply etiquette to a rabid dog."
Ren sighed, looking exhausted. "If we could have settled this without those moves, that would have been better for everyone."
The detective's eye twitched as he looked at the pulverized concrete and the literal human ribs on the floor. "So... regarding the incident..."
Ren and Doppo both put their hands on their hips, looking out at the tourists who were being led away by paramedics.
Some were crying. Some were in shock. Some would have nightmares for years. But they were all Alive.
The youth and the Grandmaster spoke in unison, their voices filled with a simple, unyielding certainty.
"We used them correctly."
☆☆☆
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