Chapter 387: That Kind of Strike
Ren Shiroki slapped the boxing pads on his hands, the impact making a series of
heavy pop-pop sounds.
"Increased the volume? I guess you could say it's normal now."
He put his hands on his hips, thinking it over. "I don't really feel anything
special. It's just the daily routine; my body has simply gotten used to the
load."
Gaolang nodded in understanding. "Then that counts as a gradual increase."
He went to the sidelines, rummaged through a gear bag, and tossed a pair of
gloves to Ren while pulling on a pair for himself.
"Since this isn't a death match, bare knuckles are a bit much. Let's use the
gloves to move around—just a casual exchange."
The two men knocked their gloves together. THUD. The sound was deep and
resonant, like the beat of a war drum.
Ren accepted the invitation with a grin. He pulled off the mitts and secured the
gloves.
As Gaolang had said, this wasn't a "Real Fight." It wasn't even full-contact
sparring. It was simply two world-class "Boxers" going through their daily
motions.
Screee-zip!
Footwork engaged. Breathing synced. Then came the rhythm of the fists.
Whish! Whish! Whish!
Flurries of shadow-punches cut through the air, combining speed with kinetic
torque, kicking up localized gusts of wind across the training floor.
With the warm-up complete, Ren and Gaolang began their "Boxing Flow."
The aggressor focused entirely on the output—punches from every conceivable
angle. The defender relied on rhythmic sways, parries, and footwork, making no
attempt to counter-attack. They maintained this for several minutes before
switching roles, using the drill to refine the mechanics of their weight
distribution and to deepen their understanding of "The Step."
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Time ticked by. They took brief breaks to hydrate. By noon, both men were
drenched in sweat, having thoroughly scratched their technical itch. Only then
did they finally call it a day.
The two retreated to the sidelines to cool down.
As he pulled off his gloves, Gaolang mused, "I don't know who taught you, but
you definitely have a high-level boxing coach."
"Your strikes are raw and savage, but your footwork is incredibly grounded. It
looks like it evolved from a violent style of street pugilism, but you've
clearly added your own interpretation."
In the corner of Ren's vision, the phantom of Ed flickered into existence. He
wore his usual mask of bored disdain, but the corners of his mouth twitched
upward in a smirk. {Hmph!}
Ren grinned. "Hahaha!"
Gaolang finished removing his gear and stretched his fingers. "Your boxing—or
rather, your Combat Art—possesses a very unique kind of 'Strength'."
Ren looked a bit sheepish. "Haha, thanks!"
"However..." Gaolang's tone shifted as he thought of his old rival. "Do not
underestimate Saw Paing. He is much more than just a loud, hot-blooded idiot."
"I know that," Ren said, unwraping his hands. "In the world of sports, you hear
a lot about 'Hard Work,' 'Grit,' and 'Perseverance.' And sure, those things are
essential."
"But relying on those alone only gets you to the level of a 'Master.' It won't
get you to the Apex. Not for you, not for me, and not for Saw Paing."
Ren clenched his bare fist, feeling the density of his knuckles.
"Consciousness. Existence. Behavior. That is the only Reality."
"A single strike filled with those elements is ten times more powerful than ten
strikes thrown with 'effort' alone. It might look plain, but that is the
definition of a Divine Technique."
"Once you land a strike like that... the 'Execution' has already begun!"
Gaolang had his own martial philosophy, but he recognized the truth in Ren's
words. They shared a common language.
"Hmph." Gaolang raised a fist to Ren. "I hope you enjoy the fight."
BUMP.
The two men tapped fists.
[The Weekend — The Day of the Match]
Ren Shiroki vs. Saw Paing Yoroizuka.
Because this was an official Kengan match involving high-stakes corporate bets,
it wasn't held at the Tokyo Dome. Instead, Chairman Metsudo Katahara had
provided a temporarily closed municipal gymnasium.
The setup was premium. High-intensity spotlights illuminated the center of the
hall, surrounded by tiered seating for the elite spectators. The wooden
floorboards in the center had been removed, revealing a sunken pit of packed
arena sand.
The audience filtered in. The crowd was a mix of Kengan regulars—CEOs and
Association members—underground fighting fans, and those drawn by the hype of
the Street Brawl circuit. Several hundred people were in attendance.
Ren's inner circle was there: Fusui Kure, Gaolang, and Retsu Kaioh. Mitsumitsu
Yoroizuka, the Village Head of Dawn Village, sat nervously in the front row, not
far from Metsudo.
As for Toyo Electric and its agents, they remained hidden in the VIP shadows,
choosing not to show their faces publicly.
The murmurs of the crowd filled the hall.
"Man, Kengan matches always have that special 'Secret Society' vibe. I love it!"
"You're just here to gamble, aren't you?" "Haha! Well, Tokugawa-jiisan's Pit is
for pure combat, but here? You can't have a Kengan match without a little skin
in the game!"
One man leaned forward. "Shiroki vs. Saw Paing... they both have similar
nicknames, don't they?"
"[SOUL COMBATANT] vs. [THE ROARING SPIRIT]?" "The street fighter with the win
streak vs. the man who's 17-0 in the Association? This is gonna be a banger!"
The expectation in the room reached a fever pitch. Stepping up to the
announcer's podium was Sayaka Katahara.
Dressed in a stunning burgundy evening gown, her pale-blonde hair catching the
light, the Chairwoman of the Kengan Events Division radiated professional
charisma.
"GENTLEMEN! LADIES! PLEASE WAIT NO LONGER!"
Sayaka's voice was electric. "Tonight, we have only one match! But it is a match
that will make your very Souls tremble! PREPARE YOURSELVES—!!"
[West Wing — Preparation Room B]
The Village Head, Mitsumitsu Yoroizuka, was pacing the small room.
Saw Paing was in the middle of a hyper-intensity warm-up. He was alternating
between explosive push-ups and deep squats, his high-density muscles radiating
heat like a furnace.
"OLD MAN! JUST YOU WATCH! HYAAAAAAARGH!" Saw Paing roared, his eyes wide with
manic energy.
Mitsumitsu nodded with a strained smile. His earlier dread hadn't faded; if
anything, it had grown into a cold weight in his gut. Saw Paing had fought
seventeen Kengan matches, but today, with the fate of their village on his
shoulders, his state was... different.
Hot-blooded? No, it was more than that.
Mitsumitsu had briefly considered asking Ren Shiroki for the Secret Key Card
directly—trying to negotiate outside the ring to save the village. But he
dismissed the thought instantly. To do so would be an insult to Ren, to Saw
Paing, and to the sanctity of the Kengan Association.
He was trapped by his own honor.
Saw Paing noticed the old man's conflicted expression. Despite his constant
shouting, he was hyper-sensitive to the feelings of his "Grandpa."
Zip!
Saw Paing stopped his workout. He strode over to Mitsumitsu, grabbing the small
man's shoulders with his massive, calloused hands.
"HEY! GRANDPA!" Saw Paing's voice filled the room, snapping Mitsumitsu out of
his daze.
Saw Paing took a deep breath, arched his neck back, and slammed his forehead
forward.
BOOM!
He missed the old man by an inch, hitting the reinforced concrete wall behind
him. The entire room shuddered under the impact. A massive crater appeared in
the wall, cracks spider-webbing outward.
Saw Paing bared his teeth in a grin. "I AM GOING TO WIN!! HYAAAAAAARGH!!"
Mitsumitsu paused, a small, relieved smile appearing on his face. He didn't
mention the bets. He only cared about the boy. "Just... make sure you come back
in one piece, kid."
Saw Paing went silent for a heartbeat. He gave a serious, firm nod. "Got it. I'm
going in!"
[East Wing — Preparation Room A]
Ren Shiroki had finished wrapping his hands, wrists, and ankles.
"Phew..."
He exhaled, opening and closing his fists to check the tension. He stood
side-on, staring at the door. On his scarred frame, his muscles rippled with
elastic potential—a marriage of explosive power and deep flexibility.
He threw a punch. A kick.
Zip-thud!
The strikes transitioned from light probes to heavy impact, his style shifting
fluidly from Karate to Drunken Boxing, then to Wrestling entries and Boxing
slips. It was a dizzying display of "Synthesis."
The observers in the room—Fusui, Retsu, and Gaolang—didn't see it as
showboating. They recognized it as Ren's standard pre-match ritual: a high-speed
calibration of his systems.
Screee! Whish-whish-whish!
Ren shuffled his feet, firing a flurry of jabs. They were slightly slower than
Gaolang's, but they carried a "Psycho" sense of unpredictability.
"Alright. Let's go!"
Ren turned toward the exit. As he passed Fusui, he suddenly leaned in close,
making a series of exaggerated, grotesque faces at her—eyes bulging, mouth
twisted, tongue out.
The girl flinched, her black-and-white eyes wide with shock. A second later, she
realized he was just messing with her. Veins bulged around her sockets as she
triggered her [REMOVAL] in pure irritation.
By then, Ren was already down the hall, waving a hand behind him.
Retsu and Gaolang watched him leave, both crossing their arms and shaking their
heads in unison. "That guy is way too relaxed..."
☆☆☆
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