Chapter Eleven: The Deadly Fist Duel!

Baitang Jing had indeed heard of the Kengan Association—it was the number one underground fighting organization in Japan. However, something as bloodthirsty-sounding as the “Kengan Deathmatch” was entirely new to him.

Resting his hand once more on Ai-chan’s slender waist as she nestled beside him, Hisayasu Takemoto gestured to the agitated Tetsusaki Akano, signaling him to calm down. Only after Akano snorted and sat down again did Takemoto turn to explain to Baitang Jing.

“You may have heard of the Kengan Association. In truth, it’s an organization where Japan’s top conglomerates settle their commercial disputes through force. In every Kengan duel, tens of billions of yen change hands, all determined by the fists of the fighters representing those corporations.

The Kengan Deathmatch, however, is nothing less than a battle for the Association’s presidency! The current president is Metdo Katagiri, the head of Dai Nippon Bank. Should the presidency fall into other hands... it would not be an exaggeration to say the future of Japan’s entire economy hangs in the balance!”

The kind of information that would send shockwaves through the populace flowed smoothly from the robust old man’s lips. Even Ai-chan, famed in Kamurocho for her composure and insight, found herself frozen in Takemoto’s arms at the mere mention of these secrets.

Now somewhat mollified, Tetsusaki Akano spoke again, his tone irritated. “So you do understand what’s at stake, don’t you, ‘War God’? This match concerns the life and death of countless giant corporations. Please, take it seriously... would you...?”

Before he could finish, the man who stood atop the nation’s media industry was suddenly stunned. It felt as if he’d been thrust next to a roaring blast furnace—scorching and dangerous. The pressure bearing down on him was monstrous, like a thousand crimson blades rising from molten steel, all aimed at the center of his brow. His entire body went numb and rigid.

Cold sweat beading on his skin, Akano trembled as he forced himself to turn toward the source of this overwhelming force—the “kid” he’d never bothered to look at directly.

But what “kid” was there?

Slowly, Baitang Jing removed his glasses, and with one hand swept back his loose hair. That simple gesture was like the awakening of a beast. His eyes seemed to glimmer with a cold, bloody light. Even Akano, who knew nothing of fighting, could sense the deadly intent—like a blade against the skin.

“A private club for giant corporations, where tens of billions flow with every match... Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Master?”

The three pillars of human power: wealth, authority, and strength. Now, after eight relentless years chasing all three, Baitang Jing realized—the Kengan Association fused them into one.

A savage smile curled on the youth’s lips. The danger in that expression was like a bloodthirsty beast.

Takemoto set down his glass, holding the trembling Ai-chan close, his gaze at his disciple filled with pride and affection. Killing intent? Greed for money and power? No! In truth, a martial artist without these was nothing but a second-rate nobody.

“Magnificent fighting spirit, Jing! For this Kengan Deathmatch, you will stand in for me as the White Night News’ fighter.”

Driven by an instinctive urge to escape danger, Tetsusaki Akano had nearly shrunk into the sofa. But the capitalist’s greed for assets would always overpower mere survival instincts. At Takemoto’s words, he shot from the sofa, crossed the table, and seized Baitang Jing’s hand.

“Sir! I apologize for my ignorance just now. No matter what, please represent our company in the tournament! I beg you!”

Such presence! Combined with the skills and physique that even the “War God” praised—surely victory in the Kengan Deathmatch was assured? Akano’s face bloomed with a beaming smile as he shook Baitang Jing’s hand up and down.

Yet, whether Akano’s confidence in Baitang Jing was justified or not—having never seen the true power of the world’s top fighters—something unexpected was already unfolding at their very table.

“Well... Mr. Akano, I’d like to establish my own company and also serve as its fighter.”

“...”

“...What?!”

~~~~~~

After Baitang Jing left, Takemoto sent Ai-chan home early. Now, in the booth at the club, only Takemoto and Tetsusaki Akano remained, quietly drinking together.

“What’s going on, Takemoto? Your own disciple—your chosen successor—has quietly amassed fifty million dollars. That’s enough to buy a ticket to the Kengan Association! And you had no idea? Now you won’t compete, and your candidate wants to go independent... urgh! What am I supposed to do?!”

Despairing after such highs and lows, the media tycoon gulped sake. Across from him, the once jovial old man now simply toyed with his cup, his tone enigmatic.

“Forget all that, Akano. Arrange a qualifying match for him. As for the tournament—I’ll be there.”

Even as he complained, a wild joy broke through the lines of his aged, beardless face.

“Really, just when I’d finally learned to keep a cool head—it’s all been shattered.

Isn’t this... forcing a showdown between master and disciple?”

The precious bone-china cup in his hand crumbled into fine shards, falling away. In truth, it had cracked the instant Baitang Jing had unleashed his aura, the hand holding it clenching by reflex. Only Takemoto’s exquisite control had kept it intact until now. But, having resolved to compete, he no longer bothered to maintain the air of a grandmaster.

Unlike Baitang Jing, a pure, overwhelming killing intent now radiated from the old man’s body. As the “War God” himself said, a martial artist without the will to fight was just second-rate. And for those who took “the strongest” as their sole goal, even if their own disciple stood in the way, they would show no mercy.

~~~~~~

Stepping out of the club, Baitang Jing slipped his glasses back on and tousled his hair. Humming a little tune, he strolled cheerfully through the streets of Kamurocho. Though the daylight gave the streets a bleak, empty air, nothing could dampen his joy at having found a fast track leading straight to the apex of money, power, and strength.

As he walked, seeking a shortcut to hail a cab, he turned into a dim alley. Such “corners of the city” were always a jumble—early-morning hoodlums puffing away, homeless men sleeping on cardboard, and others like himself, just looking for a quicker way through.

There was a girl, too—muscular legs, short-sleeved shirt, hot pants, her short hair tucked under a baseball cap. From her build, she was toned and athletic; from her haircut, she looked the tomboy.

Baitang Jing clicked his tongue inwardly. He still preferred the type like his senpai: gentle, mature, strong yet voluptuous, with a touch of adorable eccentricity.

They brushed past each other.

In that instant, the girl, dressed thinly, produced a gun from who-knows-where and fired at Baitang Jing’s back.

Her movements were casual yet lightning-fast—refined by countless repetitions.

Bang!

A gunshot rang out through the morning streets of Kamurocho!