Chapter Two Combat—How Fascinating!

Eight years later.

Tokyo, Kamurocho.

Night had fallen, casting a deep velvet over a street no more than six hundred meters in length and width, yet home to over four thousand establishments of pleasure and entertainment. Neon lights flickered, people thronged the sidewalks—whether exhausted office workers fresh off the clock or high school girls looking to earn a bit of pocket money, all came to this entrancing, bustling avenue to release their stress and indulge in earthly pleasures.

But unlike usual, the famed Mach Bowl, a bowling alley renowned throughout this street, had hung up its “Closed for Business” sign early in the evening.

Though separated from the lively boulevard by just a single wall, it felt worlds apart—a place devoid of warmth, as if untouched by the city’s feverish pulse.

This was no accident. It was a dead corner of the city, deliberately fashioned.

Inside the Mach Bowl’s spacious main hall, the usual bowling equipment had been packed away into storage.

In their place surged a teeming crowd.

There were sharp-suited elites and tattooed yakuza with open shirts.

A regular person stumbling in by mistake would feel as though they’d stepped into another world entirely.

“Hey, choke him out! Black-Spotted Serpent!”

“Show that country brat what Tokyo’s really about!”

“That third-rate ‘Red Sand’ dares challenge the big gun of ‘Bishamon’?”

Wads of bills waved in the air, the crowd’s eyes bloodshot, their throats hoarse from shouting, resembling a pack of wild beasts unrestrained by reason.

Amid this frenzy, every gaze was fixed upon the open space at the hall’s center.

Three men stood there: one referee, and the two contestants in tonight’s underground duel.

“Oh? So you’re really the poster boy? How frightening!” The black-haired youth, whose striking good looks would not be out of place in the Japanese entertainment industry, caught an interesting detail from the crowd’s roars and let out a playful, intrigued chuckle.

His opponent, standing opposite, was clad in wrestling shorts, roughly six foot three, his shoulders broad, his waist and neck thick. His muscles seemed ready to burst through his skin, his weight no less than one hundred kilograms.

He stood like a human monolith.

Even someone who’d only dabbled in martial arts would know at a glance that this was not a man to provoke.

But what really drew the black-haired youth’s attention was the pair of disproportionately large hands—so big they seemed to hinder bodily coordination.

Considering that “Bishamon” was an underground fighting organization in Japan, second only to “Kengan Association” and “Purgatory,” and that the Black-Spotted Serpent was its star fighter, his strength was beyond doubt. This apparent physical imbalance might even be his secret weapon.

The black-haired youth observed his opponent. Amid the wild atmosphere, staring into the eyes that regarded him as already dead, his own lips curled unconsciously into a smile.

Indeed… battle was simply too exhilarating.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be smiling like that.”

The giant spoke, his face expressionless, his gaze as cold as ice.

“Of the 178 people who’ve faced me, only a third left here alive. Of those, another third ended up taking their own lives, crippled.”

“It seems you have great faith in your submission holds. Well, with a nickname like ‘Serpent,’ I suppose it’s warranted.” The black-haired youth grinned.

Seeing such a fearless, even eager, smile on his opponent’s face, the man known as Black-Spotted Serpent felt his killing intent rise.

“‘Bishamon’ has looked into you, Kyoji Hakudo.

You began martial arts at eight in the rural backwaters of Fukushima, and you trained hard… no, you trained with a desperate ferocity, as though a starving beast ravenous for strength.”

At this, the man’s expression finally shifted.

Anyone who read the dossier would be unsettled: a child of eight insisting on full-contact sparring with his instructors, showing up battered and limping the very next day, rain or shine, for years on end.

“You came to Tokyo just a year ago, and only joined the underground fight scene six months back. You’ve never lost since your debut, but your opponents were all nameless nobodies!

Geniuses like Shoji Imai don’t just pop up everywhere, you know.”

The giant’s expression returned to calm.

“Your fighting career ends tonight.”

Kyoji Hakudo showed no surprise that his background had been uncovered.

He let out a soft laugh, glancing sidelong at his opponent. “You talk too much.”

A vein bulged on the giant’s forehead.

“Both fighters, to your positions!” the referee called out, his voice brimming with anticipation.

“‘Red Sand’ versus ‘Bishamon,’ the final bout in the team match! Fighters, get ready!”

Suppressing his anger, the giant’s face grew even more severe. He lowered his center of gravity, bringing his massive hands up beside his head in a grappling stance.

Yet, his footwork suggested a hint of karate.

Kyoji Hakudo, on the other hand, stood sideways, one arm guarding his waist, the other held back near his chin.

His legs were parted, front bent, rear straight—a textbook fighting stance.

His gaze drifted, seemingly without intent, to his opponent’s lower body. With no clothing to obscure the view, the corded muscles of those legs were plain to see.

This wasn’t the sort of physique one could unbalance with a simple low kick or sweep.

“That’s what you’d expect from the top dog. Now this is getting interesting.”

Even before the fight began in earnest, Kyoji Hakudo could sense that this opponent was unlike any he’d faced before.

“Ready—begin!”

The referee, standing between them, dropped his hand like a blade.

With that gesture, he seemed to sever the last taut thread of nerves.

The giant charged at Kyoji Hakudo in an instant.

His explosive legs and massive frame whipped up a gust of wind as he surged forward—his momentum like a speeding car barreling down on its target!