Chapter Forty-One: The End of the Preliminary Round

What began as a no-holds-barred melee, fists thudding into flesh and every move drawing blood, had now evolved, under an overwhelming force never before witnessed, into a coordinated suppression—many against one.

A dozen or more brawny giants, their physiques bordering on the monstrous, were heaped together as if in a rugby scrum, vying for control of a single ball. Their faces twisted with ferocity, teeth clenched as they clung tightly to their companions. Perhaps, it is only within such a mob that humans find the courage to take on a monster.

Muscles and bones, thick and powerful, intertwined in a mass so immense that, to the corporate representatives watching from the second deck, it resembled nothing less than a mountain of living flesh—an edifice built from bulging muscle.

“What a marvelous composition!” gasped one of the representatives, apparently from an arts company, pressing his cheek against the glass dome as though enchanted, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the battle below.

The fighters, embodiments of blood-soaked violence, each boasted sculpted muscles as if chiseled from stone. Now, as those bodies piled atop one another, it became a writhing mountain of men—like savage demons from hell, entwined and tearing at each other, fallen to earth.

Yet, if this art company representative were to describe, with his cultivated taste, the true essence and focal point of the scene before him, there would be no question: it was the young man, surrounded at the heart of this monstrous mass, veins bulging on the arms of his ruthless foes, yet still smiling—serene and handsome, as if a spring breeze caressed his face.

The savage enemies could paint a tableau of hell, but only that. The youth was the finishing touch, like the flag-bearing maiden in “Liberty Leading the People”—he was the soul of the masterpiece, the element that elevated the entire work.

“Arno, is this really all you’ve got?” Bai Tangjing narrowed his eyes in a gentle smile as he addressed the brute bear-hugging him from behind.

The tattooed fighter he spoke to merely stared in horror. He could still talk? Even those at the periphery of the scrum were being squeezed breathless by the press behind them—how could the one at the very center still utter a word?

The terror in his eyes was uncontrollable, like the urge to urinate when at ease. Once begun, it would not stop.

And from those eyes, the youth, still smiling, gleaned his answer. “I see. In that case, it’s my turn now.”

The fighters closest to Bai Tangjing were the first to sense something was wrong. Why did it suddenly feel so cold? It was summer, after all—most of them wore short-sleeved shirts, and with all this exertion, they should have been sweating, not shivering.

But the mighty fighters felt it—a chill that deepened with every second. Their teeth chattered, joints stiffened, muscles weakened. Faces paled, breathing grew ragged and faint.

They were growing hypothermic.

“What—what is this?!”

Those who’d crouched low to restrain the young man now raised their heads in unison, staring in terror at Bai Tangjing’s still smiling eyes, as if confronted by a monster.

A leathery creaking echoed through the hall as the struggle between human bodies grew fierce. Bai Tangjing nonchalantly slid his arms free from the mass of intertwined muscle, as casually as withdrawing his hands from a pocket.

The fighters who saw him extract his arms stared as though they’d seen a ghost.

“We can’t win... It’s impossible!”

“That kind of strength...”

In the grip of fear, their once-fierce gazes faltered, and their effort to pin down the youth ebbed away. Under normal circumstances, this would have been surrender. But given the rules of this qualifying round, Bai Tangjing had no intention of showing mercy.

With a faint pop, his fist clenched, producing a muffled bang. And with a simple, unadorned spinning hook, he sent fighters weighing eighty or ninety kilos apiece flying like confetti in a gale.

With just one sweep of his fist, the fighters scattered across the spacious lower deck. The lighter ones crashed straight into the glass dome above, cracks spidering across the reinforced surface before they tumbled back to the floor.

Cries of alarm erupted from the observing company representatives, some recoiling in shock, their sense of superiority and safety behind the glass now utterly shattered.

Only Saeko, who had remained calm throughout, Taijie—startled but not panicked—and the timid yet persistent Kazuo Yamashita, remained standing around the glass dome. To the other corporate representatives, these three—especially the seemingly unremarkable Yamashita—were clearly not ordinary people.

On the battlefield below, Bai Tangjing, having cleared the arena with a single unskilled sweep, flexed his wrist and began counting the fighters still standing.

“One, two... six?”

His finger pointed at each: a burly man dressed as a fisherman, a blond-haired, spiky-headed youth, a mushroom-cut androgynous figure, a man in Arab garb, a black man dressed as a master of ceremonies, and finally, Ouma.

Each met his gaze with utmost vigilance, instinctively dropping into fighting stances as they were singled out.

“Counting myself, there’s just one more to go. Anyone—” Bai Tangjing began, but before the words “volunteer” left his lips, the blond, spiky-haired youth, angered by Bai Tangjing’s almost bored tone, slashed the air with his clawed hands.

A sound like razor blades cutting through air rang out.

“What’s with that contemptuous look! Let me, ‘Superman’ Rihito, take you on!”

“Rihito? Weren’t you retired? What are you doing on the Death’s Embrace?” Ouma asked, frowning—they seemed to know each other.

But Rihito ignored Ouma, focusing intently on the youth before him.

Bai Tangjing nodded.

Despite his trembling legs and cold sweat, this man’s defiant bravado was not something Bai Tangjing disliked. Still, he would let no one stand in his way of advancing through the qualifiers.

As soon as Bai Tangjing nodded, Rihito dropped his stance and charged, hands curled into tiger claws.

“Take this!”

Though his hands were made of flesh and blood, they swung with a razor’s edge.

This is it, Rihito thought in exhilaration. Perfect speed, perfect angle, perfect form—under the monstrous pressure of this youth, he had pushed his heart, body, and skills to their absolute peak. He doubted he’d ever again reach the heights of this moment, the edge of the Razor’s Blade.

But—

Crack!

The thrill of his breakthrough still lingered in his eyes, but before anyone could react, Bai Tangjing had already seized his attacking wrist, forced him to his knees with a knee pressed into his elbow.

“Well done—and now... goodbye.”

With a sudden flick, Bai Tangjing’s folded leg shot out like a spring-loaded blade, skimming Rihito’s upper arm.

Bang!

“Superman” Rihito, struck at the cervical spine, collapsed unconscious.

At the sight of Rihito suffering such a blow to a vital spot, the mushroom-cut, apparently an acquaintance, flushed with rage.

“Rihito! You bastard!”

His long, muscular legs moved with the grace of a seasoned ballet dancer, his world-class flexibility giving him astonishing acceleration. He brought down an axe kick, whistling toward the youth’s head.

But in the blink of an eye, as if the world had stuttered, Bai Tangjing’s arm slipped beneath the kicker’s raised knee and caught him by the chin; his other hand gripped the man’s thigh.

The mushroom-cut’s balance was now entirely in Bai Tangjing’s hands.

“I held back. He’s fine. But you, you’ve lost your senses.”

With a light chuckle, Bai Tangjing slammed the man down hard, the crash echoing through the arena. When the dust cleared, the mushroom-cut lay sprawled, eyes rolled back.

At that moment, the heavy blast-resistant iron doors swung open with a screech.

Kengan Deathmatch Qualifiers—concluded.