Chapter Sixty-Three: Enter the Stage!

"Huh? How could a completed chokehold possibly have any issues... cough, cough!" Naoya Okubo, ever quick to speak his mind, immediately and confidently retorted to Kyoji Hakudo.

But before he could finish his words, the scene unfolding in the arena caught in his throat.

The Executioner, Kiyoshi Akutami, actually managed to break free from Kosmos Imai’s chokehold!

"Are you kidding me?!" Okubo coughed, still unable to believe what he’d just witnessed. "How could anyone escape a chokehold of that caliber once it’s locked in?"

This went against every principle he’d accumulated in over a decade of martial arts!

Yet, the first to accept reality was Sueshichi Kaneda, who had predicted this outcome.

With a grave tone, he said, "He broke free... It’s going to be hard to win now."

Sure enough, just as predicted, Kosmos Imai was beaten mercilessly in the ring.

His arms, under his ribs, both legs...

Bruises, bleeding wounds, and even a chunk of flesh bitten clean off and swallowed!

For a moment, one had to wonder if this genius was about to die right there in the arena.

Yet, somehow, he endured!

Just like a protagonist in a manga, declaring himself the "King of Chokes," Kosmos Imai, even as he was being utterly overpowered, managed to lock Akutami in another chokehold!

And this time, he finished him off swiftly and decisively.

"I... I can’t understand any of this." Okubo stared blankly, as if his entire worldview had been shattered, rubbing his buzz-cut head. "Why was he able to break free the first time? And how did he get caught a second time in that condition?"

(I remember thinking it was unbelievable too—how could anyone escape a chokehold of that level the first time, only to lose to it the second?)

A plaster-cast arm landed on his shoulder, offering comfort.

"Enough, don’t get hung up on your worldview. Look, Kosmos may have won, but look at the state he’s in—there’s no way he’ll be able to fight in the next round. Doesn’t that make you feel a little better?"

Just then, Hakudo looked at the handsome, silver-haired, dark-skinned man with a puzzled expression.

"What? Injuries like those—compared to a broken neck or internal injuries—aren’t they all minor?"

"Minor? Are you serious?" The man with his arm in a cast looked at Hakudo as if he were an alien. "How can you say something like that?"

"Right!" Kaneda also stared at the boy in disbelief, gesturing at the cast on his own arm. "Did you hear that in some urban legend? Just look at Ryo Himuro’s arm—there’s no way it’s just a minor injury."

With utmost confidence, Hakudo then recommended his senior, Dr. Eisho, from the University of Tokyo’s medical department.

That guy Julius—he broke his neck in the morning and was out eating and drinking by the afternoon! Don’t you get how incredible that is?

"You just need to see the doctor in the medical room! Injuries like these can be sorted out in no time!"

"But last time I went for medicine..." Himuro muttered, staring at Hakudo. "He said all I could do for my hand was to rest. There was nothing else he could do."

"..."

"..."

"What?!"

Even Hakudo, who had been so confident about his senior, was left speechless.

~~~~~~

The confusion over "broken neck = minor injury; broken arm = nothing to be done" left Hakudo so bewildered that he barely paid attention to the next bout between Ohma Tokita and Raian Wu.

Yet, even when he glanced at the match, to be honest, Hakudo found nothing about it that might benefit him.

Both fighters relied on transformation techniques—once they transformed, they were pure, brute-force brawlers.

One, blood-red all over like an asura, unable to control his wild power after transforming, incapable even of executing Niko Style techniques.

The other, his skin purple-black like a demon, deliberately suppressing the Wu Clan’s ingrained techniques the entire fight, holding back as if he’d bought spinach instead.

When the Wu Clan’s demon was caught and pounded in the face by Ohma, the referee announced the asura’s victory.

Amid the endless cheers of the audience, the flashes from the arena reflected in Hakudo’s glasses as he rose from his seat.

"Crack—is it my turn now? I can’t wait, facing the 'Tiger', famed for his fifty-two-fold muscle density."

As the fighter with the most victories in the Kengan Association, Takeshi Wakatsuki’s data was hardly a secret.

Armed with a full understanding of his opponent, the young man chuckled with anticipation, his hand opening and closing with a tooth-aching creak, and walked down the passageway toward the arena.

The gentle demeanor of his daily life faded, his psyche shifting into combat mode.

A fierce aura, no less intimidating than the asura and demon who had just fought, began to rise from him.

The friends he’d only recently made immediately sensed something in the air.

It was like the dangerous feeling of a glowing blade pressed to one’s brow, straight from the heart of a steel forge.

Their lively banter ground to a sudden halt.

In unison, their gazes grew solemn as they watched the young man, now like a different person.

"Tch, all this time I’ve only seen you looking like some kind of celebrity," Okubo clicked his tongue, "I almost forgot—you’re a real 'monster' when you fight."

And Sueshichi Kaneda, closest to the youth, was sweating profusely, his hands hidden in his kimono sleeves.

It looked casual, but in ancient jujutsu, this was a stance meant to lull an opponent into lowering their guard before a surprise attack!

Only Saeko, seated beside Hakudo, maintained her graceful, gentle smile, filled with affection.

"Well then, go and come back soon."

The young man’s skin seemed to chill instantly.

...

Inside the preparation room.

Though watching matches live to gather information is important, the noise and chaos of the arena are an unavoidable distraction.

Thus, this room is where most fighters make their final preparations and adjust their state before heading out.

Takeshi Wakatsuki, with short blond hair and a tuft of beard, sat on the bench in the prep room.

Clad in only a pair of fighting shorts, his muscles—solid as boulders—were exposed to the air.

From the unlit screen of his portable music player, a headphone cord extended into his ears.

He waited for his match with the headphones on, though no music played.

Click.

The prep room door opened.

"Wakatsuki," said the president of Kogai Pharmaceuticals, a middle-aged man with a wild mop of hair, as he approached familiarly.

He noticed the silent music player. "Oh? Still nervous, even now?"

He knew Wakatsuki’s pre-fight habits well—they’d been friends since Wakatsuki was a boy.

"Of course I’m nervous. Even after so many matches, I’m still afraid; I never get used to it. This is the only way I can focus and suppress it."

Wakatsuki stared blankly at the music player in his hands.

"But this time... I’m more afraid than ever, Kogai!"

"Hmm?" Kogai leaned in, puzzled as to why this veteran—who had found the confidence to return to the ring even after battling the most dominant Fang of Metsudo—would say such a thing.

And then, his pupils contracted sharply.

"This is—!"

Kogai stared, dumbfounded, at the music player in Wakatsuki’s hands.

The lower half of the device, apart from the screen, had been completely crushed to pieces by sheer force!

"Wakatsuki, this—this...!" Sweat burst from Kogai’s wild hair, as though he were staring not at a heap of broken components, but a pile of explosives about to detonate!