Chapter 95: Horizon

Although Genzai Kuroki’s martial skill could already be said to stand far above the standards of the entire Fatal Vow Combat Tournament, he had not missed a single bout once he became interested in a certain mysterious thing that Byakudou Kagami displayed. With the mastery of a fighter who seemed to stand at the summit of Japan, he could read real from false in every match.

Most of all, what drew his attention was the fight against Mutba Gizanaga, over before it had even truly begun.

The techniques called Eye-Kill and Voice Strike were nothing new to him; he had seen them many times while traveling through the Japanese islands. After crossing the oceans to the Republic—the birthplace of martial arts in this matter—he had been immersed in them even more.

Taken literally, those methods mean an assault by the eye and an assault by the voice. Styles that prize force of presence train this ability heavily. In Manifest Flow swordsmanship, for instance, that strange battle cry appears often. With eyes and voice packed with iron will, it is used to disrupt an opponent. It is said that even the Republic’s Sea King, a specialist in this art, could knock a man out on the spot with a single roar.

Yet Mutba Gizanaga, called the Reaper among mercenaries, was a legend forged through storms of blood. If not for the almost stone-like will that could not be shaken, then at least for the newly fitted prosthetic eye alone. Could this youth in front truly, with only gaze and voice through machinery, force him to give up? And he had his eyes closed then as well! So this could not have been the ordinary effect of techniques he knew.

From now on, to crush him and at the same time glimpse the true nature of that mysterious thing, he might as well not open his eyes.

When the world before him blazed scarlet and he could not see anything, Byakudou Kagami did not panic. He used the arm that held Kuroki’s calf to strike with sudden force the instant Kuroki’s blood-spraying swing left him off balance.
“Crack.”
Kuroki’s thick, powerful ankle gave a warning sound. He immediately pulled the trapped leg back a little, restoring his center.

Then—
Demonic Spear, Foot.
Martial art drilled into his very marrow let him load the move in the sliver of space Kuroki had just created, and with a twist of waist and hips the caught leg shot out again.

This time Byakudou Kagami did not dare to meet Demonic Spear head-on with impaired sight. He released his grip and slipped back in nimble footwork.

“Your observation is quite meticulous, Mr. Kuroki.”
He did not wipe the blood from his eyes; he simply held his stance, speaking with easy calm.

Kuroki understood at once what the boy had realized when he recognized it as a blood-blinding ploy. Such a trick appearing in a tournament like this was normal enough—nothing to resent. In the underworld, combat is this ruthless by nature. In the bright, lawful contests of the upper world, it is not so. Even among the veteran masters of martial arts, who now stand revered, who in youth did not kick groins, gouge eyes, spit, and use every means to win?

In the end, all talk of self-cultivation is merely a retirement home for elders who have passed their prime.

“Now is the time to use that thing, Byakudou Kagami.”
Kuroki’s face remained cold. He propped on his injured ankle, twisted hard against the ground and let out a grating crack, then moved again. The man, heavy as a black bear, never took his eyes off the boy for a moment.

“Lose, or show your real skill,” he said, striking a textbook karate stance as if his wounds were illusions. “Make your choice.”

Not expecting words from the boy—Kuroki had never been a man of speeches—he preferred to ask with his fist.

“Sha—”
He stamped the sand and burst forward, kicking up a burst of dust. Faster than his body was the fist in his hand, broad as a human head when clenched.
Back leg driving, waist wrenching, hips setting, body like a gun platform—Counter Thrust.

He did not use Demonic Spear because a straight punch allows more adjustment than a set form. If, for a heartbeat, the youth could flash out that unknown thing and still change at once, Kuroki needed an opening. More than that, he feared Demonic Spear might force the boy—still wavering whether to use it or not—out of the fight immediately.

First strike: a reverse lunge at the torso.
Byakudou Kagami, clearly struggling with his damaged vision, blocked only at the last instant with his arm. So hurried was it that he could not even add the power-transfer mechanics of his Asura Palm.

Second strike: Hammer Sweep.
A perfectly trained palm shot out flat, not a punching thrust. The fingers were tucked like tiger claws, yet he did not tear with his fingertips; he hacked with the palm edge like a blunt cleaver. That blow was deflected off-center by Byakudou Kagami’s palm heel less than five centimeters from his body, leaving him no strength for immediate counterattack. Still, Kuroki’s brow began to knit.

Third strike: horse-stance forward punch.
When the straight blow, molded by his whole karate apprenticeship, rose from Kuroki’s hand, everyone watching—even those with only casual contact with karate—felt instinctively that this was karate in its true form. Yet this was the straight punch that could almost be called Japan’s strongest in two decades, and when it was about to land on the boy’s forehead, its force deviated.

“Hmm?!”
Kuroki’s round eyes dropped downward. A blood-soaked foot, heavy with gore, was planted against him.
“Is this… the leg I thought I had ruined?”
“Whack.”

A sharp, peculiar body-strike sound came from the rear leg—the karate cannon-leg. At once a pain like flesh wrung into a knot surged into his head. For Kuroki, who had endured harsh cultivation, pain itself was only a bodily illusion. But the torn muscles in his leg had truly destroyed his power structure. He had no time to analyze it. A palm, with its cuff whipped into spiraling turbulence by the blast of air, was already coming straight for his face.

“Sha—whoosh.”
He sprang backward. Dust rose again from his feet; this time blood poured in sheets from his thigh as he fled.

And the boy who drove him back, eyes still closed, smiled through the red haze.

In the data-stream rain running down his retinal vision, two on-screen alerts stood out clearly:

Multisensory linkage in progress… complete.
On-site scene reconstruction… success.

“Remarkable. It was completed that fast.”
He walked over the fine sand, eyes shut, holding his palm before him as if examining something only he could see.

“It is truly a strange sensation.”
The world of green 0s and 1s was not highly refined, yet its outlines were sound.

Ten meters away, Kuroki set his injured leg forward, no longer using it to hold his balance.
The people in the distant stands were blurry; ripples of sound and snippets of their shouts rose to him in waves.

The minor details would be resolved later, through technical iteration.
For now—

“Mr. Kuroki,” said Byakudou Kagami, spreading his hands. “If you want to see a truly interesting new trick, you’ll have to push yourself a bit more.”