Chapter 97: The Victor of the Fist Vow Deathmatch

When the dust kicked up by the crumbling concrete wall finally dispersed, the man standing there—as massive as a bear risen upright on its hind legs—stared with vacant eyes.

One thick arm had been raised to shield his shoulder. To call it "shielding" was generous: the fist, the size of a man's head, had been completely crushed flat, blood spraying from the ruin, wisps of smoke rising from the searing friction, the whole mess driven deep into the shoulder socket.

And it wasn't just the arm that had suffered. The shoulder it had been protecting, and indeed the entire side of the upper body behind it, had collapsed limply into the wall.

Blood poured from Kuroki Gensai's mouth in steady spurts, staining his wild, overgrown beard and hair an even deeper crimson.

The man still standing in the ring, Hakudō Kyō, raised his own arm—the one that had thrown the sonic-speed punch—with visible effort.

"Just as I thought. Too much of a stretch, wasn't it?" he murmured. "Cracked arm bone, damage to the arm and shoulder joint, slight spinal deformation, internal organs rattled as well... but still."

Blood mixed with pulverized flesh dripped from his fist. The skin and muscle over the entire knuckle surface had burst and been ground away completely. The exposed finger bones were laced with cracks.

Yet beneath wounds that would make an ordinary person tremble just looking at them, Hakudō Kyō wore an expression of pleasant surprise—the look of a man who had gained something worthwhile.

"This will definitely prove useful next time," he muttered to himself.

Then his other hand, still functional, shot high into the air.

"Th-The winner is! Hakudō Kyōöööö!!!"

The referee had long since retreated far from the ring. It was Kataura Sayaka at the commentary desk who tore her throat out to declare the result that decided the championship of the Deathmatch Tournament.

As a seasoned fighting sports fanatic, she was drenched in sweat beneath her sexy leather outfit—though perhaps not just sweat.

Before the wide-eyed Doctor Inui could drag the injured fighters away, the young man strolled over to where Kuroki Gensai sat slumped.

"Terrifying, aren't you, Mr. Kuroki?" said the youth, who had just stepped out of combat, his face breaking into an innocent smile. "Muscle hardening, flesh softening, break-falling... those are secret techniques passed down through various schools, and you used all of them in the instant you took that hit!"

"Cough, cough." Kuroki Gensai's lips parted in response to Hakudō's approach.

But even with half the bones in his body nearly shattered, his expression remained cold and utterly unreadable.

"A pity. This old man's training was insufficient. I never got to see what you were hiding."

His lips, wrapped in thick facial hair, fluttered feebly, and blood continued to flow even as he spoke.

"Then if we have the time in the future, let's fight again."

Kuroki Gensai's vacant eyes suddenly sharpened, fixing on the smiling young man before him.

"This bout was so enjoyable, but you expended too much of your energy in advance as well. I never even got to see the fruits of the guidance you received from the renowned Kaioh Kaku."

"Even for me, that's a bit of a regret."

"Is that so... I understand." Kuroki struggled to straighten his posture in the crater his body had carved, then said in a proper tone, "Then—next time we fight."

The two nodded to each other.

"All right!" Doctor Inui, in his white lab coat, interrupted their conversation. His face lit up with anticipation as he laid out two stretchers and rubbed his hands together.

"It's patient admission time!"

The "Anatomist" grinned wickedly. "Let me 'treat' you!"

~~~~~~

Despite looking like a medical maniac, Doctor Inui was remarkably quick and almost miraculous in treating both men's injuries. His demeanor was more of a doctor's eccentric sense of humor; the man was quite reliable, really.

In the end, Kuroki Gensai, whose injuries were severe, received only preliminary first aid before being shipped off to the medical laboratory affiliated with Tokyo University Hospital where Inui worked—due to the inadequate medical facilities on the island.

After all, a research specimen who had taken a sonic-speed punch and survived was extremely precious!

As for Hakudō Kyō, whose arm seemed almost completely ruined, Inui—at the young man's own request—simply wrapped the open wounds in sterile bandages and left it at that.

In the medical room.

"Are you really sure you'll be fine?" Saeko frowned, watching with mild worry as the young man began testing the movement of his injured arm.

"This kind of injury, to heal on my own... three days at most?" The youth estimated with a confident look. "This is a martial artist's body, you know!"

I'd like to know which "martial artist" has a body capable of that.

Ōma, who had woken up on the nearby bed, had been staring blankly at the ceiling with unfocused eyes. At those words, the corners of his mouth couldn't help but twitch.

"That Demonsbane of yours—what's the deal with it?" Ōma asked, feeling his heartbeat grow feebler and feebler. He hadn't wanted to speak at all, but the match footage he'd just watched compelled him to ask.

So he turned his head toward the young man who had defeated him.

Unlike the ordinary Niko Style techniques...

Those scattered moves were merely applications of muscles, bones, and strength. Even if someone learned them on the spot, Ōma would only have let out a sigh of admiration.

Genius.

But Demonsbane was something that could only be born from completely mastering all four major forms of the Niko Style, reaching their pinnacle, and then fusing them into one. How could this man have mastered it when he hadn't even seen all of the Niko Style's techniques?

"Techniques of borrowing an opponent's force are quite common," Saeko said gently, supporting Hakudō's injured arm, while the young man explained in a matter-of-fact tone. "In the use of Demonsbane: the Flame Kata handles center-of-gravity positioning, the Adamantine Kata hardens the muscles, the Water Kata softens the flesh, and the Flow Kata controls the direction of force."

"In all these aspects, I was already better than you, who merely used the Niko Style. There's nothing strange about me pulling it off, is there?"

The winner is always right.

The stronger man has the final say.

What else could Ōma say?

He could only sigh, then go back to staring blankly at the ceiling.

It wasn't until the gaunt little old man, Yamashita Kazuo, came rushing frantically into the infirmary and collapsed onto Ōma's body, sobbing, that the light in his eyes finally flickered.

That night, the fighters and spectators who had finished their matches threw a banquet. No matter how they had been enemies in the ring, attacking each other with everything they had, everyone partied wildly through the night together.

Saeko sat beside Hakudō Kyō, laughing and chatting with him, while Karura—having abandoned Kure Eriō, who lay on the floor weeping in despair—ran over to cling to him.

As she put it:

"Kyō is so strong, even Grandpa can't say a word against it no matter how much he opposes us now!"

With two beautiful women at his side, he drew no small amount of jealous glares from the hormone-fueled fighters. At the very least, Ice Cave Ryō had already walked past him several times, holding a glass in a hand that had just been freed from a cast.

Each time he passed, he made a deliberate show of looking at the young man's bandaged arm, then clicked his tongue with a "tch, tch, tch."

But after Hakudō Kyō snapped his fingers with his still-bandaged hand and had the waiter bring over another table of food, Ice Cave left with a dark scowl on his face.

No idea why at all. (laughs)