In the eyes of the small-time gang leader, Shiraki Sho only froze for an instant.
Yet for Shiraki himself, those two words—Teiai Group and Kengan Match—kept echoing through his mind, spiraling wildly until his consciousness once again began to race out of control.
Countless fragments of memory and information erupted in his head like a volcanic explosion, all at once bursting to the surface.
The Teiai Group—one of the largest financial monopolies in Japan.
On the surface, their business spanned finance, real estate, and entertainment.
But behind the scenes, they ruled both the light and the dark, secretly controlling high-interest loans, underground casinos, and an entire chain of slave-labor industries.
In one possible future, a man named Itō Kaiji—a penniless drifter—would be forced to shoulder his friend's debt of 3.85 million yen, dragged into a series of deadly gambles.
That was the story known as Kaiji: Ultimate Survivor.
Here, however, Arisa's massive debt had already ballooned beyond imagination—thirty million yen with interest upon interest.
Such a sum was an impossible mountain for any individual to repay.
Even selling their inherited dojo and land wouldn't fill this black hole!
As for the Kengan Matches, their origins dated back to the Tokugawa shogunate.
When merchants' interests clashed, the guild would resolve disputes through combat
Each side hiring a fighter to settle everything with a one-on-one battle.
The will of the fighter, carried through his fists
Thus was born the Kengan Association, and those who fought in its matches became known as Kengan Fighters.
In another possible future, a martial artist named Tokita Ohma would step onto the Kengan stage, fighting to the death until nothing remained but ashes.
That story was called Kengan Ashura.
Now, those "stories" had begun to intertwine
their characters, perhaps, walking within the same world.
"If the people from those stories exist here… could there be more?"
Pressure built in his skull, time running thin for thought. Shiraki shifted his focus back to something more immediate.
"For an individual, thirty million yen is a fortune.
But for the Kengan Association's powerful conglomerates, that's merely a casual bet made outside the ring."
"And just now, they didn't say 'participate in a Kengan Match'—they said 'fight a Kengan Fighter.'"
"Could it be that Teiai Group's chairman, Hyōdō Kazutaka, wants to watch a bloody underground fight, like one of his sadistic betting games?"
When his runaway thoughts finally subsided, Shiraki had only been dazed for a few seconds in the others' eyes.
"Alright."
He nodded suddenly.
The small-time leader of the Zanchi gang and the two Teiai debt collectors stared, stunned. They hadn't expected him to agree so easily.
"Hey!"
One collector frowned, suspecting sarcasm. "Do you even know what the Kengan Matches are? They're the underground fights of the underworld"
"Yeah. I've heard of them," Shiraki replied calmly. "I thought they were just urban legends."
He took the contract and began reading through it.
He had to admit, compared to the gangsters' petty intimidation, it was the "black-and-white dual system" of a conglomerate like Teiai that truly made money.
They held both illegal muscle and legal banking power.
As long as a debtor still lived within society—still had attachments and desires—they could never truly go bankrupt or run away.
They'd just be squeezed dry, one bone at a time.
His sister, Sakurai Arisa, was still in school. Selling the old man's dojo wasn't an option.
He needed time to plan his next move—and this opportunity bought him exactly that.
Besides, the Kengan Matches themselves piqued his curiosity.
Seeing Shiraki agree so easily made the Zanchi leader uneasy, afraid the man was plotting something.
"Don't you dare try any tricks!"
He waved a fist threateningly in front of Shiraki's face.
But Shiraki's expression remained calm.
After all, he had just faced Ryu's punch.
Compared to that, this small-time punk was utterly insignificant.
If the thug really swung now, Shiraki was certain he could dodge effortlessly and counter—one clean punch to shatter the man's glasses and nose.
There was no point fighting such trash.
So after signing the contract, Shiraki's mind drifted again—to that one perfect punch from Ryu, and the burning impulse to figure out how to evade it.
The two collectors exchanged glances, puzzled by his sudden daze, while the small leader just scoffed.
"Forget him—his brain's busted anyway!"
Cursing under his breath, he spat out a final warning:
"Three nights from now. Don't be late."
Then he left with the two collectors in tow.
Silence returned.
Shiraki stood alone—until, before his eyes, the ink-like shadow of Ryu reappeared.
This time, the image was far more vivid, every crease of the martial gi sharply outlined.
Swoosh!
Ryu's straight punch shot forward again, precise and flawless—a movement so perfect it could only be called beautiful.
But to Shiraki, facing it head-on, it carried something else
a suffocating killing intent, so tangible he could almost see the word "death" written in the air.
Dodge?
Impossible!
He shifted, trying to slip half a step to the side—too late.
Ryu's fist slammed into his cheek, and for a split second, it felt like half his face had exploded.
His teeth rattled loose.
Crash!
He fell backward, knocking over a pile of junk, clutching his face and trembling.
"Pff"
No bones broken, no missing teeth—but when he spat, blood flecked the ground.
His body, it seemed, still obeyed strange logic.
Flat on his back, Shiraki suddenly started laughing.
He wiped the blood from his mouth, tilted his head toward the sky, and laughed harder—pounding the ground, unable to stop.
He'd never imagined he'd live to see a day like this
Ryu's illusion throwing punches at him,
his incurable brain trauma suddenly healed,
the Teiai Group showing up to collect debt,
and now, an underground Kengan fight awaiting him.
Street Fighter. Kaiji. Kengan Ashura… what else could there be?
This world is too damn fun!
For a man reborn after sickness, Shiraki Sho accepted everything with startling ease
and came to one simple conclusion:
He would live freely.
Luckily, no one was around to see it, or they might've thought he'd gone mad.
Unable to calm down, Shiraki went into the old storage shed and dragged out a freestanding sandbag, thick with years of dust.
It made him cough.
After his illness, he'd sealed away all his old training equipment—it wasn't worth selling.
He set the sandbag upright in the open yard, planted his feet, and fell into stance.
Compared to traditional karate form, his guard had changed slightly:
shoulders turned, forearms raised horizontally, rear hand guarding his chin.
It was instinctive—or perhaps, something imprinted from Ryu's illusionary punch.
His stance now resembled Ryu's own.
A grandmaster was feeding him moves—of course he would give it everything he had, studying how to evade Ryu's straight punch and counterattack afterward.
Swish. Swish…
He slid forward and back, his steps light but rough around the edges.
Five years of illness had sapped his strength and technique. It was only natural he no longer moved like a semi-professional fighter.
He knew that well enough.
He wasn't some "once-in-a-millennium fighting genius."
What he needed now was to claw his way back from the negatives—to the starting line.
Whoosh. Whoosh!
His fists struck the sandbag again and again, muscles gradually heating, blood pumping through his veins.
Yet no matter how he focused, he still couldn't shake the image of Ryu's punch—nor find a way to avoid it completely.
"Haah…"
He exhaled a long breath.
Another straight punch from Ryu's illusion came flying. Shiraki tried ducking this time
only to be blown off balance by the sheer force of the air pressure.
Frustration burned. He snapped up from the crouch and unleashed an uppercut.
Boom!
The blow sent the sandbag flying over the yard's fence.
"Haah… haah…"
His wrist tingled with numbness, but there was little satisfaction.
That one punch had power, yes—but his opponent wouldn't be a stationary bag.
In a real fight, losing balance in that crouched position would mean death
a ground lock, a stomp, a kick… even a soccer-style punt would end him.
"A grandmaster's sparring is truly hell to read."
After a short rest, Shiraki washed the sweat from his face.
Then he pulled out his phone, idly scrolling for information—trying to "re-learn" this world.
In the deep corners of online forums, he stumbled upon strange rumors:
A man undefeated for decades in the underground mahjong circles, known as "The Domain God."
A neutral organization called "Gambler's Guild", mediating bets and certifying wagers at members' request.
A mysterious cult, "Army of the Divine," that had suddenly vanished.
A colossal underground arena beneath Tokyo Dome, gathering martial artists from every school, revered as a sacred land of combat.
And more…
Each bit of information seemed half-believable—classified as mere urban legends.
But comparing them to his own memories, Shiraki could tell—they were real.
Simply hidden from the public eye.
"Ha…"
Lying on a worn-out sofa under the open sky, Shiraki let the wind brush past.
After so much exertion, his body felt light.
He drifted off to sleep, only to be woken later by the chatter of voices.
Opening his eyes, he saw it was already dusk—school dismissal time.
His sister, Sakurai Arisa, walked home laughing with two girls in matching uniforms.
"Big brother! Sunbathing again?"
Arisa waved cheerfully, then hurried over, palms pressed together apologetically.
"Sorry! We stopped by a dessert shop after class. Let me introduce you—this is Matsumoto Kozue, and this is Go Karura."
"We came back late—sorry, sorry… Bro? Are you listening?"
Of course he was.
Especially after hearing those two names
they confirmed everything he had suspected.
His mind began to race again.
"Stop!"
He shouted at himself, clutching his head.
"No, not now—don't spiral again!"