For three days straight, members of the Zanchi had been keeping a close watch nearby, wary that the siblings might make a run for it.
By dusk, a pleasant evening breeze swept across the empty lot.
The Zanchi's small-time lieutenant, Inoue Kanya, arrived as promised, accompanied by two debt collectors from the Teiai Group—both dressed in black suits.
At that moment, Shiraki Sho stood on the open ground before his house, facing a heavily worn punching bag that had clearly been patched countless times.
Just as Inoue was about to raise his hand to call out, Sakurai Arisa suddenly stepped out from the makeshift metal shack and spoke up sharply,
"It's still early, isn't it? My brother's warming up. Please don't disturb him."
"Tch. What a pain."
Inoue glanced at his watch but didn't argue. He just looked a little annoyed.
Pacing on the grass, he lit a cigarette and muttered, "That brain-damaged loser should just take his beating quietly. What's he even trying to show off for…"
But halfway through his grumbling, he noticed something strange—the two Teiai enforcers beside him had frozen in place, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Huh?"
He turned to look—and saw Shiraki Sho mid-warmup.
He stood in a classic fighting stance: left arm raised in defense, right arm bent slightly upward, balance perfectly distributed between the front foot and heel.
It was Ryu's fighting stance—balanced between offense and defense.
When advancing, his lead hand could jab while his rear hand delivered a heavy strike; when retreating, his guard covered both chin and torso; when moving, his body allowed for swift sliding steps forward or back.
It had only been three days, but Shiraki already had a solid foundation. With constant reference to Ryu's phantom form during training, he had nearly mastered seventy to eighty percent of the style.
"Huuh!"
Taking a deep breath, Shiraki pulled his left hand back, drove out a clean uppercut, twisted his entire torso, and followed through with a right-leg mid-sweep before smoothly returning to stance.
Ordinary movements—except that Shiraki's execution was excruciatingly slow, without a single flaw.
Every instant, he resembled a Greek statue, muscles tensed and sculpted under the dim light—each fiber of strength visible, each motion deliberate and exact.
"Hiss… haah…"
With each breath, it felt as though even the air around him moved to his rhythm.
To the onlookers, for a fleeting moment, it wasn't a punching bag before him—it was a living, towering opponent.
"Let's go!"
With a low shout, Shiraki drove off his rear foot, his front leg leading as his entire body burst forward in a sudden step.
Whoosh!
That footwork—compressed, explosive—maximized his burst speed over short distance. It had first been developed to dodge Gō Kazemizu's "gunfire," then refined under the phantom pressure of Ryu's straight punch.
It was named[Battle Aura Unleashed]!
But just as Inoue and the black suits gawked in awe
Bang!
Something flew backward. But it wasn't the punching bag
It was Shiraki Sho himself!
As though slammed by an invisible force, he rolled several times after hitting the ground, crashing into the wall before finally stopping.
The punching bag? It merely swayed slightly. Barely moved an inch.
"What the hell just happened?!"
The lieutenant and the black suits were dumbfounded.
A man… was sent flying by a punching bag?!
Even sci-fi novels wouldn't dare pull that kind of stunt!
Shiraki spat a bit of blood, flipped himself upright in one smooth motion, and only then noticed the three men waiting for him.
"Sorry to keep you waiting. I'll just change real quick."
He wiped the remaining blood from his nose, toweled his face, and put on a clean set of clothes.
The lieutenant and the black suits exchanged baffled glances. They didn't understand what had just happened—but time was tight. They could only head out first and ask questions later.
When Shiraki got into the car, Arisa instinctively moved to follow—but Shiraki stopped her.
"We agreed, remember?"
He ruffled her hair gently. "You can't come this time. It's just a comeback match—nothing worth watching, right?"
Arisa's eyes were worried, but she nodded.
Shiraki smiled faintly in relief.
He wasn't old-fashioned; if tonight were a Kengan-style match where spectators included corporate magnates or politicians, it would've been fine to bring her—it'd be safe enough.
But tonight's event was something else entirely
a clandestine underground bout involving Kengan fighters and the yakuza.
Its danger was… unpredictable.
"Yeah, we're not your damn babysitters," Inoue muttered from the front seat, gesturing for the driver to go.
On the road, one of the Teiai black suits sitting beside Shiraki couldn't help glancing at him.
His face bore faint bruises—clear traces of having been beaten.
"Hey," the man asked, puzzled. "Don't tell me… you actually went and sparred during these three days?"
Shiraki thought for a moment, then shook his head.
"Sparring? Not really. I just did some simulation training. Kind of like shadow boxing."
Shadow boxing—the practice of striking the air, imagining an opponent, visualizing attacks, defenses, and counterattacks.
The black-suited man, a boxing enthusiast himself, nodded but still frowned.
"Simulation? You mean shadow boxing got you that messed up? You even bled just now! How is that possible?!"
"…."
Shiraki smiled faintly. He opened his empty palm, spreading his fingers.
"Now imagine this," he said. "I'm holding half a fresh lemon. You can see the pulp, the juice… you can smell that sour tang, right?"
The black suits leaned in unconsciously.
"Now"
Shiraki suddenly thrust his empty palm toward the man's mouth with a grin.
"Here, have a lick!"
"Wha—"
Before the man could react, he imagined it—and instantly, his tongue curled at the phantom sourness. Even the guys up front started salivating.
Shiraki withdrew his hand, smiling.
"The human body's fascinating. You imagined the sourness… and your body reacted."
"So if you take that further—if you imagine your shadow opponent vividly enough—you can get real feedback from it."
The Teiai black suits exchanged intrigued glances; they'd never heard anything like it.
But Inoue Kanya, the Zanchi thug, just felt uneasy. He didn't like how calm and confident Shiraki seemed.
Wasn't this guy supposed to be brain-damaged?
Why was he chatting so casually with Teiai's people?
"Tch!"
Scowling, Inoue snapped, "Lemons, plums, whatever—just don't try any tricks tonight!"
Shiraki chuckled and turned to the black suits. "See? That's what stress does. It makes you irritable and unstable."
The men nodded seriously. As debt collectors, they understood the sentiment well.
"So how do you fix that?" one asked.
"Work out," Shiraki replied with a carefree laugh. "Build muscle. Exercise makes you happy."
They nodded again, convinced.
Inoue's temple vein twitched furiously.
Back at the Sho dojo grounds.
Ten minutes had passed since Shiraki left. The sky had darkened, and Arisa leaned against the wall, fidgeting restlessly.
She knew her brother was only trying to keep her safe—but that didn't stop her from worrying.
"…"
As she sighed, a car approached from the opposite direction and stopped in front of her.
Arisa tensed, ready to run—until the rear door opened, and Gō Karura waved brightly from inside.
"Arisa-chan! Over here!" Karura beamed. "We came to pick you up!"
Arisa blinked, startled. "Pick me up? Where to?"
The driver's window rolled down—it was Gō Kazemizu, smiling as she tapped the car door.
"Where else? We're going to watch your brother fight!"