With just one exchange of blows, blood already splattered across the ring.
It wasn't from a knife, nor from shards of glass—it was from sheer, unrestrained force. Flesh meeting flesh, muscle crushing bone. The brutality of it was enough to make the air itself taste of iron.
"Khh…"
Komada grunted, trying to force air through his broken nose.
He hadn't expected Shiraki Sho's opening burst to be that fast, but as a professional fighter, he quickly readjusted and seized control of the momentum.
Just as he was about to press his advantage, he heard Shiraki shouting something incoherent—almost like a challenge.
"'Let you know where you went wrong'? Hah…"
Pain shot from his broken nose straight to his skull, twisting his expression into something monstrous. A sneer curled across his face as the fire in his chest ignited fully.
"I was wondering earlier—if you were really forced into this match, why didn't you beg me to go easy on you?"
Komada grabbed his own collar and tore it apart with a savage rip.
"Now I get it—you're just a lunatic!"
RIP!
His shirt shredded in two. Komada's massive, carved physique gleamed under the light—raw muscle and power on full display.
The crowd roared
A body like the guardian deity Nioh itself.
And indeed, emblazoned across his back was a tattoo of Nioh, the fierce temple guardian, merging seamlessly with his monstrous frame. It was as if divine wrath had taken human form.
"You want to know what your mistake is?"
Komada suddenly hurled the torn shirt forward—blinding Sho's line of sight—then closed the distance in an instant, driving a vicious left hook.
Sho barely had time to raise both arms under his chin and brace.
THUD!
The impact sent him skidding backward, his forearms swelling red and raw.
"Your mistake" Komada flexed his wrist, stepping closer with every word
"is underestimating the weight difference between us."
"In regulated boxing, there are seventeen weight classes. The smallest difference—two to three kilograms—is enough to change everything. It keeps fights fair and watchable."
"You and I? We're separated by at least twenty-five kilos."
He smiled cruelly.
"So you never stood a chance."
"Power and size are proportional. The small get crushed. The short get trampled. That—is reality."
Then he stomped forward
CRACK!
Though still meters away, Komada kicked high, his shoe scraping the dirt floor. Mud and sand sprayed toward Sho's face, forcing him to blink and shield his eyes.
Sho's instincts screamed—he didn't dare look away, because the real attack was always next.
And sure enough—Komada followed up with a direct front kick.
BOOM!
Sho sidestepped just in time. Komada's foot slammed into the wooden barricade behind him
CRASH!
Solid wood shattered to splinters.
"...!?"
The onlookers froze, eyes wide.
That barricade wasn't fragile—it could stop a motorcycle, and even an axe would struggle to split it clean. Yet Komada had just crushed it with a single kick!
The veterans in the crowd—Metsudo, Kazemizu, Karura, and even Sho himself—noticed something the others didn't.
There's metal in his shoes.
"Heh… dirty bastard," Sho thought grimly. "If that kick lands, I'm done."
He flexed his fingers, trying to shake off the numbness in his forearm. But now, in his vision—Komada and Ryu overlapped again, two opponents in one body.
"How do I deal with Komada's assault? And what is Ryu trying to show me…?"
Sho panted heavily, circling the ring with short, tense steps. Every dodge was closer than the last.
The match reached fever pitch. The crowd's shouts blurred into chaos.
Outside the ring, Metsudo Katahara looked utterly delighted.
"Hohoho! It's not an official Kengan match, but this is quite the spectacle!"
He turned toward his drinking partner, Gō Kazemizu, introducing the fight with gleeful enthusiasm.
"Quite entertaining, isn't it? But if you saw a proper Kengan match, you'd lose your mind! I could recommend several top fighters"
But Kazemizu wasn't smiling.
"Hm?" Metsudo blinked. "What's wrong, Kazemizu? Tired already?"
"…Something like that."
Kazemizu looked down into his glass. The last inch of whiskey reflected his cold eyes.
"Thanks for the drink. Once I finish this, I'll be heading off."
"Eh?!"
Metsudo wasn't offended—he knew Kazemizu's temperament well—but his curiosity flared.
"Now, now, don't leave me hanging! What's wrong? If you don't tell me, I'll feel guilty all night!"
"…."
Kazemizu sighed. He supposed leaving without explanation would be rude.
"This whole… 'excitement'—it's fake."
"Fake?" Kazemizu's calm voice cut through the noise.
"The people cheering—they're not actors. But their excitement isn't real, either."
He took a sip of whiskey, his gaze sweeping over the audience.
"It's the illusion of suspense. Everyone here already knows the outcome."
"The blood, Komada's victory, the bets placed on him—they're all predictable."
"In truth, this isn't a fight, nor a gamble. It's just a rehearsed performance. There's no real victory or defeat here."
He chuckled bitterly and lit a cigarette.
"I can't stand that. Maybe I'm strange—but if there's no true win or loss, it's meaningless to me."
"Anyway… thanks for the drink."
He exhaled a thin line of smoke and turned to leave
Only to hear Metsudo laughing.
"Hohoho! You underestimate me, old friend."
Kazemizu stopped, glancing back.
"You think I enjoy this shallow chaos? I'm not that senile yet."
Metsudo's eyes sharpened like blades.
"The crowd doesn't matter. What matters is the man in that ring."
His gaze locked on Shiraki Sho—bloodied, battered, but unbroken.
"In every arena, there exists another kind of fighter—one beyond greed, beyond desperation."
"The purest kind."
"I can smell it, Kazemizu… That young man—he reminds me of you."
"…"
Kazemizu didn't consider himself exceptional, but Metsudo's words stirred something. He looked again—this time, really looked—and began to see what Metsudo meant.
"…I see. So that's what it is," he murmured. A faint smirk crossed his lips. "He really is fighting with an 'error'."
SHWAAK—THUD!
Sho barely dodged Komada's follow-up, but the next punch crashed against his guard, sending him careening into the broken barricade.
His forearms trembled violently, muscles screaming in protest. His lungs burned, his body begged to collapse—but somewhere within, something still refused to yield.
Because he knew—Ryu's phantom wasn't just there to haunt him.
It was there to teach him.
"...To be reborn through death."
The deep, calm voice reached his ears.
Sho turned—there stood the white-haired man from before, cigarette in hand. Beside him, Arisa, Kazemizu, and the others watched silently.
There was no time to wonder who he was. Sho could only ask, breathless, "You… you're giving me advice? About fighting?"
"No," Kazemizu said, exhaling smoke. "I don't know the first thing about fighting."
"But I can tell when someone's already dead inside."
He narrowed his eyes. "Right now, you've lost the will to win. You're only thinking about dodging."
"In gambling, people who lose again and again end up the same way
They stop trying to win. They just try to avoid losing."
Kazemizu flicked his cigarette, ash falling like snow.
"In the end, your idea of 'survive first, win later'"
He met Sho's gaze, voice calm and absolute.
"will never beat the man who fights only to win."