"Go with you? And who exactly are you supposed to be?" Dou Tang's tone was calm, almost bored.
"We're Oni Island! Oni Island, you bastard! Don't act like you don't know us!"
The leader—a youth with a mohawk stiffened by half a bottle of hair gel—glared furiously. Behind him, several thugs were already harassing the clerks while he swaggered forward, chin tilted in challenge.
Dou Tang narrowed his eyes.
"Sorry. Never heard of you. And I'm not interested. But if you don't leave right now, don't blame me for what happens next."
For a moment, the punk froze—then burst into wild laughter.
"Oi, oi, you guys hear that? There's eight of us and he's threatening us! Did this guy get his script mixed up or something? Hahahaha!"
Dou Tang ignored them.
In one smooth motion, he reached out and seized that ridiculous tuft of spiked hair on top of the boy's head.
"Y–You bastard!"
The mohawked punk roared in anger and swung an iron rod into Dou Tang's side— but Dou Tang didn't even flinch.
Still holding the punk by the hair, he walked forward slowly, step by step, dragging him toward the glass table in the center of the café.
Then, with one hand, he slammed the man's face down onto it.
"I'll give you five seconds," Dou Tang said evenly. "Tell me who you are and what you want. Otherwise, your face is going through this table."
The punk kicked and struggled, but the hand on his head was immovable—like a mountain pressing down.
If Dou Tang used just a little more force… the thought alone made him tremble. "Help! Don't just stand there, you idiots—get him off me!"
The rest of the gang finally snapped out of their stupor. Cracking their knuckles, they stepped forward, ready to "teach this guy a lesson."
After all, to them, Kiryu Dou Tang was just another street racer—fast bike, decent fists, nothing special.
Dou Tang sighed and glanced apologetically toward the cowering staff behind the counter. Then he turned to the seven thugs closing in.
"Take one more step and I'll act. Don't say I didn't warn you."
He paused, realizing his Chinese wouldn't land, and added in Japanese, "I warned you."
Naturally, his warning meant nothing. One of the blond punks charged forward, swinging his pipe.
What happened next froze everyone's blood. Dou Tang didn't dodge.
He didn't block.
He punched the pipe.
"What the—?! Is he insane?!"
A metallic CRANG! rang through the shop.
Dou Tang stood exactly where he was, arm still extended from the strike, his other hand gripping the mohawked leader's hair.
The blond punk stumbled back, eyes wide. His pipe had gone flying, his right hand trembling uncontrollably.
Through the crack in the fitting-room door, Kume Chinatsu clapped a hand over her mouth, trembling.
"Kiryu-kun… Kiryu-kun, he—he's not human, is he?!"
Dou Tang calmly drew back his fist, flexing his knuckles in mild satisfaction, then looked down at the punk pinned beneath his hand.
"Your five seconds are up."
He lifted the man's head slightly—then slammed it down.
CRASH!
Glass exploded everywhere. The café echoed with the punk's agonized scream.
"AAAHHHHHHH!!"
Blood splattered across the floor; shards of glass glittered in his skin like embedded stars. Dou Tang had held back—he'd slammed him cheek-first instead of straight down. Otherwise, the man would've lost an eye.
The other members of Oni Island recoiled, fear creeping into their expressions.
Dou Tang straightened, hauling the mohawked punk upright by the collar. His gaze—cold, predatory—felt sharper than the glass itself.
"Ready to talk now?" he asked quietly. "There are three more tables in here. You bring enough cash to pay for them if I break those too?"
What?!
They all stared, dumbfounded.
He's the one who broke it—why are we the ones paying?! Who's the villain here?!
"W-wait, wait!" the leader stammered, waving frantically, blood dripping down his chin. "We—we're new recruits! From Oni Island! We came for you, Kiryu Dou Tang! You're our sworn enemy!"
"Enemy?" Dou Tang repeated, raising a brow.
"Y-yes! A year and a half ago, you beat our boss in a street race—then you disappeared! The gang fell apart after that! You're the one who destroyed Oni Island!"
A year and a half ago…
That was before he'd even arrived in this world.
So this must've been the original Kiryu Dou Tang's mess.
Street racing, biker gangs—figures. The old me wasn't exactly a saint either. From inside the fitting room, Kume Chinatsu and Huaiyin stared in disbelief.
Kume Chinatsu clung to Huaiyin, mind blank except for one horrified thought:
Kiryu-kun… was a delinquent?!
He'd always seemed so cold, so distant… and now he's—he's a gangster?!
Huaiyin's wide eyes never left him, fixed on his towering, ruthless figure. She wanted to see what he'd do next.
Dou Tang's lips twisted into what might have been a smile—but it looked wrong, almost mechanical.
He was terrible at faking smiles.
"I think," he said lightly, "there's been a misunderstanding." Everyone froze.
A… misunderstanding?
"Since it's a misunderstanding, there must be a way to clear it up," he continued smoothly. "Why don't we sit down and talk? Take me to your main group—I'll explain everything to your people."
Releasing the punk's hair, Dou Tang let him collapse backward into the arms of his terrified gangmates.
He rubbed his palms together with a faint chuckle—probably meant to seem friendly, but standing amid shattered glass and spattered blood, it only made him look more like a predator. A smiling beast.
The mohawked youth wiped his bleeding face and forced a grin.
"Fine… fine! Kiryu Dou Tang, you really are the guy who beat our boss! Come on then! Once you meet the rest of Oni Island, we'll see if you still talk that big!"
Dou Tang sneered.
"You make it sound so dramatic. It's just calling for backup. The way you say it, it almost sounds noble."
He pointed at the door. "Lead the way."
The punk glared at him for a long moment before finally turning to leave, supported by the others.
Dou Tang didn't glance back toward the fitting room—if he did, it might raise suspicion. Outside, eight heavily modified motorcycles idled at the curb, each flying a flag from its tailpipe.
"Kiryu Dou Tang! Get on!" the punk barked, pressing a cloth to his bloody face and gesturing toward the flashiest bike.
Dou Tang shrugged, expression unreadable.
He climbed onto the back seat, then slapped the spot in front of him like a boss ordering his driver.
"Come on. Start it up."
The mohawked thug's veins bulged. He was seconds from exploding. Blood or no blood—Kiryu Dou Tang was mocking him.
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