Yaoyorozu Chihiro stood up from atop Mad Bull's fallen body, calmly brushing the dust from his clothes before walking straight toward the exit. From beginning to end, the entire fight had lasted less than half a minute.
Behind him, countless spectators stared at the massive figure lying motionless on the ground. Whether Mad Bull was still alive or not was unclear—his breathing was so faint it seemed to have frozen entirely.
"Fast, ruthless, precise… Compared to Mad Bull's overwhelming pressure, Number Seven is even more brutal," an experienced spectator said in horror.
"He's strong—terrifyingly strong—but I didn't even see how Number Seven was strong," someone muttered in confusion. "Just one counterattack, and Mad Bull collapsed."
"That's because your eyes weren't sharp enough," another spectator explained coldly. "In the moment of the counterattack, Number Seven struck three times—each one vicious and abnormal. Eyebrow, neck, and waist. Every hit landed exactly where it shouldn't."
Hearing this, many people sucked in a sharp breath, staring at Mad Bull's lifeless form as if looking at a corpse.
"Mad Bull… he's not dead, right?"
"No. Number Seven always inflicts severe injuries, but he hasn't crossed the line yet."
Although the Quirk Arena was drenched in blood, unless special circumstances arose, the organizers did not want fatalities. Because of this, every time Chihiro entered the arena, someone would whisper reminders into his ear—warnings he found endlessly irritating.
"He still has a breath."
As he passed by a group of security guards, Chihiro said the words casually, his voice low and indifferent.
The guards glanced toward Mad Bull, now being lifted onto a stretcher by medical personnel. Seeing the man barely breathing, they could only shake their heads helplessly.
"Did we go too far?" one guard muttered bitterly. "Every opponent Number Seven faces ends up half-dead. It's like he's deliberately slapping us in the face."
"Enough," another guard sighed, watching Chihiro's retreating back. "This is the arena. Once you step onto the stage, life and death are never far apart."
By then, Chihiro had already left the Quirk Arena, a metal case in hand. Aside from necessary fights, he had no interest in lingering in places like this. After all, gray zones such as this were best avoided—being discovered would bring unnecessary trouble.
Suddenly, beneath the black robe, Chihiro's lips curled into a cold sneer.
He stopped walking and turned into the nearest alley.
The passage was narrow and deep, wedged between two towering buildings. As he moved forward, it felt as though he were stepping into the darkest, most forgotten corner of the city. Only the soft sound of his footsteps echoed through the gloom, carrying an unnatural chill.
Step… step…
From the depths of the alley, a bearded man emerged slowly. Hatred flickered unmistakably in his eyes. The machetes in his hands gleamed under the dim light, and his heavy steps carried an oppressive weight.
"It's been a long time, bastard," the man hissed, his shrill voice reverberating through the alley. "Do you know how much I've missed you?"
The blade dragged against the ground, producing a grating sizzle that scraped against the nerves.
"…Do I know you?" Chihiro set the metal case down calmly, tilting his head slightly as he studied the approaching figure. He had assumed it was just another red-eyed gambler—or a drunk driven mad by greed.
"Me?" The man's expression twisted violently. "You don't remember? That's fine. You'll remember when I start crushing your bones—piece by piece!"
Like a rat whose tail had been stepped on, the big man suddenly leapt forward, excitement and hatred boiling over as he raised his machetes.