Chapter 448: The President
According to classified intelligence within the Kure Clan, the origin and
evolution of The Inside were inextricably linked to the shadow syndicate known
as The Worm.
Because of Metsudo Katahara's lifelong bond with the clan, the modern Kure were
deeply entangled with the Kengan Association. If The Worm wanted to sink its
fangs into the Association, the Kure Clan was more than happy to crash the
party—they never minded crushing a few "bugs" along the way.
As the Patriarch, Erioh Kure naturally kept his eyes glued to the Ward.
At present, [THE MAJIN] Raian Kure had marched in alone, drenching the Nine
Spiders sector in blood and establishing a brutal, stabilizing lockdown.
Yet relying solely on Raian's erratic reports was a recipe for half-truths.
Fortunately, the Kure Clan had other eyes inside the walls: Fusui Kure and Ren
Shiroki.
Tracking their satellite transponder, Erioh saw that the pair had pushed into
the interior and were currently bivouacked within the Two Tigers sector.
Erioh dialed the secure line.
"I see..."
Listening to Fusui's sitrep over the speaker, the old Patriarch nodded slowly.
The decades-old lawless city, subjected to the sudden breach of various external
"invaders," had fractured into distinct, localized biomes. Ironically, this had
forced the Ward into a fragile state of armed peace; none of the local
syndicates dared make a move while monsters held the perimeter gates.
"Takeshi Wakatsuki and Kuroki Gensai... Metsudo already briefed me on their
movements," Erioh mused.
"And [MR. UNCHAINED] Biscuit Oliva has been using Doyle to map out the Ward for
weeks. His appearance at Ten Tokita is entirely expected."
Erioh paused, his tone taking a sharp, chilling turn.
"The real variable... is the last man."
"[MR. 2] Jun Guevara."
"Respect is mandatory. Do not take him lightly, and do not cross him carelessly.
That young man carries a weight that is terrifying on a global scale!"
The bonfire crackled, spitting embers into the cold autumn night.
Ren Shiroki, Fusui Kure, Himuro Ryo, Takeshi Wakatsuki, and Yoshinari Karo sat
circled around the flames, listening to the gravelly voice emerging from the
tactical phone. On the screen, the 90-year-old Patriarch's face was
uncharacteristically grim.
For a living legend nearing a century of life to command "respect" for a
twenty-something kid meant there was an extraordinary story behind the name.
Fusui adjusted her dark shades, her mismatched eyes blinking. "Grandpa... who is
Guevara-san, really?"
"He doesn't belong to the underground. His existence is far more legitimate,"
Erioh rumbled.
"He is a President."
Himuro choked on his cigarette. "A... a president? Like, an underground
moniker?"
"No. Literal. He is the head of state of a sovereign nation."
Erioh took a slow sip of tea on his end of the line, his voice measured.
"In the remote waters off South America lies a forgotten, uncharted island
nation with a population under twenty thousand souls. He is their President."
"His full name: Jun Guevara."
"'Jun'—meaning pure."
"A third-generation mixed-race youth, twenty-one years of age. In the West, they
call him J. Guevara."
"He began life as a pirate and an extortionist, a reckless delinquent who gave
coastal navies fits."
Himuro rubbed his chin. "So he was from the criminal world?"
"No," the old master countered. "His story doesn't follow the usual script."
"Guevara's delinquency wasn't waged on asphalt. It was fought on the high seas.
Simply put: he was a buccaneer."
"His methods were primitive: his fleet would intercept commercial vessels in
open water, box them in, and throw grappling hooks over the rails. They would
storm the deck bare-handed, suppress the crew in a single blitz, and seize the
cargo."
"Had his tale ended there, history would remember him merely as an exceptional
pirate."
"At seventeen, however, his life reached a turning point."
Erioh's voice dropped into a dark, heavy cadence.
"He resolved to win absolute independence for his starving island!"
Erioh continued, laying out the classified legend.
"Trained from early childhood in ancient martial arts by his grandfather,
Guevara began teaching those techniques to his crew."
"And at that exact moment... he banned all weapons."
"This was no naive, pacifist virtue signaling. It was backed by an absolute,
unyielding conviction in victory."
"The training regimen was a living nightmare. Sweat and blood were the bare
minimum. The intensity far eclipsed any elite special forces crucible on earth."
"They trained bare-handed. Bare hands against bare hands. Bare hands against
blades. Bare hands against rifles. Bare hands against high-grade explosives."
"Casualties mounted constantly—shrapnel wounds, amputations, gunshot trauma. Yet
not a single man ever requested to leave."
"Because Jun Guevara's existence made his men feel the undeniable truth of an
inevitable victory!"
"When the day came that his men could spar at full speed without a single new
scar appearing on their skin..."
"The weaponless Guevara Army was complete."
"Immediately, Guevara launched his movement for national independence."
Erioh gave a dry, knowing chuckle. "Naturally, the island was dirt-poor, and the
inhabitants initially viewed the young man's proclamations with skepticism."
"And the ones who despised his movement most of all..."
"Were the politicians who believed they owned the globe."
What Erioh revealed next was classified at a level where even the Kure Clan's
intelligence wing had to piece together the fragments from black-market
whispers.
Following the declaration of independence:
Inside the White House Situation Room.
The sitting President of the United States, G. Bush, laughed off the insolent
island nation, preparing to deploy carrier strike groups and strategic bombers
to blockade and pacify the territory.
As the order was drafted, one of the President's personal Secret Service
bodyguards—a man named Camomile Lessen—stepped forward.
Lessen took the President hostage in the heart of the Oval Office.
Lessen was one of J. Guevara's sleeper agents.
At point-blank range, Lessen demonstrated that he could twist the President's
cervical spine 360 degrees before anyone in the room could draw a sidearm.
He delivered an ultimatum: across all fifty states, two operatives of his
caliber had already been embedded into key infrastructure. Every single one
possessed the bare-handed capability to hijack a commercial airliner or breach a
nuclear reactor solo.
Then, Lessen switched on the secure wall monitor, displaying a live feed.
It was the President's private estate in California.
Jun Guevara was sitting comfortably on the President's personal sofa, soaking in
the sunlight. The Secret Service perimeter guards lay unconscious on the lawn
outside.
The military might of a global superpower had been bypassed by a single man.
The First Lady stood shivering in the corner, terrified that she and her child
were about to be liquidated. Yet her young son, too young to understand the
gunboat diplomacy of his father, was happily chatting with the intruder.
Guevara smiled warmly at the boy. "Hey, kid. Do you love your daddy?"
The boy nodded enthusiastically. "I love him most in the world!"
"Me too—!"
Guevara roared with laughter, concluding his uninvited visit.
Standing at the front gate, he waved to the security camera, issuing a parting
warning to the leadership of the free world:
"Look back upon your arrogant, bloated lives. Stop for a moment, reflect upon
your blind spots, and realize this lesson wasn't a waste of time."
"Farewell..."
With a lazy wave, the feed cut to static.
From that day forth, his impoverished island claimed sovereign parity with the
strongest empire on the planet.
And Jun Guevara became [MR. 2]—the legitimate second generation of the Freest
Man on Earth.
The story sounded like ancient myth.
Yet the weight of it came from the fact that it had occurred in the cold,
documented reality of recent history. Because it wasn't a fairy tale, the impact
was crushing.
Yoshinari Karo stared into the fire, his voice a low rumble. "A true warrior."
Himuro wiped cold sweat from his forehead. "Just... what kind of monster did we
walk in on?"
Ren Shiroki stared into the dancing flames, his single right eye shimmering
behind his shades. "...A struggle."
"Yes. Just an honest struggle," a voice chimed in.
Guevara had stepped off the shanty roof, his hands shoved into his denim pockets
as he strolled back toward the fire, his easygoing grin intact.
Ren bared his teeth, looking up at the sovereign.
"Even if the odds are impossible... even if the enemy is a superpower...
standing firm and trading blows without yielding an inch."
"A man like that... commands absolute respect."
☆☆☆
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