Chapter 459: The Pirate's Ogre Visage
For Guevara, Paklong was decent, but he certainly didn't make for a good
sparring partner.
He had wanted to tease Ren to lift the gloomy mood lingering in his own chest,
but instead, he ended up getting sucked down the rabbit hole of Ren's abstract
thought experiment, plunging even deeper into a state of philosophical torment.
If someone else is looking at me, what does my fight look like to them?
—What kind of nonsense question is that?
Guevara lowered his head, pressing his lips together as he wrestled with the
absurdity of it.
The next second, a sudden shift tore through the air—WHOOSH!!
[The Caracal] Billy Greco, who had been sprawled out on the pavement moments
before, seemingly knocked out cold, snapped upward in an explosive burst. He
leaped to his feet and uncorked a savage, swinging wide-hook punch.
Wham-shat—!
The punch carried a ferocity several times greater than anything he had thrown
before, its concussive force so massive it made the surrounding air shudder and
groan.
Because he was standing further back, Ren easily sidestepped, backflipping out
of range.
Guevara, however, was still deep in thought and didn't even bother to dodge. He
took Billy's heavy punch squarely on the jaw, the force of the blow driving him
backward.
Whish!
Guevara shot backward like a cannonball, his back slamming heavily into the
brick wall behind him with a thunderous CRASH, leaving a human-shaped crater in
the masonry.
—?!
The sheer visual impact of the moment was explosive, causing the surrounding
onlookers to snap their heads around in shock.
Ren's strikes carried terrifying destructive power, and the Caracal had already
taken a brutal beating across multiple exchanges—how on earth did he still have
the stamina to stand back up? Let alone throw a punch of that magnitude?!
When the crowd finally managed to lay eyes on the Caracal's current state, they
froze in sheer horror.
Right there—
The Caracal was using both hands to violently shred the tattered remnants of his
suit jacket away, exposing a heavily muscled upper body. His dress trousers were
equally shredded down the legs from the violence of his movements.
Every single inch of his skin was knotted with thick, bulging veins, twisting
into a grotesquely feral pattern!
His waist cinched inward, forming a tight vacuum-seal stomach that radiated a
raw, unadulterated savagery!
He had lost several teeth, his face was drenched in a mask of dried and fresh
blood, yet his expression was one of extreme, manic euphoria. His eyes were
rolled upward into his head, giving him the look of a rabid, pathologically
unhinged monster.
His signature "caracal black ears" almost looked as though they had sprouted
real fur, transforming his silhouette into that of an otherworldly predator.
Just looking at him sent a cold shiver straight down the spine.
"Hiss—huu—"
Hot, billowing gales of air vented from the Caracal's throat as he muttered a
raspy, incoherent growl.
If the Kure clan's [Removal] was a terrifying shockwave triggered by lifting the
brain's physical safety locks—
Then the Caracal right now represented the profound, deeply unsettling wrongness
of a human transforming into a non-human aberration!
"This..."
The local gang members instinctively retreated several paces further back, their
voices trembling. "What the hell is going on here?! What's wrong with that
hitman?!"
"..."
Memories flooded through Ren's mind as he recalled the classified intelligence
files concerning the Caracal. "I knew it..."
Just then, a weary, raspy voice chimed in from nearby, its words slurred and
battered.
"The hell... you actually knew about this?"
Ren turned his head to find Paklong limping heavily toward them, dragging
himself away from the edge of the battlefield.
He was in terrible shape: multiple compound fractures across his ribs, his left
ear entirely deafened, and his left eye completely blinded. There was no way he
could make it far; the furthest he could crawl was right back to Ren's
perimeter.
"Old man's done running. Don't feel like fighting anymore either. Do whatever
you want with me."
Paklong had long since made peace with the prospect of death.
Yet, gazing at the "monster" in the distance, Paklong couldn't help a dry gasp
of awe.
"I'd heard whispers in the underworld about that 'Black-Eared Demon,' but I
always figured the stories were exaggerated. Turns out the legends were true."
Having confronted "Tsubame" in his dream-state haze, Paklong felt an odd sense
of emotional release. He spoke without looking back. "According to underground
lore, Billy Greco doesn't just suffer from short sleeper syndrome... he has a
second, much rarer neurological condition."
"It's a disorder that shares clinical similarities with sleep terrors or severe
sleepwalking."
"First of all, they share a very specific set of common traits: they feel
virtually zero physical pain, and verbal communication is entirely impossible."
"Though rare, there are documented historical cases of individuals engaging in
violent, highly coordinated combat behaviors while fully asleep."
"The earliest recorded medical entry dates back to 1846, where a man who
murdered his lover insisted it was done entirely in his sleep, swearing up and
down that he was innocent."
"As for the Caracal's specific condition... it's far more abnormal."
Paklong's voice dropped to a grim murmur.
"As we all know, when a human body is faced with extreme mortal peril, it can
occasionally experience a transient surge of strength that defies common sense."
"In Japan, they call it 'hysterical strength'—a common enough phrase."
"But in the Caracal's case, because he is a short-sleeper, the moment he slips
into deep sleep or is knocked unconscious, his body automatically triggers that
exact emergency state, unleashing that mysterious, buried power without
warning."
"Suddenly hoisting boulders weighing over five hundred kilograms, sprinting
faster than world records, surviving being swallowed inside the vortex of a
tornado—legends like that? He can actually pull them off!"
"Word has it that when he leaps through the air while locked in deep slumber...
he moves exactly like a wild caracal."
Paklong's blind eye shifted toward the sleeping, rampaging Billy Greco.
"You knocked him out cold, forcing him into a state of deep sleep. His body
executed its final, desperate survival reflex prior to shutting down
completely—and it ripped away every single internal governor keeping him
constrained."
"..."
The moment Paklong finished speaking, the Caracal moved.
Just as Paklong had predicted, Billy was currently trapped in the depths of a
profound sleep, completely unreachable and operating purely on near-death
instinct.
He was like a fish tossed onto the shore—even with its life gone, its tail could
still thrash with violent, autonomic spasms!
Swish!
The Caracal charged forward in a monstrous sprint, heading straight for Guevara,
who had just extricated himself from the brick wall. He whipped his leg upward,
aiming a vicious, jackknife heel-kick straight at Guevara's face.
—CRASH!
The brick wall directly behind Guevara exploded into dust under the force of
that single kick.
Guevara himself had taken the full weight of the Caracal's foot straight down
onto his skull, yet he remained standing there with his hands shoved deep into
his pockets, not even flinching.
"Hiss—"
Without missing a beat, the Caracal hoisted his right arm high to maintain
balance, then repeatedly hammered his right foot down in a frantic stomping
frenzy, driving blow after blow straight into Guevara's face with a series of
dull, meat-tearing thuds.
The destructive output was so astronomical that the earth trembled beneath them,
fracturing outward in jagged trenches!
Thump-thump-thump!
Guevara took the full brunt of the stomp-storm, his face coated in blood as he
slipped into a momentary daze.
"..."
"..."
Watching the display, Paklong let out a slow shake of his head.
"I've already experienced Mr. 2 J. Guevara's fighting style firsthand. It relies
heavily on psychological warfare and theatrical intimidation."
"Whether it was that bizarre entrance, the paper pinwheel, or pissing on me—they
were all tricks designed to exert psychological pressure."
"Sure, that works wonders on ordinary humans, but what happens when your
opponent is a mindless 'Black-Eared Demon' who feels no fear and lacks all
reason?"
Paklong glanced sideways at Ren. "Hey, if you're gonna step in, do it now.
Mr. 2's head is about to be stomped into red paste."
Ren, however, didn't look the least bit concerned. He just shrugged with a grin.
"Relax. He's the President, after all!"
Paklong blinked. "What—?"
Before he could finish his confused retort, the next second—Whoosh!
The exact microsecond the Caracal raised his foot for the next downward stomp,
Guevara suddenly dipped his shoulder, rolled out from beneath the boot, and
sprung light as a feather back to his feet.
Even with his face smeared in blood, Guevara wore a serene, leisurely smile,
looking as though he hadn't suffered a single ounce of real damage—as if he had
just taken a very pleasant, albeit dusty, afternoon nap.
"—??"
The sudden, ghost-like evasion stunned the lobotomized Caracal, halting his
mindless assault for a fraction of a second and finally buying Guevara the
opening he wanted.
"What does my fight look like?"
Guevara murmured softly to himself.
So that was what he had been pondering the entire time! He hadn't been paying
attention to the Caracal's savage, demon-like stomping at all!
Right then, the epiphany hit him.
Guevara lifted both hands to the sides of his head, cupping his palms around his
ears as if tuning into a distant broadcast.
"Wind..."
"Such a... gorgeous wind..."
Guevara raised his eyes with a soft, bright smile.
As those words left his lips, the dead, stifling stillness of the afternoon air
suddenly stirred. A cool, crisp breeze swept across the street, rustling the
little paper pinwheel stuck in the distant brick wall.
Whir-whir, clatter-clatter—
The pinwheel began to spin.
The visual looked for all the world as though Guevara had summoned the wind into
existence with a single word!
The sudden gust startled the sleeping Caracal, causing him to sway stupidly back
and forth on his feet, disoriented.
Meanwhile, Guevara strolled over to the pinwheel stuck in the wall.
He squared his shoulders, leaned in close, and blew a massive, steady breath
toward it.
"Hoo—!"
That single gust sent the pinwheel spinning into a dizzying blur, filling the
air with its pleasant, crisp clicking sound.
Clack-clack-clack-clack.
And then, the wind truly rose.
A howling gale swept down the avenue, tossing the hair of everyone present.
"..."
"..."
Guevara smiled gently as he turned around. With a smooth motion, he shrugged off
his loose-fitting outer shirt, baring a densely corded, hyper-conditioned
physique.
He gripped the collar of the shirt, hoisted it high above his head like a
captain's colors, letting it billow out in the gale to trace a magnificent,
sweeping arc against the sky.
Flap—!
Guevara released his grip, letting the shirt flutter away into the wind.
Then, he raised both hands, pressing his palms and fingertips flat against his
face, smearing the wet mud and fresh blood coating his skin into a thick,
crimson-red warpaint.
With sweeping, practiced motions of his ten fingers, he dragged the
mud-and-blood mixture across his features, carving a fierce, theatrical theater
mask directly onto his skin.
The pattern was striking, intricate, and vividly striking.
It looked as though a confident, laughing ogre had been painted across Guevara's
face, radiating a blend of unbridled wildness and commanding authority that made
it impossible to look away!
"..."
"..."
Guevara locked his eyes onto the Caracal.
"The tide is high—"
"..."
He drew in a deep, diaphragm-expanding breath. His core muscles compressed into
an iron-forged unit, pulling every muscle fiber in his body taut until they
gleamed with a faint, metallic sheen under the sun.
He ripped the bandana from his head, letting his medium-long hair dance wild and
free in the wind.
The entire posture flowed with a breathtaking blend of fluid grace and explosive
kinetic potential, shifting like a rising oceanic tide or a hunting wolf closing
in on its prey!
"The tide is high, the time to set sail has come!"
Guevara squared off against the raging, mindless Caracal.
"Come on, let's keep going—"
Before the last syllable had even finished echoing—Whoosh!
The Caracal couldn't restrain his instincts any longer. Roaring at the top of
his lungs, he lunged forward with a speed so blinding it defied the naked eye, a
terrifying display that made the heart skip a beat.
Yet, the exact microsecond the Caracal closed the distance to strike—Swish-la!
Guevara erupted upward off the pavement like a spiraling whirlwind, his limbs
carving magnificent, sweeping vectors through the air as he unloaded a crushing,
upward-driving haymaker.
—KABOOM-SHATTER!
That thunderous blow caught the Caracal square on the chin, instantly rolling
his eyes back into his head. A storm of shattered teeth exploded from his mouth
as geysers of blood erupted simultaneously from his eyes, nose, and mouth.
Swish-shish-la—!
The Caracal was launched vertically into the sky, rocketing several meters
straight up. The crimson spray painting the air behind him bloomed into looping
circles, hanging suspended as droplets caught the light.
Crash—!
Guevara followed through with the punch, lowering his fist as he settled back
onto his heels.
At that moment, thin tendrils of white steam curled from his lips. Standing
there amidst the fading gale, painted in the terrifying warpaint of an ogre, his
presence was so utterly commanding it bordered on the divine.
Could he even be human?!
The onlookers stood frozen, their eyes blown wide as the same terrifying thought
echoed in every mind.
Right after that, Guevara broke into a bright, confident grin. His eyes darted
toward Ren, and he hooked a finger, gesturing for Ren to look down at the ground
beneath his feet.
Following the direction of Guevara's finger, Ren looked down.
There, stamped deep into the reinforced concrete pavement, was a massive,
cratered footprint left behind by the torque of Guevara's launch.
"Whether it's America, [Mr. Unchained] Oliva, or you, Mr. Shiroki... this is
what I want to show all of you—"
Guevara pulled the corners of his mouth into a wide, relaxed grin. "You've got
to understand: my fights are always anchored deep in the earth, leaving a mark
on the ground that time can never wash away."
☆☆☆
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