Chapter 8: A Layman's Advice
In just one exchange, blood was drawn in the ring.
It wasn't from a knife or a shard of glass, but from pure, unadulterated fist-power, making it all the more violent and bloody!
"Hnnn..."
Komada snorted, forcing air through his damaged nose.
He hadn't expected Shiraki Kei's lunge to be so fast, but as a professional fighter, he quickly adjusted his rhythm and seized the offensive.
He was about to press the attack when he heard Kei shouting that bizarre taunt, which sounded just like a provocation.
"...'Show me where I'm wrong'?"
The pain from his broken nose shot to his brain, making Komada's expression even more savage. He was genuinely furious now.
"I was wondering... if you were really forced into this fight, why didn't you secretly beg me to go easy on you? Now I think the answer is simple."
Komada's huge hand grabbed the collar of his shirt and tore the fabric.
"You're just... a madman!"
RIIIP!
He tore his shirt open, baring his upper body. The chiseled, massive muscles made his physical power even more apparent!
The spectators in the casino couldn't help but think—
His form... it was just like a Nioh statue!
And in fact, Komada did have a Nioh tattooed on his back. It merged perfectly with his monstrous physique, as if a true god resided within him.
"Where are you wrong?"
Komada pretended to answer, then suddenly threw the ruined shirt, using it to block Shiraki Kei's vision. At the same time, he lunged forward, throwing a left hook.
Shiraki Kei didn't have time for a major dodge. He could only cross his arms under his chin and take the heavy blow.
BANG!
He stumbled back several steps, his forearms visibly red and swollen.
"Where you're wrong—is underestimating the difference in 'weight class'."
Komada flexed the wrist he'd punched with, pressing forward.
"Professional boxing has evolved to include seventeen weight classes. The gap between adjacent classes is only 2-3 kilograms. That's to ensure a good show, and to ensure fairness."
"The weight difference between us is about 25kg. So—you can't possibly win."
"'Strength' and 'physique' are directly proportional. The small are crushed by the large. The short are trampled by the tall. That is reality!"
Just as he finished speaking, Komada ground his foot into the dirt—
CRUNCH!
He wasn't close enough to hit Shiraki Kei, but he still threw a high kick. He had kicked up a spray of dirt from the ring, flinging it at Kei.
Shiraki Kei squinted, shielding his eyes, but he didn't dare look away from Komada, knowing the real killing blow was next.
Sure enough, Komada followed up with a front kick—
BOOM!
Shiraki Kei took a side-step, barely avoiding it. Komada's foot slammed into the wooden fence behind him.
With a sharp CRACK, the solid wood fence was kicked to pieces, splinters flying everywhere.
"?!"
The sight left the spectators dumbfounded.
That was a solid wood fence! A motorcycle couldn't break it. You'd need an ax and a lot of effort to chop it, but Komada had shattered it with one kick!
Only the few experts—like Metsudo, Kure Fusu, Karura, and Shiraki Kei himself—saw the trick.
Komada most likely had a steel plate in his shoe!
"He really is dirty. I absolutely cannot let him kick me..."
Shiraki Kei flexed his fingers, trying to ease the numbness in his forearms. But in his vision, "Komada" and "Ryu" were closing in again. He was essentially fighting two-on-one!
"How do I counter Komada's offense? And what is Ryu's punch trying to teach me?"
Shiraki Kei was breathing heavily, barely managing to circle away, every dodge a hair's breadth from disaster.
...
...
The match was becoming a one-sided beating. The spectators roared.
Outside the fence, Katahara Metsudo looked thrilled, appearing to be enjoying the atmosphere.
"Hoh hoh! It may not be a Kengan match, but this is quite fun in its own way!"
He turned to his drinking buddy, Akagi Shigeru, and said happily, "Not bad, right? But the official Kengan matches are even more exciting. There are many fighters I could recommend..."
Metsudo was ecstatic, but Akagi looked bored.
"Hmm?" Metsudo was confused. "Are you tired, Akagi-kun?"
"...I suppose so."
Akagi smiled faintly, looking down at the glass in his hand. There was one last sip of whiskey in it, the golden liquid reflecting his eyes. "Thank you for tonight. After I finish this, I'll be taking my leave."
"Ehh~?"
Metsudo knew Akagi had a distant personality, so he wasn't angry. He just couldn't contain his curiosity, acting like a playful old man.
"Why aren't you happy? We're out having fun! If you don't tell me why, this old man will be too guilty to sleep!"
"..."
Akagi thought for a moment. Leaving like this was a bit rude. He explained, "This so-called 'intense atmosphere'... it's 'fake'."
Hearing this, Kure Fusu, who was standing nearby, was confused. "It seems pretty lively. Are all the spectators paid actors or something?"
"No, not 'fake' as in 'staged'."
Akagi took a sip of whiskey, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, and he sighed softly. "The truth is, the crowd's excitement only exists because there's a predictable, 'fixed result'."
"—For example: the blood from the beating, Komada's victory, and the money they'll win from betting on him."
"As I see it, what's happening in that ring isn't a martial arts match. It's not even a gamble. It's just a boring performance, going through the motions. There is no 'win' or 'loss' here."
"Heh..."
Akagi smiled faintly, lit a cigarette, and gave a self-deprecating shrug.
"I just... don't like this feeling. Maybe it's a personal quirk, but I have no interest in things 'without a winner and a loser'."
"In any case, thank you for your hospitality. Goodbye."
Akagi exhaled a cloud of white smoke and was about to leave, but Metsudo suddenly laughed.
"Hoh hoh! If you underestimate me like that, this old man's feelings will be hurt..."
"Hmm?" Akagi froze.
Metsudo's eyes sharpened, though his expression was still jovial. "You think I enjoy such shallow excitement? I'm not that senile yet!"
"I don't care about the crowd. The only thing captivating me right now is the fighter in the ring."
Metsudo looked at the ring, his gaze landing on the retreating Shiraki Kei.
"On the fighting stage, aside from those who are in it for money, those who don't fear death, or those with other motives, there exists another kind of person—"
"A 'purer' kind."
"My nose is still sharp. And I can tell... that young man's 'scent' is a bit similar to yours, Akagi-kun."
"..."
Akagi didn't think he was anything special, but Metsudo's words made him re-evaluate the match. He then noticed a few details.
"...I see. Is that it? Heh. There is indeed something... 'wrong'."
...
SWISH—BANG!
After barely dodging a kick, Komada's (and Ryu's) heavy punch struck again, slamming into Shiraki Kei's raised forearms and knocking him back against the wooden fence.
This wasn't an official match; there was no "out of bounds" rule. Jumping out of the ring wouldn't help.
Shiraki Kei's arms rested on the planks, barely holding him up. His forearms throbbed with a pain so bad he could barely make a fist. The constant dodging had left him with almost no stamina.
But he still couldn't grasp what Ryu was trying to show him—that "deep-seated error" that held the key to this fight.
"...Face death to find life."
A low voice spoke at his side.
He glanced over and saw the white-haired man. Arisa, Kure Fusu, and the others were standing beside him.
He didn't have time to wonder who the man was. Shiraki Kei instinctively asked, "Are... are you giving me advice? On technique?"
"No. I'm a complete amateur when it comes to fighting."
Akagi Shigeru took a drag from his cigarette, his voice deep and slow. "I'm just saying, in terms of spirit, you're already dead. You have no strong desire to win. You only wish to 'avoid'."
"—A gambler who keeps losing eventually falls into that same way of thinking."
"You're just trying to 'dodge'."
Akagi's eyes bored into Shiraki Kei's. He gently flicked the ash from his cigarette.
"At the end of the day, 'winning after successfully dodging'—I don't think that method can ever beat 'winning directly'."