Chapter 198: Just Passing Through
"Gah—hk!"
Doyle choked on the blood pooling in his throat, falling into a violent coughing
fit. A throbbing, acid-like pain surged straight into his brain. He tried to
manually reset his shattered nose as he retreated, maintaining a cautious guard.
It took several seconds for his pupils to finally stop vibrating.
"Hah... hah... hah..."
The agonizing pain radiating from his nasal cavity made Doyle break into a cold
sweat. He looked up at Gaolang, only to see the man already reset back into his
Hitman Style boxing stance. Doyle managed a strained, bloody smirk.
"Hmph..."
Doyle slid forward slowly. The moment he entered Gaolang's striking range, his
right pinky twitched, triggering a mechanical release inside his arm. A blade
snapped out from his right elbow.
Zip!
He held the elbow blade in front of his face, intending to let Gaolang's
legendary jab impale itself on the steel. But to Doyle's shock, the moment he
raised his guard, the man before him vanished.
"...Eh?"
Doyle looked down. Gaolang had dropped into a deep crouch. His right straight
whistled through the air, slamming directly into Doyle's solar plexus.
"GUUGH!"
Doyle felt a metallic sweetness surge into his throat. His body doubled over as
he was launched backward, tumbling across the pavement in a mess of blood and
bile.
Gaolang's expression didn't flicker. He maintained his "dead-fish eyes,"
standing back up into his high-speed stance. He kept his gaze locked on Doyle,
refusing to rush in blindly.
A short distance away, Rob Robinson stood paralyzed by the sight.
Being hit flush in the gut by a heavyweight like Gaolang... Robinson couldn't
even begin to imagine the agony. And even after delivering what should have been
a fight-ending blow, Gaolang hadn't relaxed his guard for a single second.
This was a level of combat Robinson had never seen. He had met Gaolang at a
martial arts exchange in Thailand where they were both guest speakers. During
the demonstrations, he had seen Gaolang fire off thirteen Flash Jabs in a single
breath—but that was with 10-ounce gloves on.
The Gaolang standing here now, fighting with bare knuckles, was visibly faster.
This is the real God of War. He's strong enough to be a disaster...
Wait, Gaolang and Ren know each other? Is Ren actually one of "those" people who
live in this world of life-and-death struggle?
"Aargh!"
Doyle knelt on the ground, clutching his stomach and vomiting violently. Tears
of sheer physiological agony leaked from his eyes.
"How was that?" Gaolang's voice was low and heavy as he looked down at the
convict. "That was the fist of an 'Athlete.' No matter how many times you stand
up, no matter how long it takes—for every time you rise, I will knock you down
again."
"Hah... hah..."
Doyle's face was contorted in pain. He panted heavily, looking as though he had
absolutely no strength left to fight back.
But the next second—
Zip!
Gaolang suddenly lunged forward. He dropped low and unleashed a horizontal hook
that slammed into Doyle's jaw, spinning the convict a full 540 degrees before he
hit the dirt.
"...?"
Robinson was confused. Why did Gaolang follow up? Doyle hadn't even stood up
yet.
But then he noticed: a blade had extended from the back of Doyle's heel. The
convict had been preparing a "rolling heel-kick" counter from the ground, only
to be read by Gaolang's predatory instincts. Such a relentless pace of combat
was something that simply didn't exist in a regulated ring.
"Ungh—!"
Doyle gasped, feeling as though his jawbone had cracked.
Just as Robinson suspected, Doyle had intended to flip and kick while
simultaneously readying the blade in his elbow for a rising slash. But he hadn't
expected Gaolang to forgo the standard downward hammer-fist and instead use a
low-profile hook to strike him from a lateral angle.
Can a boxer even swing from that position?
Amidst the shock, Doyle realized one thing: the boxer standing before him was a
man who specialized in handling ambushes.
It was the truth. As the Royal Guard for Rama XIII, Gaolang didn't just fight
for honor in a ring; he was a master of his primary duty: protection.
Mercenaries, assassins, thugs, international terrorists—no matter who the
attacker was, Gaolang crushed them without hesitation.
His understanding of the "Life and Death" domain was far deeper than any
ordinary professional athlete!
To Gaolang, the red-haired youth before him, covered in hidden blades, was
nothing but a common criminal.
"It seems you still have a few secret toys," Gaolang said, looming over the
fallen Doyle. "So, I'm going to beat you until you are no longer a threat."
Whoosh!
Gaolang swung again, the angle of his strike subtle and lethal. The grounded
Doyle couldn't counter; he could only curl into a ball, taking the heavy blow to
his back.
"Ah..."
Doyle panted, but his hand made a strange, seemingly random motion. He slowly
raised his right hand toward Gaolang, fingers spread naturally.
The next second—
Click!
Doyle's ring finger suddenly depressed, a metallic mechanical snap echoing in
the air. In an instant, Doyle's right arm locked straight and rigid, snapping
toward Gaolang's jaw with a speed that left a trail of wind in its wake.
Zip!
But when the strike should have landed, the sensation was wrong. He had missed!
"—!!"
Doyle's eyes widened. Gaolang had twisted his neck at the exact millisecond
required to shed the momentum, leaving nothing but a faint scratch on his chin.
It was a boxing defense, but refined to a terrifying degree.
What Doyle couldn't understand was how any martial artist could have predicted a
"punch" would come from that bizarre, idle hand position.
"You underestimate the Martial Way," Gaolang said, his hand snaking out to seize
Doyle's wrist. He arched an eyebrow. "I recently met a friend who used a Kenpo
technique called the 'No-Inch Punch' to win a boxing match. Ever since then,
I've kept that range of attack in my mind and considered how to counter it."
"You clearly haven't mastered the art of point-blank power generation. You
likely have a high-tension spring embedded in your forearm to create
instantaneous torque, yes? How boring."
Gaolang finished speaking and unleashed a vertical Liver Blow, slamming his fist
into Doyle's abdomen.
THUD!
Doyle coughed up a spray of blood. Gaolang immediately stepped back, creating a
safe distance and waiting for Doyle to "rise" or attempt another counter.
He's too strong!
Ren, Robinson, and even Doyle himself shared that exact thought. Doyle, however,
was a trickster by nature. He still had secret weapons left, but he needed the
perfect timing. He had to wait for Gaolang to launch his next offensive to
ensure his trap hit.
Come on! Do it!!
Doyle gritted his teeth against the pain, preparing to launch his final gambit
at the crucial moment.
But right then, a new variable entered the park.
Crash!
A massive giant of a man suddenly leaped over the thicket and landed steadily on
the park's running track. He had some blood on his face, looking as though he
had just escaped from a messy situation elsewhere.
"...Eh?"
The giant looked up, spotting the group—and specifically the blood-spattered
Doyle on the ground. He blinked in surprise.
He was well over two meters tall and weighed at least 150kg. He wore gym pants
and a grey hoodie. On his head sat a street-style beanie, and he sported long
white hair and a matching beard. Despite being in his late sixties or seventies,
his musculature was incredibly defined.
It was another death row convict—Dorian!
Based on his expression, Dorian clearly hadn't expected to run into Doyle this
evening, let alone stumble into a fight in progress.
"Good evening, gentlemen..." Dorian paused, then gave a playful tilt of his
head. "Please, carry on. I am merely a passerby, just passing through."
He immediately turned away, casually tucking his hands into his pockets and
humming a strange little tune, appearing as though he were simply going to take
the side path and leave.
The very next second—
Whoosh!
Ren Shiroki, who had been hiding his presence in the shadows, lunged forward the
moment Dorian was within range. He threw a punch straight at the old man's face.
Dorian gasped, frantically raising his left hand to block, but Ren's fist drove
right through his guard, smashing Dorian's own palm into his face.
[STRIKE AT THE APEX]—
BOOM!!
Dorian's eyelids fluttered as his massive frame was launched backward, crashing
into a nearby lamppost.
CLANG!
The metal pole buckled and groaned under the impact. Dorian shuddered, blood
spraying uncontrollably from his nose and mouth.
"Aha! I knew it!"
Ren looked at Dorian's hand. Sure enough, in the giant's right hand was a
grenade. The safety pin had already been removed, but the lever hadn't been
released yet. Dorian had intended to toss it as he "passed through."
"But it doesn't matter..."
Ren's tone shifted. He lunged forward again with a technical Drive Rush and
suddenly snapped his right leg skyward.
[JAMIE'S TEN-SEI-KYAKU]!
Clack!
The grenade in Dorian's hand was kicked high into the air and away from the
group. Dorian groaned in pain, his face swollen and his mind reeling. He
couldn't even begin to process the speed.
Ren twisted his waist and drove his left elbow downward with bone-crushing force
into Dorian's stomach.
[SAGAT'S TIGER OVERHEAD ELBOW]!
THUD!
The impact made Dorian retch. He staggered back several steps, clutching his gut
and dry-heaving. Through his daze, he caught Ren's voice.
"Even if I was wrong... even if you really were just leaving... it wouldn't have
mattered."
"Because I just really felt like hitting you."
(End of Chapter)
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