Chapter 210: Aesthetics
"...La vie~~~"
"In the mornings drowned by rain, through the nights where storms rage, I will
give my all..."
"If pain invades the soul, think of the deep blue sky and endure your path
forward...!"
"For that is life~~~"
Dorian sat alone on the dark asphalt of the street, humming a minor melody that
echoed through the shadows.
Inside the courtyard, the expressions of those listening to the tune varied.
"..."
The veins around Fusui Kure's eyes throbbed as she activated her [Release]
state, staring through the gloom at the old man outside.
"He's strong."
The young Kure assassin sat cross-legged, leaning against her backpack—which
contained several high-caliber firearms—yet even with her arsenal, she couldn't
fully shake the crushing pressure radiating from the man in the street.
"Even without his tricks, that convict Dorian is a 'Monster' class threat. I...
I can't kill him with conventional means."
Hearing her evaluation, Katsumi Orochi couldn't help but speak up. "Fusui-san,
you're actually incredible."
Ren Shiroki smirked. "That goes without saying."
"No, I don't just mean her combat skill," Katsumi shook his head, looking down
at the small remote in his hand. It was the simple, one-time trigger Fusui had
used to detonate the entrance. "I mean this."
"This thing is terrifying. A single, light press of a button, and you get a
massive explosion. Being able to use this without a second thought... that takes
a specific kind of strength."
Katsumi looked toward the dying embers of the fire line at the gate.
"Then there's Dorian's high-tensile wire. The hidden weapons Yanagi Ryuko used
against Ren-san. The blades and explosives Doyle had buried in his own flesh. Is
using those things the real difference between a 'Match' and a 'Real Battle'?"
Katsumi couldn't hide the turmoil in his heart. "I can't help but feel that if I
use tools like that, I stop being a Karateka."
"But... does being a Karateka even matter anymore?"
Katsumi touched his shoulder, where Dorian had wounded him previously. The
physical injury had healed, but seeing the old man again made the phantom pain
flare up.
"Before this Street Brawl started, I tasted defeat twice in a row. Once against
Retsu-san, and once against Ren-san. I'm racing against the clock to complete my
vision of Karate, but..."
Katsumi looked up at Ren and his father, Doppo Orochi, holding up the grenade
remote.
"Pops. Ren-san. If I were to integrate weapons like this into my Karate for a
real fight... would that be wrong? After all, they are effective."
The question caused Metsudo Katahara and Rama XIII to arch their eyebrows in
interest. The purpose of this Kengan Annihilation Street Brawl was to discover
the true meaning of "Strength" through combat. Does the pursuit of absolute
strength require the use of every dirty trick and tool available?
Ren Shiroki remained silent, lost in thought. It was Doppo Orochi who spoke
first.
"You aren't 'wrong,' kid."
Doppo looked at his son, then at the gathered masters. "The original intent of
martial arts isn't to knock someone down beautifully. It's to win by any means
necessary, even if those means are low-class or unrefined."
"If you don't win, nothing else matters."
Everyone could tell Doppo wasn't finished. Rama XIII smiled. "As expected of the
'Bushin.' But it sounds like you have a 'but' coming."
"I do." Doppo nodded, his lone eye glinting. "It's a matter of 'Aesthetics.'"
Seeing the confused looks, Doppo tilted his head. "To put it simply: you don't
prepare weapons."
"A Karateka spends every waking hour of their life training for a fight. We
dedicate years to the study of how to dismantle an opponent."
Doppo pointed at the remote in Katsumi's hand. "If you go out of your way to
carry something like that, it's cheating."
"Fists, feet, palms, elbows, knees, head... we already carry an entire armory on
our persons. We don't need to 'prepare' anything else. Now, if you happen to be
carrying a 'bag' or a 'fan'... or you're wearing a 'belt' or 'shoes'..."
"Or even the 'concealed weapon' your opponent brings to the fight!"
"If we have to draw a line for a martial artist, those are the only 'weapons' we
should use. Anything you have on you naturally or take from the enemy is fair
game. But if you hold a rock or a pencil in your hand before the fight starts
just because you're afraid your Karate isn't enough... then your pride as a
warrior is dead."
Doppo slapped his thighs and stood up.
"Fusui-chan is an assassin. She was just giving a 'warm welcome' on her own home
turf, so she gets a pass. But for us? We have to be better."
"Do you understand now, Katsumi?"
"..."
Katsumi remained silent, the gears in his head still turning. Metsudo laughed
and clapped his hands. "Ho-ho! Tonight is turning out to be just as entertaining
as I hoped!"
"Indeed," Rama added, glancing at Gaolang. "I, too, am looking forward to the
'rematch'."
The gasoline at the gate had finally burned out, the flames flickering into
nothingness. The group inside continued their talk, appearing almost as if they
had forgotten Dorian existed.
Suddenly—
SLAP!
Ren Shiroki slapped his own thigh and prepared to stand up, but he was held back
by Katsumi's hand on his shoulder.
"Ren-san. Give me this one. I have a score to settle with him."
"..."
Ren paused, then reluctantly sat back down.
But just as Katsumi was about to step forward, Lihito, who had been silent the
entire time, suddenly stood up and brushed off his pants. He grinned at the
group.
"Actually... let me use the bathroom first. Be right back."
The statement caught everyone off guard. Even Ren and Katsumi blinked in
confusion. As Lihito walked toward the gate, Katsumi called out, "Hey, pal! Give
it up. You're still—"
He was stopped by Doppo's hand.
"Just watch, Katsumi." Doppo's lone eye was fixed on Lihito's back. He gave a
low, knowing chuckle. "That boy's philosophy is much simpler than yours."
Ren reached out as Lihito passed, and the two traded a high-five.
Ren smiled. "Don't slip on the way back from the 'bathroom'."
Lihito's fingers flexed, veins bulging on the back of his hand. "Got it!"
Out on the dark street, Dorian finally saw his first challenger emerge from the
light.
"Not you," Dorian sighed, his disappointment palpable as he looked Lihito up and
down. "You're far from qualified to give me the gift of defeat..."
Lihito stripped off his shirt, dropping into his brawling stance. "Why don't you
find out for yourself?"
Dorian arched an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
Zip!
Lihito didn't wait. He lunged first, launching a low-level scan-kick.
Dorian dodged with an airy, effortless hop. The moment his feet touched the
ground, he dropped his weight and drove his palm forward in a classic
horse-stance strike.
POW!
The palm-root slammed into Lihito's solar plexus, launching the heavy fighter
backward. Lihito coughed up a spray of blood.
"..."
But as Dorian retracted his arm, he noticed two thin "scratches" on his forearm.
Lihito's fingers had grazed him, drawing beads of blood from the dermal layer.
"Oh? Finger strength? Not a bad gift."
Dorian licked the blood from his arm and looked at Lihito. "To blindly challenge
a superior foe just to chase the title of 'Strongest'... such a foolish
endeavor. But I suppose that's what you all want, isn't it?"
Dorian's eyes shifted back to the masters sitting in the courtyard.
"It's undeniable. You're the ones who proposed this 'Duel.' So no matter how
many of you are gathered here, you're bound by your own rules to fight me
one-on-one. And because of that... you can never defeat me!"
Dorian walked over to his discarded, scorched hoodie, looking down at the
injured Lihito.
"The weather is nice tonight. If you all attacked me at once, even I might find
it hard to escape unscathed. I would have run without a second thought."
"Hiding my true power, feigning weakness, evading certain death, creating
openings... all of these are the essential steps required to taste the sweet
flavor of defeat."
Rustle!
Dorian reached into the inner pocket of his shredded hoodie and pulled out a
metal tin. He flicked the lid open, revealing a thick, amber-colored grease.
"This is industrial lubricant..."
He then pulled two empty beer bottles from his trouser pockets and smashed them
against the pavement. He dipped his hands into the grease, coating his knuckles.
"Your finger strength is impressive. You can slice through flesh with ease. But
to me... you're pathetic. You overestimate your lethality, and your execution is
far too green."
Dorian tightened his fists. The shards of broken glass adhered to the thick
grease, turning his knuckles into jagged, transparent clubs.
"This is a technique born before Prohibition—from the era when Al Capone was
still a low-level thug. The brawlers of the underworld created it."
Dorian looked at Lihito, his eyes cold and predatory.
"Now my fists can slice just as well as your fingers. Let me show you... how a
real weapon is used."
(End of Chapter)
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