Chapter 310: The Wrestler from the Netherworld!
The roar of the dust explosion was immense, shattering the windows of nearby
buildings and sending a shockwave through the quiet streets. Billowing black
smoke poured from the gymnasium. While most of the flames were suppressed by the
automated systems, a few stray embers ignited the dry summer lawn outside.
"What happened?!" "That blast was huge!" "It came from the gym! Hey, move it, go
check it out!" "Gas leak? I hope no one was inside..."
The Kure patrol units hurried past the residential blocks, armed with
extinguishers and tactical gear, simultaneously maintaining order to prevent a
civilian stampede.
Two blocks away, in a narrow alley.
Jun Sekibayashi—now transformed—stood blocking Doyle's path.
Doyle blinked, studying the hulking man before him. He was bewildered. Only
minutes had passed since the explosion, but Sekibayashi's entire tone had
shifted. His voice was sharper, more jagged, and radiated a level of arrogance
that bordered on homicidal.
More strikingly, the giant's face was now a mask of white greasepaint. His lips
were outlined with a purple "Clown Grin," and a single red vertical stripe ran
down the bridge of his nose.
No matter how Doyle looked at it, it was an absurd caricature.
"Nonsense..." Doyle spat, his brow furrowing. "Fighting without dodging is
stupid enough. Are you really just a clown who loves a performance that much?"
Hearing the insult, the giant let out a series of high-pitched, manic cackles.
"WU-HAH—?!"
He tightened his fists, veins bulging across his arms like writhing snakes as he
loomed over Doyle.
"From the perspective of a concerned citizen, or as a guest of the Kure Clan, I
can't exactly let a dangerous convict run wild in the streets, can I?"
"But for a professional wrestler, a street brawl is a bit... distasteful. It
sets a bad example for the youth."
The giant's tone shifted into a savage snarl as he stuck out his tongue.
"However... if I'm an uninhibited Netherworld Wrestler, then I can use the logic
of the Abyss to pulverize a fire-starting bastard like you!"
Doyle stared at the apparition, rendered momentarily speechless. "...Are you a
psychopath?"
The giant looked almost hurt by the question.
"Hey, kid... don't tell me you've never heard of the [HEAVEN FROM HELL]? Do they
not have cable TV in British prisons?"
Doyle ground his teeth, the irritation in his chest turning into heat.
The man in the facepaint ignored him, beginning a self-important lecture.
"Listen well, convict-kun."
"I am MARVELOUS SEKI! I was summoned from the depths of the Netherworld by the
[HELL'S ANGEL] himself. I am the apex predator of the 'Death Match' circuit!"
"My reign was short—only a single year—but the impact I left on the world was
catastrophic. My hyper-violent matches dragged the entire industry into a pit of
terror!"
"But two years ago, I fought the [GOD OF PRO-WRESTLING] Kugo Kurachi in a
'Ten-Thousand Fluorescent Lightbulb Death Match.' I lost, and my soul was
banished back to the dark."
Marvelous Seki beckoned with a curled finger, his grin widening. "Thanks to your
little explosion, the gateway opened. I've returned to claim my encore!"
Doyle's eye twitched as he listened to the delusional rant. He let out a long,
weary sigh. "As expected of a wrestler. You're a natural-born actor. Are you
trying to distract me with this nonsense?"
"Hahaha!"
Sekibayashi—Seki—laughed boisterously. "Kid, haven't you had enough yet? This is
your final curtain call!"
Doyle tilted his head, looking confused.
Seki continued, "What I mean is... if you won't admit the match is over, I'll
have to use 'Abyssal Wrestling' to deliver the final verdict!"
Doyle was becoming truly agitated. "What the hell does that mean?"
Seki cracked his knuckles. "I just got a briefing from the Kure. You were
already beaten into a pulp by Raian the Devil and Ren Shiroki. You lost those
two 'Battles' long ago, didn't you?"
"..."
Doyle paused, his teeth grinding. "The outcome of those fights... was never
decided!"
"Is that so? Heh..."
Seki scratched his head, offering a mocking smirk. "That kind of talk is too
childish even for the brats in the Netherworld!"
Doyle's face darkened, his rage finally overriding his tactical caution. "You
dare insult me?!"
His left ring-finger twitched, and the surgical blade in his elbow snapped out,
gleaming under the flickering streetlights.
"You survived a dust explosion, fine. But at the end of the day, you're just a
clown who refuses to move. No matter how tough your skin is, it won't save you
from steel!"
To Doyle's surprise, Seki waved his hands frantically.
"Survived the explosion? No, no! Not at all!"
Seki explained with grave seriousness, "Jun Sekibayashi died in that gym. Only
his corpse remains. It was through that death that I, Marvelous Seki, was able
to cross over!"
Doyle: "..." Doyle: "...?"
The convict stood in stunned silence for several seconds, his mind cycling
through confusion, bewilderment, and finally, a surge of raw fury.
Seki stuck his tongue out again. "So, don't waste a heartbeat mourning the
Hell's Angel. Marvelous Seki is here to trade souls with you!"
SHINK!
Doyle lunged. He dropped his center of gravity and drove off the asphalt, his
right arm extended. He targeted Seki's left eye with his wrist-blade.
Zip—Splurt!
The blade whistled through the air, carving a line through the white
greasepaint. Blood sprayed instantly.
As a former operative, Doyle was a specialist in human anatomy. He knew that an
attack on the eyes was the most psychologically devastating strike a human could
endure. To have one's vision compromised by steel—no matter how tough the
fighter, the trauma should have broken them.
"Heh..."
Doyle smirked, coiling his hips to follow up with a high-roundhouse.
But suddenly, he realized his right arm wouldn't move. Sekibayashi had clamped
his massive hand around Doyle's forearm, locking him in place.
How is that possible?!
"What are you smiling at, you idiot? I've got you!"
Half of Seki's face was now a mask of crimson, the blood staining his white
greasepaint into a terrifying shade of pink. Yet his teeth were bared in a
manic, homicidal grin.
He can endure the pain of a lost eye?!
Doyle stared in horror before the technical detail finally clicked.
He hadn't hit the eye.
At the exact microsecond of impact, Seki had pulled his head back by a fraction
of an inch while shifting his face. The blade had missed the eyeball entirely,
instead carving a deep, bloody gash across his malar muscle—the "Apple" of his
cheek.
I missed? Because of the injuries?? No...
Doyle's brow furrowed. He realized Sekibayashi had manipulated the impact.
In the world of Pro-Wrestling, there are certain strikes considered
"Un-receivable"—eye gouges, groin kicks, or high-angle brain-busters. But a true
Pro-Wrestler doesn't dodge. They use "Safe Receiving."
For an attack on the eyes, there are two solutions.
1. Move the head back at the moment of impact to minimize depth. (Too risky,
rarely practiced.)
2. Misalign the opponent's target. Force them to hit a non-vital area "near"
the eye, making the strike look devastating while maintaining functionality.
Seki had used the second option. By pulling his mouth into an exaggerated grin,
he had shifted the surface of his skin, sacrificing his cheek to save his sight.
It was a high-risk technical masterpiece that only a "Master of Receiving" could
execute.
"GYA!"
Seki let out a manic laugh. He delivered a heavy Liver Blow that buried itself
in Doyle's abdomen. Doyle retched blood, his body convulsing from the trauma.
"GUUGH—!"
Doyle tried to retreat, but his right wrist was still caught in the giant's
vice-grip. He was trapped. He swung his left wrist, carving a series of jagged
trails across Seki's chest and shoulders.
Slash! Rip! SHINK!
Doyle's blades found their marks, but Seki's vitals remained untouched. He was
simply absorbing the surface lacerations as if they were minor scratches.
"Memorize this, Cyborg-kun."
Seki shook Doyle's arm violently, coiling his right fist at his hip. "In
Pro-Wrestling... as long as the ref doesn't see it, everything is legal!"
BOOM!
Another massive body blow to the liver!
"WAAAAAH!"
Doyle shrieked in agony. He was launched backward as Seki released his grip. He
hit the pavement on his knees, retching up a mixture of blood and bile.
"Cough... hack..."
The wrestler's heavy hands felt like industrial pile-drivers. Doyle felt his
internal organs vibrating. His consciousness was flickering.
"..."
At that moment, the sound of rhythmic footsteps echoed at the mouth of the
alley.
Two figures approached, chatting casually as they walked. It was Ren Shiroki and
Fusui Kure. Having finished her social calls, Fusui had found Ren during his
"stroll" and decided to join the hunt.
"Doyle-aniki... aren't you done yet?"
Ren stretched and let out a long yawn, looking quite sleepy.
"Combat is just a sequence of battles. If you don't admit defeat, we just start
another round. Maybe you'll win the next one?"
"The Bushin once told me something similar. Let me see if I can remember..."
"Match results are binary. Every single match counts."
Ren crouched beside the kneeling Doyle. He exhaled a cloud of hot steam,
offering a serene, predatory smile. "But if you tuck your tail and run halfway
through every fight... then you should stop bragging about wanting to 'Taste
Defeat'~!"
(End of Chapter)
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