Chapter 415: The Hidden Terror
After the match.
The spectators, having feasted their eyes on a bloody death-struggle, funneled
through the dozen elevators of B6, ascending toward the surface. They emerged
from various exits, dissolving into the scattered crowds of the Tokyo night.
Some walked in small groups, whispering about the technical exchange. Most,
however, kept the experience locked deep in their hearts—a silent, burning
anticipation, hoping for the day another invitation would arrive.
Everything returned to the rhythm of daily life.
[The Corridor]
Metsudo Katahara walked alongside his Fang.
The old man wore a serene, satisfied smile. "Agito, how did you find tonight's
entertainment?"
Kanoh Agito's expression was dead serious. "Mohammad Alai Jr. possesses a
fundamental flaw as a warrior, but the Alai Style he wields is a masterpiece. It
is worthy of study."
"As for the match between Ren Shiroki and Kosho Shinogi..." Agito's voice
dropped an octave. "It made me realize that my own evolution still has voids to
fill. I require further refinement."
"This is not a judgment based on 'Stats' or 'Wins and Losses'," Agito concluded.
"It is a realization regarding the nature of the Way."
Metsudo clapped his hands, laughing heartily. "Ho ho ho! It seems your road
stretches even further than I thought! Keep climbing, Agito!"
[The Infirmary]
Ren Shiroki, his body a map of bandages and his eyes sealed behind gauze, was
helped toward the exit by Fusui Kure.
The eccentric white-haired doctor let out a long yawn, his shift finally over.
In the bay next to them, Kosho Shinogi remained on a bed, watched over by his
older brother, Kureha. No "Grim Reaper" would dare approach a patient under the
Great Physician's protection.
Kureha was on the phone with a private ambulance service to move Kosho to a
recovery wing. While they waited, the brothers shared a rare moment of quiet.
"Ren Shiroki..." Kosho muttered, staring at the ceiling. He was replaying the
final frames—Ren's unrelenting boxing barrage.
Even now, he felt as though he were a heavy bag suspended from a hook, being
pulverized by a force he couldn't counter.
Kureha looked at him, his clinical curiosity piqued. "Was he that much faster
than you?"
Kosho let out a weak, dry laugh. "No. It wasn't just speed."
"Footwork? Punching technique? Rhythm? Accuracy?"
"He had all of those. But none of them were the 'Truth' of Ren Shiroki."
Kosho took a deep, pained breath. "That guy is... different. There is something
hidden in his fists. Something far more terrifying than a 'Move'."
Kureha smiled thinly. "And yet, you told him you'd be right on his heels next
time. You told him to watch his back."
Kosho's eyes narrowed behind his bruises. "Of course. It sounds cooler that
way."
"Heh. Shiroki is the same," Kureha mused. "You both look quite 'Vibrant' in
defeat."
Late night.
Ren and Fusui returned to the Soul Combat Hub on her heavy bike.
With the Koyo Girls' Academy festival prep in full swing, Arisa and Marco were
staying overnight at a classmate's house. For the first time in a long while, it
was just the two of them.
Whether it was the high-speed riding or the high-torque combat, both were
physically drained. They didn't say much. Fusui guided the bandaged Ren to the
bathroom. They worked together to brush his teeth and wash the dried blood from
his face before heading to bed.
Currently, with his eyes wrapped in thick gauze, Ren was functionally helpless.
Aside from navigating his own dojo by memory, he was reliant on Fusui. He had
expected her to use the opportunity for some Kure-style mischief, but the girl
was just as exhausted as he was. She was half-asleep before her head hit the
pillow.
They settled into the futons. The late autumn night was chilly, but the Hub was
well-insulated, and with the two of them huddled together, the room felt warm
and secure.
"Ren-chin..."
Fusui's breathing gradually steadied as she drifted off. Ren, staring into his
internal darkness, felt the heavy pull of sleep.
"Nice. That's perfect..."
Ren whispered his catchphrase into the void and followed her into the
dreamscape.
The next morning.
Master Zangief had always emphasized the importance of muscle recovery.
Over-training was a sin that led to diminishing returns. Ren, covered in
stitches and healing nerves, knew better than to push his luck.
Today was a rare, total rest day.
Sunlight flooded the bedroom. Ren and Fusui finally woke, having slept the sleep
of the dead. After checking his bandages and ensuring his wounds were healing
cleanly, Ren performed a simple morning routine.
He spent the late morning on the porch, enjoying the quiet. He sat cross-legged
on the wooden floor, leaning back against a pillar. He wore loose trousers, a
haori jacket over his bandaged torso, and the gauzed blindfold over his eyes.
He soaked in the autumn sun, the cool breeze grazing his skin, the scent of
fallen leaves filling his nose.
Without realizing it—or perhaps just out of a technical whim—Ren began to mimic
the seated meditation of Ryu. He sat in silence, contemplating.
What was he thinking about? Anything and everything.
He replayed the dreams of the previous night. He anticipated lunch. He wondered
about Raian Kure's ETA in Tokyo.
And of course, he returned to the question: What is Strength?
The total darkness of his blindfold provided a rare sense of tranquility. It
allowed him to visualize the mechanics of his recent battles with unparalleled
clarity.
Yanagi's defeat. Retsu's systematic dismantling of the other Kaiohs. Kaku Kaioh
vs. Yujiro Hanma.
These wars had allowed him to grasp the "Internal Secret" of the move: The
[FRAME].
The fundamental foundation that linked every style together. The "Minimum Unit"
of time. It wasn't a finishing move; it was a laws-of-physics realization. Just
as a Nobel laureate takes common sense and refines it into a "Way," Ren was
currently distilling the "Universal Constant" of combat.
As for how to apply it? He was still calculating.
Time drifted by.
Eventually, the sound of footsteps reached the Hub's gate. One pair was light
and bouncy; the other was heavy and rhythmic. Familiar sounds.
Arisa and Marco were home.
Having spent the night at a classmate's and enjoyed a massive breakfast, they
were in high spirits.
Ren remained silent, not needing to ask Arisa how her night was. His sister was
the type of person who could fall asleep on a pile of bricks as long as she had
a pillow.
The two entered the courtyard and spotted Ren sitting on the porch like a blind
monk.
"Aniki! Morning!"
"Mm." Ren nodded.
"Don't worry about my eyes," Ren added before she could ask. "I got into a
scrap. I'll be back to normal in about a week."
"Got it!" Arisa scratched her head, looking surprisingly unbothered. "I'm not
really worried about you, Aniki. My luck is legendary, so there's no way my big
brother would actually go blind for real."
Ren tilted his head. He knew his sister possessed a terrifyingly strong spirit,
but her internal logic was a mystery to him.
Seeing his confusion, Arisa offered a wide, toothy grin. "No matter how hard
things get, I just look at them and decide: 'This is clearly for my benefit!' As
long as I think that, I can't stay down!"
Ren, with nothing but time to think, contemplated her words. A moment of
technical epiphany hit him. Using adversity as fuel? That's an incredible mental
frame...
"That's my girl!" Arisa chirped, adjusting her backpack. "I got plenty of sleep,
so I'm going to tackle my homework! I've still got a mountain of it left. Better
get to work—"
Arisa started to scurry past Ren toward the door.
Zip!
Ren's massive hand shot out. Using the height difference between the porch and
the yard, he reached down and accurately snared Arisa by the top of her head.
[SATSUI CHOICE—PRE-READ]!
Even though his eyes were bandaged, Ren's "Atmosphere" sharpened. A faint,
predatory light seemed to leak from the gauze.
He whispered a warning: "Don't think that because I'm temporarily blind you can
hide in your room and copy your classmates' assignments with impunity, little
girl..."
Arisa: "..."
Arisa: (Un-woo-hoo.)
☆☆☆
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