The wasteland never stayed quiet for long. Not even an hour after the earlier fight, silhouettes appeared on the horizon, walking casually through the dust as if death itself bored them. Mohawks. Their clothes were patched with scrap metal and bone, and crude skull symbols were painted across their chests. I didn't need to ask who they served. This was Jagi's territory, and these were his low men, scavengers who lived off pain and fear.
They noticed the bodies first, then me. Instead of attacking immediately, they laughed. One of them kicked a corpse, checking if it was really dead. Another pointed at me with his blade and asked if I did all this alone. I told them yes, warned them that I wasn't in the mood for more fighting. My voice was steady, but my legs felt heavy. They didn't care. To them, strength was just something to test.
I showed them enough to make them hesitate. I dodged the first swings, countered a charge, and slammed one of them into the dirt. Their laughter faded, replaced by surprise. But hesitation didn't last long. More of them appeared, crawling out from behind wrecked vehicles and broken concrete. Five became ten. I could read their movements, copy their attacks, but my body was slowing down with every breath.
The first chain caught my arm. A kick crashed into my ribs before I could react. Someone struck the back of my head and stars exploded in my vision. I tried to move, tried to adapt, but exhaustion crushed me. They piled on, beating me just enough to break my resistance without killing me. Their disappointment was obvious. They wanted a fight, not a capture.
They dragged me across the desert as the sun dipped lower, mocking me the whole way. I heard them arguing about whether to sell me, kill me, or feed me to their dogs. In the distance, a structure rose from the wasteland, a fortress made of scrap metal, bones, and sharpened spikes. Screams echoed from inside, carried by the wind. My stomach tightened. This wasn't just a base. It was a slaughterhouse.
Inside, chaos ruled. Men fought each other for amusement. Prisoners were beaten for laughs. At the center stood a massive figure wearing a grotesque helmet shaped like a demon's face. The air around him felt heavy. This was one of Jagi's top men, someone who had survived long enough to become a monster himself. The thugs threw me at his feet and bragged about my strength, exaggerating and lying in equal measure.
The lieutenant studied me in silence. His gaze wasn't loud or violent, but it felt sharper than any blade. I laughed through the blood in my mouth and said I could kill better than most of his men if given the chance. A few thugs protested, offended by the claim, but the lieutenant raised his hand and silenced them.
He tossed a knife at my feet and pointed to a prisoner chained nearby. The order was simple. Kill, or die. I understood immediately. This world didn't care about reasons or excuses. I picked up the knife, stepped forward, and ended it in one clean motion. Fast. Efficient. No wasted movement. The screams stopped, and the room fell silent.
The lieutenant watched closely, not impressed by the death itself, but by how it happened. He asked who taught me to fight. I told him no one. That I learned by watching. That answer made him smile. He ordered my chains removed, and for the first time since waking up in this body, I could breathe properly.
He told me I'd work for them now. That if I survived long enough, I might even meet the boss. Jagi. The mad brother of Kenshiro, the man who wore Hokuto Shinken like a stolen mask. I lowered my head and accepted, hiding the fire burning behind my eyes.
As they led me deeper into the fortress, I smiled to myself. Joining them wasn't surrender. It was infiltration. From here, I could observe, copy, and grow stronger. This wasteland ran on fists and fear, and I planned to master both. Kenshiro might be the destined savior of this world, but when the time came, I wanted to stand in front of him as an equal, not a corpse.