Ryota Kitazawa frowned slightly, barely glancing at Moriba. He stepped back, raised two fingers—and then, with precision, pressed his middle finger just three inches below Moriba's kneecap.
Moriba's eyes widened as if electrified. A sharp, searing pain raced up his leg.
"Aargh!"
He collapsed instantly, rolling on the ground in agony. The crowd froze.
One strike—Moriba was out cold.
Kitazawa Ryota hit like a freight train.
Not just once, but twice—Yamanoki and now Moriba—knocked out with a single move.
Every bodyguard hesitated, exchanging panicked looks. No one dared approach him anymore.
Even Asuka and Rei, standing behind him, watched in awe. Especially Asuka, whose face shifted from pale to ash-gray—she realized: Kitazawa's power far exceeded hers. She had no chance against him.
With a cold expression, Kitazawa stepped forward—and the bodyguards retreated, pale as ghosts. They had underestimated him: he moved like a razor's edge—lethal and unforgiving.
In the nearby limo, Narumi Hattori ground his teeth.
"These useless maggots couldn't take down a student—they dared call themselves elite?"
"That's it, we pull out?" his butler whispered softly.
"Leave." Hattori nodded.
"I won't forget this whore's cost."
He'd summon his father's top bodyguards and return later to crush Kitazawa.
His mind quick to plot revenge.
But as the driver started the engine, Kitazawa suddenly appeared in front of the limo.
"What the hell—" Hattori's face turned ashen.
Through the windows, the bodyguards groaned in pain, one by one unconscious. And Kitazawa? He stood calm and still before the car.
Hattori barked, "Kitazawa Ryota! Move, or I won't be responsible for what happens!"
Kitazawa didn't budge. Silent and cold, he stared at him.
"Dammit—hit him! Run him over!"
Hattori slammed the accelerator. The limousine shot forward like a missile.
"Watch out!"
Everyone gasped—this could be fatal! Even Asuka screamed, "Ryota, this is crazy!"
But what happened next left them stunned.
Kitazawa threw a punch. A massive crack thundered through the night. The limo's front crumpled, vaulted into the air, flipped, and landed hard on its roof.
"Ahhh—help!"
Hattori's panicked voice echoed from inside. The impact flipped the car—it was terrifying.
"Master…"
Several bodyguards rushed over, their faces drained with fear. If Hattori were harmed, they'd all face serious punishment.
Yet Hattori was shouting, injured but alive—a collective wave of relief washed over them.
Still, fear lingered.
Kitazawa approached the crumpled car, cool and composed, watching Hattori struggle inside.
"Ryota—if anything happens to Narumi, my father won't spare you!"
They yelled warnings—but Kitazawa didn't respond.
He reached in, hauled Hattori out, and with one smooth twist, delivered a powerful slap to his face.
Smack!
Hattori staggered, stunned. The bodyguards gaped in disbelief—this was sacrilege.
He was their champion, the Diet Chairman's son—and now insulted, publicly.
He screamed, "How dare you—?!" but Kitazawa's expression didn't shift.
Another slap—
Smack!
Hattori blinked, furious, face turning red with rage.
Kitazawa raised his hand again, unwavering—smack!
Again—
Smack!
Kitazawa slapped him relentlessly. One slap after another, until Hattori's face grew swollen and shut. He looked like a crazed animal—a dog.
It finally hit Hattori: no threats, no stature, no excuse mattered. Ryota Kitazawa was deaf to aristocratic power—and merciless.
He had been humiliated by a hero, treated like a worthless mutt—like a dog.