On Masaki's Side...
After the stab, Masaki staggered backward, gripping his side in disbelief.
His eyes widened—not from the pain, but from how fast the attack had come. He barely even saw the movement.
"...What the hell..." he muttered under his breath, blood slipping through his fingers.
The boy in front of him didn't look like a threat. His body was small, thin, barely more than skin stretched over bone. Pale as moonlight, with messy hair and deep bags under his eyes, as if sleep hadn't visited him in years.
And yet—every time Masaki tried to land a hit, he missed.
Every. Single. Time.
The kid didn't block. He didn't counter.
He just... vanished. Slipping through strikes like wind sliding between fingers.
Masaki roared and swung again—nothing. A blur. Another stab.
"Ggh!"
His knees buckled slightly. The pain was real. The blood was real.
But his opponent?
He felt like a hallucination.
Masaki stopped.
His legs didn't collapse—he chose to sit down. Calmly. Quietly.
Fukuda, still crouched in that eerie, twitchy stance, blinked in confusion."...Huh?"
Masaki let out a long breath and stared at the blood on his hand. It was warm. Too warm.
"I'm not fighting anymore," he said flatly, his voice hoarse. "If we keep going, I'll just die."
Fukuda tilted his head like a curious bird.
Masaki wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. "I've been bleeding for a while now. I don't know how to hit you. I can't even think of a way to beat you. I'm not that smart."
He chuckled, not bitter—just tired.
"I'm older than you, right? So... be a good kid and bring me something to drink. Tea is fine."
Fukuda just stared.
Masaki leaned his head back against the wall. "I'll bandage this wound, drink something warm, and walk out of here. You can tell everyone you defeated me. It's your win."
Fukuda didn't move closer. His uneven breath fogged in the dim light.
"Old man…" he said cautiously. "What are you planning?"
Masaki opened one eye.
"I know you're not some nobody in the Arata Clan," Fukuda continued, his voice wobbling between suspicion and curiosity. "Is it really normal for someone like you to just… sit down and ask for tea?"
Masaki smirked, exhausted.
"You're worried I'll trick you?" he muttered. "Look at me—I'm half-dead. If I could still fight, I wouldn't have stopped."
Fukuda's fingers twitched near his sleeve.
"What about your men on the other floors?"
"They have their own battles to worry about," Masaki said. "I trust them to survive. Just like I trust you not to stab me again while I sip some damn tea."
He winced, holding his side.
Fukuda didn't speak.
Seconds passed.
The silence between them was filled with heavy breath, distant footsteps, and the soft creak of the building under pressure.
Masaki closed his eyes again. "Well? Are you bringing the tea or not?"
Fukuda scratched the back of his head, still on guard, still unsure.
"Haruto always told me to respect older people…" he mumbled. "But is it really okay? You're the enemy."
Masaki shifted slightly, groaning from the stab wound, and then looked up with half-lidded eyes.
"A dying enemy isn't an enemy," he said calmly. "Now quit whining and bring me tea."
Fukuda stared at him in disbelief. After a long pause, he let out a heavy sigh and muttered, "Tch… fine. I'll bring some tea. Just—wait here."
He turned and gestured. "Come. There's a room down the hall."
Masaki groaned again, stood slowly with a hand pressed to his side, and followed him, limping.
The hallway echoed faintly with their steps—two enemies walking side by side, one injured, one confused, both caught in a moment that didn't quite make sense even to themselves.
On Sakimura's side...
The battle had raged fiercely—150 clashing with 100, steel and fists echoing through the air like thunder.
And then, suddenly... silence.
At the center of it all, Sakimura lay collapsed on the ground, eyes shut tight—not unconscious from damage, but simply fast asleep. He hadn't slept in two days, too busy worrying about Eichi, watching over him, guiding the younger man through every detail. Exhaustion had finally taken its toll.
Standing over him was the frail, almost ghostly figure of Daiki Yamashiro, the so-called leader of the Unuodera squad. Skinny, hunched, face pale and hollow-eyed, Daiki looked like someone who hadn't eaten in weeks.
Yet now…
Everyone had seen it.
One punch.
That was all it took. One punch, and Sakimura—one of the Arata Clan's most respected division leaders—collapsed.
A breathless silence swept over the Unuodera men.
Then came the roar.
"DAIKIIIIIIII!!"
"ONE TOUCH DAIKI!!"
"HE DROPPED HIM WITH JUST ONE FINGER!"
In a frenzy, they hoisted Daiki up on their shoulders, shouting his name, parading him like a war hero. Their morale surged like fire through dry grass.
Daiki blinked, confused, his body wobbling like it might fold under the excitement. "…Huh?"
Still swaying on his comrades' shoulders, Daiki Yamashiro blinked as the cheers rang in his ears.
He didn't understand how it happened—or why it happened—but even he knew not to waste momentum.
Raising a shaky fist into the air, he shouted with a sudden burst of energy:
"Take down the Arata Clan men! Now's our chance! They have no leader!"
The Unuodera troops, already ignited by the myth of One Touch Daiki, exploded into motion. Their morale was sky-high. Believing they had just witnessed a martial arts master drop a legend with a single blow, they charged the remaining Arata forces with renewed fury.
Meanwhile, Sakimura snored softly beneath them, completely unaware that his nap had rewritten his battle history.