A series of utterly absurd questions, like heavy hammers, struck Hashimoto Yoma's already overburdened nerves. Vaguely, he seemed to feel something, as if something had attached itself to him.
This black humor, this pervasive despair, almost made him laugh. His mouth twitched.
"I'm just… running, with my own legs, my own way. I'm exercising. It makes me happy, not reading manga."
He tried his best to control his tone, but an uncontrollable defiance still leaked out. The long-standing loss and anger were almost unbearable for him.
A figure began to shimmer faintly around him, but the police officer couldn't see it. He was merely enraged by Yoma's words.
"Your own way?"
The police officer looked as if he had caught him red-handed, his face contorted into an expression mixed with excitement and cruelty, but mostly anger.
"'Self'? You dare to mention 'self'? What do you mean by this? Are you defying the supremely great Prime Minister Kishibe Rohan? Since you dare not read manga, you are breaking the rules of the New Century Model Zone!
In the great New Order Model Zone, the only 'self' is what Prime Minister Kishibe bestows upon us! Any behavior that flaunts individuality is a disruption of order!"
The police baton suddenly pointed at Hashimoto Yoma's sweat-soaked chest. The whistling sound of the baton cutting through the air rang in Hashimoto Yoma's ears, but instead of fear, he lifted his head and glared at the police officer.
His teeth were clenched, making a grinding sound, and the muscles on his body were tensed to the extreme. A terrifying surge of power was building up. 'I've had enough, I can't take it anymore!'
"Your expression just now! I saw it! It was doubt! It was dissatisfaction! It was blasphemy against the beautiful world established by the great Prime Minister Kishibe Rohan!"
The police officer's voice grew increasingly high-pitched, a unnatural flush of excitement appearing on his face. "That's right, Lord Kishibe! I'm about to eliminate another rebel for you! Hahaha… Hehehe…"
This eerie laughter drew glances from a few passersby in the distance, but they immediately lowered their heads like startled rabbits and quickened their pace to leave the troubled area.
Even as they ran, they didn't forget to recite the lines of the pink dark boy protagonist, proclaiming lofty dialogue in timid tones, expressing loyalty and obedience.
Looking at the police officer with the sinister smile before him, Yoma gritted his teeth, unwilling to retreat. But the police officer didn't care about his feelings.
He immediately swung his police baton hard, directly striking Hashimoto Yoma's head, opening a large gash without holding back at all.
Hashimoto Yoma felt a wave of dizziness. He gently touched his head, only to feel something wet and sticky. When he brought his hand back, it was already covered in blood.
The other party's police baton was also stained with crimson blood. It was a solid iron baton. On a normal person, one hit could knock them down, and a weaker person might even be killed.
The other party was a bit surprised that Yoma didn't pass out. "As expected of a bold rebel, damn it, I'll give you another hit!
Criminals should be prepared to be trampled like cockroaches and rats! Die! !"
But when this iron baton came down, Hashimoto Yoma felt everything slow down. This time, he saw everything clearly.
He looked at the police officer's face, twisted by ideology, at the uniform, silent streets around him, at the deified image of the manga artist on the screens.
And at the blood-stained baton slowly approaching him. No, that wasn't right, the baton wasn't slowing down, he was speeding up.
He looked at the almost motionless fallen leaves by the roadside, the police officer's gradually changing bloodthirsty smile, and his eyes full of desire for reward, that greasy face and the attire of a manga character.
He felt increasingly nauseated, almost to the point of vomiting.
He remembered his girlfriend's empty eyes when she left, the harsh sound of metal clashing when the gym was emptied, and the pure pride he once felt when he displayed his muscles in the sunlight.
Everything was ruined.
Ruined by this terrifying prison built from manga.
A surge of hot blood rushed to his head.
"Blasphemy?" Hashimoto Yoma suddenly laughed, his laughter dry and desperate. And on his body, muscles gradually curled, forming the rudimentary shapes of wings, but these wings were small and not yet unfurled.
"You're right… I am indeed blaspheming. I blaspheme this damned, disgusting 'manga order'! I blaspheme that madman who turned the town into a prison!"
He suddenly stepped forward, almost face to face with the police officer, sweat mixed with angry breath spraying onto the other's face, while the other remained in slow motion, as if feeling nothing.
"The people you hung up, they didn't commit suicide at all! You killed them! All of them were killed by you!
And now I'm going to kill all of you and hang you up, to avenge my hobby! You bastards!"
He suddenly turned sideways, his right hand shooting out like lightning, not to block, but to precisely grab the police officer's baton-wielding wrist!
At the same time, his left leg swept out like a whip, kicking hard at the police officer's knee joint!
This was a clean, swift self-defense move, born from his years of training and athletic experience, completely devoid of any flashy, dramatic fighting techniques from "pink dark boy."
A slight pull with his hand, and the heavy kick from his right leg directly broke the other party's leg bone. The stretch of his arm directly dislocated the other party's entire arm.
Then, with two gentle twists, gripping the other party's arm, he twisted and pressed, and with a push, the other party flew out.
"Ugh!"
The police officer was caught off guard, his wrist almost crushed, and a sharp pain shot through his knee, likely broken.
He screamed, losing his balance. His manga-style hat flew off to who knows where, and he tumbled back three or four meters, landing heavily on the ground, his police baton flying from his grasp.
Hashimoto Yoma panted, standing still, looking at the police officer writhing in pain on the ground.
He hadn't expected himself to actually strike back. A cold chill and fear instantly swept over him.
But it was only for a moment. After that came the euphoria of completely letting go and an even stronger obsession with his muscles.
"That's right, exactly. Look at this foolish guy, I can easily crush him with just my muscles… Yes, my training is correct, this is the most enjoyable thing! This is power.
However, this guy… anyone who hinders my training must die."
In the distance, a whistle seemed to sound, and more footsteps were converging towards them.
He had caused big trouble. In Kishibe Rohan's Morioh, attacking a police officer was a heinous capital crime.
But he no longer cared. He had completely let go, and behind him, a golden figure had already taken shape, holding a scepter, seemingly with a smile.
Hashimoto Yoma glanced at the police baton on the ground, then at the police officer struggling to get up, and then towards the end of the street, which led out of town.
Run!
This thought shot through his body like an electric current.
He was not yet a match for armed police officers. He still needed time, but he had to deal with this bastard who was hindering his exercise first.
Without the slightest hesitation, he turned, using the little strength he had just recovered, and kicked the police officer's head, then picked up the police baton.
Towards the opposite direction from where the footsteps came, like a flesh-colored lightning bolt, he plunged into the labyrinthine depths of Morioh's alleys, covered in manga posters and uniform colors.
His running speed was unimaginable, surpassing his fastest speed ever, instantly reaching 25 kilometers per hour, and this was just the beginning.
Endless pleasure gradually rose in his heart.
Behind him were the increasingly close whistles, shouts, and the police officer's desperate roar.
"Catch him! That murderer! That enemy of order!"
Morioh, the huge and silent open-air prison, for the first time, tore open a tiny, dangerous, bloody wound because of a young man's defiance.
But under such high pressure, a small wound was enough to press into a huge, fatal gash.
Hashimoto Yoma didn't know what awaited him, but he knew that stopping meant the end.
And moving forward meant success.