The moment those words left Dou Tang's mouth, every single bōsōzoku exploded in rage.
Engines roared to life all around him, throttles twisting violently, exhaust pipes spitting fire. The whole horde of motorcycles trembled like beasts about to break free.
Dou Tang looked around at their furious faces—and smiled, satisfied.
Clasping his hands over the motorcycle's headlight, he stood tall and commanding, like a drill instructor addressing disobedient soldiers. He inhaled deeply.
"No guts, huh? Cowards!"
His bellow ripped through the air like an explosion, drowning out the thunder of a hundred revving engines.
Teeth clenched, eyes blazing, he stared each of them down. The bloodlust burning in his gaze didn't just come from slaying spirits—
it came from something older.
From the twisted, brutal memories of his past life.
"You want a fight? A race? Then come on! Come on, you worthless trash! Let's play cat and mouse! What's wrong? Too scared?!"
That taunt lit the crowd on fire.
For a heartbeat, they forgot the inhuman strength they'd just seen. They howled in unison—
"Boss! Just say the word—we'll kill him!" "Bastard! You're dead tonight!"
"I'll stain my jacket with your blood!"
Dou Tang threw back his head and laughed—a wild, savage sound that echoed through the lot. Then he stepped down from the bike.
Not one of the eight men blocking him dared to move. This time, not one of them even thought
he might run.
He walked up to another motorcycle nearby—and kicked it clean off its stand.
The owner yelped in alarm, but Dou Tang's glare hit him like a physical blow, cutting the sound off mid-breath.
Then, gripping the fallen bike by its front wheel, Dou Tang dragged it into the center of the lot—metal scraping against concrete with a harsh grind.
He turned slowly, scanning the circle of faces again, and roared: "Which one of you said you'd kill me?! Say it again!"
The mob erupted.
From the left came a loud, defiant shout— "Bastard! It was me!"
It didn't matter who spoke. Dou Tang only wanted to make them understand who the real predator was.
Muscles rippled under the tight sleeves of his arm guards, veins coiling like iron cords. With one violent heave, he swung—
—and the entire motorcycle, weighing well over a hundred kilos, flew.
It spun through the air like a wrecking ball and smashed straight into the crowd on the left. There wasn't even time to scream.
Headlights whipped wild, beams scattering across the walls. Bikes collided, metal shrieked, glass shattered—
and the lot filled with the chaos of screaming steel.
BANG—CLANG—CRASH!
Lights flickered, then died.
The echo of the impact seemed to vibrate in everyone's bones. And then—silence.
Every biker froze, staring blankly. The scene before them was too surreal for their brains to process.
Dou Tang dusted off his hands, expression calm, almost pleased.
Standing before the bike he'd commandeered, he crossed his arms and tilted his head back slightly, eyes sweeping across their trembling faces one by one.
Every glance was an inspection. No—an inquisition.
He was judging them.
Judging whether these people were worth saving—whether they even deserved to keep living. Though he'd never admit it, at that moment, Kiryu Dou Tang was walking hell itself.
Grinning, baring his teeth, he growled:
"Now then—who wants to play cat and mouse with me?" Fear spread like wildfire.
He could almost smell it—the stench of dread thick in the air.
An average motorcycle weighed between 120 and 250 kilograms. The bōsōzoku preferred lighter builds—around 150 kilos for the thrill.
And anyone who'd ever owned a bike knew: without proper leverage, even lifting a fallen one was hard. It could take all your strength.
But this man—barely one-eighty-three tall, average build—had just thrown one. One-handed.
That wasn't human.
The last time any of them had seen something that absurd was in Baki the Grappler or Kengan Ashura.
Stunned disbelief froze the crowd.
Even Kanekawa Ryūnosuke, the leader, felt icy panic crawl up his spine.
That woman… Miss Lu.
Why? Why did she hand me this man's information so casually?
She even said to deal with that girl beside him, Kume Chinatsu… What kind of joke is this? Against someone like this, no number of lives would be enough.
Thank god those idiots didn't bring the two girls here.
"Kiryu Dou Tang…" Kanekawa's voice trembled. "Just… what the hell are you?!"
Dou Tang grinned faintly, eyes glinting beneath the mask's shadow. "Me? I'm just a passing Kamen Rider…"
He chuckled, pulling the mask fully over his face again.
Then he extended one finger toward Kanekawa and barked—
"Remember this!"
"Don't you dare look down on Onigashima!" Kanekawa roared, slamming his fist onto his fuel tank. "Because of you, our brothers scattered! Our last boss vanished without a word! In the end, we were forced to retreat all the way to Saitama!"
He pointed at Dou Tang, voice cracking with fury.
"Do you have any idea how miserable we were?! You beat our boss—then walked away! You had the strength to lead us! If you'd taken charge, we could've ruled Ikebukuro!"
Dou Tang blinked, frowning.
Wait—what?
So the old him had serious history with Onigashima.
From what this guy was saying, he'd beaten their leader but refused to take the throne—causing the whole gang to collapse?
Huh.
So the former Kiryu Dou Tang wasn't just violent—he was a damn menace.
Unfortunately for them, the current Dou Tang had zero patience for delinquent war games. "Sorry…" his tone shifted, almost polite.
Then it snapped back into a snarl.
"But how the hell is that my problem?! I don't care!" He raised a hand, beckoning.
"Come on, then! Fight or run—I don't care which! Enough talk!" "Kill him!" Kanekawa bellowed.
Two bikes flanking him revved up, each carrying two riders.
The passengers swung up heavy chains, each one looping like a steel whip.
"Die, bastard!" "Go to hell!"
With twin roars, the chains lashed out—snaking through the air like nooses.
Once they caught their target, the bikes would surge forward, dragging their victim across the pavement until flesh and bone peeled apart.
Dou Tang caught one chain midair with a snap of his hand— but the other looped around his neck, tightening fast.
"Yes!" someone shouted.
To the onlookers, that was it.
No matter how strong a man was, once those chains wrapped around you, it was over. Even a short drag could flay your back raw.
But Dou Tang didn't panic.
With one hand gripping the first chain, he jammed the other between the noose and his throat, buying himself a few centimeters of breath.
He inhaled deeply.
A familiar sensation welled up inside him— something he hadn't felt in a long time.
A technique Huaiyin had never even dreamed of. The legacy of his forgotten past.
Left foot lifted—
and slammed into the ground.
Right hand pulled down hard on the chain, left hand braced his neck—every muscle locking tight.
"Hah!!!"
Dust exploded beneath his feet. The chains went taut.
The engines screamed.
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