A masterpiece that transcends the ages! After thirty-five years of waiting, it's finally become real!
"Fist of the North Star: Ultimate Edition" is about to hit the shelves!
The "Fist of the North Star" comic is a collaboration between the story master Simon Tay-Tay and the legendary artist Old Mare the Wayfinder, serialized in "Old-Timers Weekly: Jump!" The manga's total circulation has already surpassed one hundred million copies, and it has even been adapted into an animated series and video games.
The story tells of a world where civilization was destroyed by the ravages of the White Frost. The humans who survived live by the law of the jungle—until a man appears, bearing a five-star-shaped pattern of scars on his chest and wielding a mysterious assassination art from distant lands: the "North Star Divine Fist."
To reunite with the woman he loves most, Ciri, he throws himself into battle with his life on the line, brawling bare-knuckle against countless powerful enemies, carrying "love and sorrow" on his back as he gradually grows into a savior.
Back in the day, the protagonist's most famous ultimate technique—the "North Star Hundred-Rending Fist"—paired with the classic line "You are already dead," set who knows how many readers' blood boiling.
This newly released "Fist of the North Star: Ultimate Edition" is the thirtieth-anniversary rebinding of the original! Every single color page from the serialization is fully included! Not a single two-tone page is missing! And it even adds a hundred-plus pages of a dreamlike new arc… (TN: Yeah, another weird intro... don't follow the OC's example, say no to drugs)
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After inclining his head politely to Siegfried of Denesle and the wavy-haired lady, Victor jumped down from the ring and took the rough linen shirt from Angoulême's hands, pulling it on.
Then he walked up to Griffarin.
"Hey! Veteran of the Battle of Brenna—sure, I didn't knock down three men, but nobody dared challenge me again tonight. I'm pretty sure that counts as meeting your requirement."
The owner uncrossed his arms and smiled, clapping three times.
"Requirement met. More than met. A spectacular match. The speed of that first shot to the side, and the feint before you threw the second hook—real technique. Beautiful.
Go upstairs to the second floor yourself. The man you want to see is in the deepest room. In fact, he was upstairs watching you just now. Relax—he likes what he saw."
Victor turned his head. The beautiful lady from earlier happened to be leaving through the doorway.
"Who is she?" Victor asked Griffarin.
Following the boy's gaze to her retreating back, Griffarin said, "Madam Carmen—the owner of the Eager Thighs. Here's some advice: don't indulge in unrealistic fantasies. She's got thorns."
"With Mr. Ramsmeat?"
Griffarin shook his head. "No. Stick around long enough and you'll find out."
"Fair enough. Let me say it again: I'm new here. I don't want trouble. Don't worry."
"Go on up. I already let him know. Ramsmeat is waiting for you."
Ramsmeat's "ram" was the sort of name you didn't give yourself unless you wanted to be recognized. Combined with his gang's name, Victor suspected it wasn't his real one.
The second floor of the Hairy Bear Inn wasn't as shabby as Victor expected. From the stairs to the corridor, everything had clearly been cleaned up and repaired. When he pushed open the door at the very end of the hallway, the Temple Quarter's underworld kingpin appeared before him—wearing the same plain clothes as his men.
Gray cloth trousers. An open-front linen shirt. A red cinching belt with brass buckles. But a closer look revealed distinct traits: a bald head, and a scar slashing diagonally from upper left to lower right across his entire face. Victor had seen plenty of scar-faced brutes, but this was the longest yet.
Ramsmeat—the boss of Ramsmeat's gang—was hunched over the table, chewing loudly. The spread in front of him was lavish and varied: a fish tarte with camembert, confit de canard, roasted beef ribs, fried pork cutlets, lamb stew. The sides included a huge bowl of mashed potatoes, small round buns, and a matching dish of Butter Bandalura. The soup was tomato soup, and for dessert—baked apples.
"Sit. Eat with me. I figure you're hungry too. And if you can drink, start by sharing a 'Vizima Champion' with me." He greeted Victor like an ordinary, hospitable host. A brimming mug of beer was dropped in front of him with a heavy thump.
Victor pulled out a chair and sat down, lifting his mug to the host in greeting—then chugged down more than half in one go.
Tilting his head to breathe out the alcohol, he started eating without ceremony, beginning with the roasted beef ribs.
Ramsmeat took a satisfied swig as well. "You worked hard just now, kid. That was a damn fine fight. Well done. You know, that worthless Murder King has smashed up more than a few of my boys here—and he refuses to cooperate and take a loss once in a while. He's been a real headache."
"I thought a man like you could deal with him easily."
"Heh. Don't joke. Temeria is a land of law. Our great King Foltest—his eyes are always on us, watching over us, protecting us."
The beef ribs were roasted perfectly; one bite sent juices spilling.
"I thought even a king's eyes can't see the dark corners."
"No, no, no! We've got the King's Eye, Thaler. The King's Hand, Vernon Roche. And our handsome Captain Vincent Meis. And the mighty, merciful Jacques de Aldersberg. With so many powerful figures around, tell me—what reason would a small little gang like ours have to break the law?"
"The King's Eye, Thaler? The King's Hand, Vernon Roche?" Victor felt like he'd heard those names somewhere before.
"Ah—looks like I've drunk too much, bringing up names that make your skin crawl. Let's forget them and talk business.
Since you came looking for me, you must know who I am. I'll skip the introductions. Now be 'honest' with me, young mercenary who 'doesn't want trouble'—who are you, and where did you come from?
Seriously. That first dodge was too precise, and your speed was terrifying. An ordinary mercenary can't do that."
Ramsmeat never stopped chewing as he spoke. As soon as he finished, he speared an entire fried pork cutlet and shoved it into his mouth.
Victor, meanwhile, dug several big spoonfuls of mashed potatoes onto his plate.
"…I'm Victor Corion, from Bell Town east of Zerrikania. I don't want trouble, but since you asked—my other identity is a witcher apprentice."
Ramsmeat's chewing paused for a few seconds. Then it resumed.
"Ahhh! A witcher apprentice. No wonder you're that good. That explains everything. Oh, oh—'the North Star's Fist, the Dragon of Bell Town.' You earned that title. Aren't you worried I'll start looking at you differently?"
"A man who calls himself Ramsmeat—someone with that kind of name—should understand why witchers exist."
"Heh. Victor from Bell Town east of Zerrikania… normally, I'd tie up anyone who insults Ramsmeat's gang and teach him a lesson he won't forget for the rest of his life. But you left an impression. The second punch, fine—forget it. The first one, though… that speed on the evade, the precision on the counter… humiliating a man like you without killing you would be irresponsible to my gang. And more likely, it'd be a crime against myself.
So why not be generous instead? Seven of my boys were hired and sent after you like idiots. Now they've vanished without a trace—and you're sitting here eating at my table. So we're even, yeah?"
Victor grabbed a piece of fish tarte and kept chewing. Truth be told, the Hairy Bear Inn's food was surprisingly good—every main dish was solid.
He narrowed his eyes, thought for a moment, then nodded. "Thanks for your generosity. We're even."
"Then eat your fill and get out. A man like you doesn't need to get tangled up with us."
"But I need your help with something. Of course, I'm prepared to pay."
"Let's hear it." The moment business was mentioned, the gang boss's eyes sharpened—bright and alert.
"I want to know who hired Ramsmeat's gang to come after me. I know where the threat is coming from, but I can't find the people actually carrying it out."
Ramsmeat burst into laughter. "Plague take it—every bastard under the sun has his own troubles. I've got Salamandra to worry about. You've got assassins to worry about.
Heh. Just like I figured—you're not the type to get hit and not hit back. They wanted to use my boys to commit murder. That means we've got the same enemy here, so you don't owe me anything.
Tomorrow morning when you step outside, someone will be waiting at your door. He'll take you to the people who bribed my boys. After that, whatever happens has nothing to do with Ramsmeat's gang. No objections?"
"None. I only want to know who the cowardly butcher behind the ambush really is—so even if something happens to me, at least I'll die knowing."
"Ha! Good. Listen—speaking as a mercenary, I like you. From where I'm sitting, you haven't done anything that harms you or harms anyone else.
You say the right things and you do the right things. So next time you want to find me, you don't need to climb into a ring—just find one of my boys and have them lead you here.
Now go. Tonight's 'Iron Fist' at the Hairy Bear Inn—everything is free. And those women from the Eager Thighs? I'm sure one of them would be happy to spend the night with you. Don't waste a good evening."
When Victor stepped out of the room, Mr. Ramsmeat was still eating.
That man had an incredible appetite.