CHAPTER 147: POINT-BLANK DEMOLITION
ZIP!
After absorbing the third heavy straight, Kureha Shinogi executed a cautious back-step. He maintained his high-efficiency guard, his eyes tracking Ren's every micro-movement.
His defensive posture was a biological masterpiece—a Muscle Fortress.
A boxing enthusiast would have recognized the core of his defense: a "Philledelphia Shell" hybrid. He kept his center of gravity low, his knees turned inward to protect his legs and groin, while using his massive deltoids to shield his jaw. Combined with his inhuman muscle density, his guard was theoretically impenetrable.
After his loss to Baki Hanma—where Baki's specific "joint-locking" techniques had allowed a single punch to rupture his stomach—Kureha had obsessively evolved his protection. He added the lateral flexibility of a technical boxer to his raw mass. He was now a wall that could dance.
Compared to that refined perfection, Ren Shiroki's counter-offensive looked... Crude.
It wasn't even a "Technique."
He simply anchored his rear foot, pulled his fist back to its anatomical limit, and launched it forward with zero regard for his own safety. He was tanking Kureha's precision strikes just to ensure his own heavy knuckles found a target.
A common wind-up punch, Kureha thought. A 'Telephone.'
But the reason Kureha had retreated wasn't the punch itself. It was Ren's Expression.
A fighter's "Knockdown State" is often decided the moment a hit connects.
Is their face a mask of pain, thinking: "I'm hit... it's over... have mercy"?
Or is it a mask of rage, thinking: "How dare you... I'll kill you for that"?
The flicker of emotion during the impact tells the story of the spirit's remaining fuel.
Looking at Ren's face through the blood, Kureha realized the "Anatomical Demolition" hadn't even scratched the youth's resolve. Ren wasn't just enduring the pain; he was using the electrical signals of the agony to charge his own " Might."
Ren Shiroki was guaranteed to throw another punch.
That brief moment of hesitation had put Kureha on the defensive. He opened the gap, searching for a more efficient entry point.
"Hah... huff... hah...!"
Ren panted, his chest and abdomen covered in deep purple hematomas. Cold sweat mixed with the blood on his skin. He looked up at the retreating doctor, his grin jagged and demonic.
"What's wrong, Kureha-san? Come back! Let's keep trading!"
"You're analyzeing this incorrectly, Ren-kun," Kureha said, his voice regaining its clinical calm. "You aren't Kaoru Hanayama. Trading blows with me is a mathematical error. I hold the advantage in mass and durability."
"Is that how your computer sees it?"
Ren rolled his neck. He stepped forward with his left, his right fist already chambered and vibrating.
Kureha didn't hesitate. He launched a precision palm-thrust aimed at Ren's solar plexus, the impact once again sending a shockwave through Ren's stomach lining.
Ren retched, but his momentum didn't hitch. He launched a heavy hook that slammed directly into Kureha's left bicep.
THUD!
"It's useless!" Kureha shouted. He rotated his torso and launched a horizontal elbow toward Ren's temple.
BOOM!
The raw "Might" of the Super-Physique connected. Ren was launched sideways, flipping through the air before skidding to a stop in the sand. He nipped back to his feet instantly.
His pupils were vibrating at terminal frequency. The [ENGINE] was screaming. Tears of blood leaked from his eyes, mixing with the gore from his nose to form a terrifying, wet mask.
That move again...
Kureha stabilized his breathing, analyzing the state.
The bloodshot eyes looked like the Kure Clan's [Removal], but the physiology was wrong. Ren's mass hadn't ballooned. His body temp hadn't spiked. It was a purely neurological shift.
He's accelerating his 'Mind-Might.' He's overriding his own recovery time and sensory feedback. It's a cognitive overclock.
As a world-class physician, Kureha's diagnosis was 90% accurate.
Since Ren's physical stats hadn't technically "Leaped," Kureha felt confident. He had lost to Baki Hanma because he'd underestimated the boy's "Cord-Cutting" Karate. Tonight, his defense was a sealed vault. He would win this by inches.
The announcer screamed: "Ren Shiroki's heavy punches are being tanked! The Super-Physique is immovable! Kureha's elbow strikes are dealing terminal damage!"
WHOOSH!
[DRIVE RUSH]!
Ren blurred across the sand, a trail of dust following his wake.
At the range of three paces, Ren jumped. He launched a high-velocity flying knee.
Kureha raised both arms in a braced block, intending to catch the youth mid-air and transition into a ground-and-pound.
But Ren shifted mid-frame. He aborted the knee and fired a light, horizontal roundhouse kick that "tapped" Kureha's arm.
BAM.
The kick had zero power behind it. Kureha didn't even shift his footing.
"What was that?!"
Kureha was baffled. He fired two rapid-fire jabs into Ren's ribs and kidney, the pain enough to make a normal man's heart stop.
Ren Shiroki ground his teeth, blood spraying from his lips. His bloodshot eyes remained fixed on Kureha's left arm. He fired another heavy straight.
BOOM!
The fist slammed into Kureha's left deltoid.
A shadow of unease finally touched the doctor's mind.
"Oho! That was a wrestler's punch!"
Baki Hanma grinned from the VIP box. "Shiroki-san is incredible. He started with Kung Fu, moved to CQC and Karate, and now he's pulling from the heavyweights. He's a regular Treasure Chest of Might!"
"He's not just mimicking," Baki added, his eyes sparkling. "He's understood the Will behind the form. He's a collector of souls!"
Kosho Shinogi frowned. "A treasure chest? That's a bit abstract, Hanma."
"Trust me," Baki laughed, clapping Kosho's shoulder. "I grew up with the Ogre. I never had toys. Combat is the only game I know, and I'm telling you... I never get bored watching a guy who plays this well!"
THOOM!!!
Ren launched his tenth heavy straight punch.
By now, under Kureha's surgical counter-offensive, Ren was a broken mess. His chest was covered in bruises, his breathing was a pained whistle, and his ribs were groaning.
But Kureha was looking at his own arm.
His left deltoid—the "Shield" of his Philly Shell—was a dark, angry shade of purple. The skin was split in several places, and the muscle tissue beneath was beginning to swell and "Harden" from the repeated trauma.
Is he... tenderizing me?
"Even a block of titanium eventually fails if you hit the same spot with enough force," Baki noted. "Ren-kun isn't trying to bypass the guard. He's trying to Destroy the guard."
Kureha touched the fresh blood on his bicep. A stinging, burning heat was radiating from the muscle, causing his fingers to twitch.
Ren Shiroki stood before him, his voice a hoarse, bloody rasp.
"No matter how much it hurts... do you really think you can win with just 'Clean' striking techniques? Stop being so damn arrogant, Doc."
Ren let out a soul-shredding roar.
"Kureha-san! If you keep playing safe... I'm going to break your armor! Show me your 'Mighty Body'!"
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