CHAPTER 172: THE ONE WHO BROKE A GOD
The legendary "Might" of Kaoru Hanayama, the world's greatest brawler.
His fighting stance was a vision that burned itself into the retinas of anyone
who saw it once. Fists tightened, held high at the sides of the head. Feet
planted in a wide, horizontal line. A chest and abdomen completely open and
exposed.
It was a form built on the foundation of Hanayama's absolute durability—a total
sacrifice of defense to concentrate the fighter's entire weight into the strike.
It was a stance born purely for the sake of the hit.
Now, Speck had taken that exact same form.
But Fusui Kure and Motobe Izo, watching from the hillside, spotted the
"Micro-Differences" immediately.
Speck's fist-grip wasn't standard. He had tucked his thumb beneath his index and
middle fingers, projecting the center knuckle in a "Piercing Fist."
And his feet? His ten toes were dug into the concrete like the claws of a
raptor, his arches slightly bowed to act as high-tension springs.
Unlike Hanayama's honorable, "Otokodachi" chivalry, Speck's version of the
stance was jagged and lethal. It wasn't just a wall; it was a wall covered in
glass shards. It radiated a concentrated, predatory killing intent.
"So, kid. I've taken my stance. Do you realize the weight of what's coming?"
Speck's smile remained fixed, a mask of wrinkled malice.
"I once heard rumors of a Karate master they called the 'Hand of God'—a man
whose fists were said to be as powerful as a deity's."
"But for me? I don't deal in rumors."
Speck narrowed his eyes, his gaze locking onto Ren Shiroki. His skin was a
tapestry of erratic, jagged tattoos—not the beautiful artistry of a Yakuza, but
the chaotic scribbles of a madman.
"Kid... these fists of mine? They've actually broken a God."
"Before I left the States, I decided to leave a little 'Thank You' note for the
USA..."
Metropolitan Police Headquarters. Office.
Ichika Iori, her dark circles deeper than ever, was sharing a cigarette with
Commissioner Takeya. Both looked like they were aging in real-time.
"The Special Operations Unit... dismantled by a single man?"
Takeya's brow was a map of deep furrows. "He treats my holding cells like a
hotel and my best men like paper targets. The MPD is being publicly humiliated!"
Ichika let out a long, weary sigh. "The guy is a monster, Old Man. Standard
hardware doesn't work. At long range, he's too erratic to lead. At short range,
you're dead before you can clear the holster."
She looked at the clock, her heart hammering. "Ren-kun should be engaging him
now..."
Suddenly, a junior detective burst into the office, clutching a high-security
tablet. "Commissioner! Emergency report from the FBI! They've finalized the
satellite forensics on the 'NYC Incident'!"
Takeya and Ichika leaned in to read the file. As their eyes scrolled through the
data and the photos, they both froze. Their pupils contracted, and their
breathing stopped.
"Are you... KIDDING ME?!"
Simultaneously. A Shinjuku Hotel. Presidential Suite.
Billy Greco, the Caracal, sat before a bank of laptops. He was scouring global
intel networks for data on Speck. The convict had slaughtered his men; he needed
to understand the mechanics of the predator before IDEAL sent in a cleanup crew.
Suddenly, a high-priority ping hit his encrypted messenger. It was a contact
within the US State Department.
Billy opened the file. His usual cocky expression vanished, replaced by a mask
of cold, vibrating shock.
"Oh my god..."
The file contained a sequence of photos from Liberty Island, New York.
Thirty minutes prior, a security guard on a routine patrol at the foot of the
Statue of Liberty noticed something out of place. A corner of the statue's
massive bronze pedestal was covered in a large, industrial-grade tarp.
Thinking it was leftover construction debris, he pulled the cover away.
What he saw was a nightmare.
Beneath the tarp—hammered directly into the thick, solid bronze plates of the
statue's base—were hundreds of deep, concave craters.
Looking closer, the shapes were unmistakable. Fist-prints and boot-prints.
Someone had beaten the Statue of Liberty with their bare hands. The power
required was beyond human calculation. It was a level of structural destruction
that defied modern engineering.
The "Might" had reached the internal skeleton. The impact shockwaves had
traveled ninety meters straight up to the torch.
CREAK... CRACK!
Weakened by the localized stress, the internal steel framework was beginning to
fail. The symbol of the United States of America was swaying in the wind. The
Statue of Liberty was on the verge of collapsing into the harbor.
The guard had called for immediate emergency support. Dozens of engineers and a
Navy construction battalion were currently working to stabilize the monument
with high-tension steel cables, desperately trying to pull the "masterpiece"
back together before it shattered.
It wasn't a crime. It was a State-Level Act of War committed by a single human
being.
The perpetrator? The death-row convict who had vanished from Florida two weeks
prior.
Speck.
The Amusement Zone.
Speck stood in his "Otokodachi" stance, his "God-Shattering" fists leveled at
Ren Shiroki.
"I kept a few secrets from my jailers back in the States."
"Like this—"
"I can perform five minutes of high-intensity aerobic activity... without taking
a single breath."
Speck's lips curled, the muscles in his face stacking into a jagged, horrific
grin. He radiated a biological pressure that seemed to warp the very shadows
around him.
"In other words... for the next three hundred seconds, I can hit you with an
infinite, seamless barrage of punches. No pauses. No gaps. No 'Rhythm' for you
to exploit."
He narrowed his eyes. "These hands broke a God, kid. Do you think a 'Martial
Artist' is sturdier than bronze?"
Ren Shiroki tilted his torso. He maintained his light, rhythmic "Parkour"
bounce, his arms swaying in a loose, aerodynamic guard.
To a spectator, he looked fragile. To an expert, he was a high-tension spring,
utilizing every inch of the environment to stay in motion.
"Haha! That's incredible...!"
Ren ground his toes into the sand, his focus reaching a state of absolute
clarity. "But all I've got are these 'Martial Fists.' I hope that's enough for
you."
"Still so confident, kid. It's annoying."
Speck's right foot dug into the concrete. His muscles bunched, his entire 230cm
frame becoming a loaded cannon.
"Be careful. Because once I catch you..."
Ren's heart began to hammer. A drop of sweat traced a path down his forehead.
He felt the tension of a thousand battles. Facing a "Non-Human" strike that
could topple a monument... could his techniques adapt? Could his "Might" find a
way to break the God-Breaker?
Let's find out!!
In the ink-wash of Ren's mind, the phantom of Rashid lunged forward, mimicking
Ren's parkour stance. The Desert Eagle was laughing, his eyes bright with a
wild, infectious joy.
{Get ready, disciple! It's about to get LOUD!!}
THOOM!!!
Speck's foot shattered the pavement. He launched himself forward like a charging
rhinoceros, a blur of black muscle and murderous hunger.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The giant's stride covered three meters with every step. He closed the gap in a
heartbeat, his presence suffocating.
The War was on
☆☆☆
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