Chapter 197: The Athlete and the High Wall
Dusk had settled over the park, and the deep, winding paths were devoid of
passersby. This made the man standing before them an "attacker with clear
intent."
He had slightly curly red hair and stood well over 190cm. His build was lean and
wiry, his features handsome yet sharp as a blade. Dressed in a black training
suit and flat-soled shoes, his presence felt jagged and unnatural.
His name: Doyle.
A death row convict who had famously survived the electric chair at Carios
Prison in the UK through unknown means. After leaving over a dozen casualties in
his wake, he had escaped and made his way to Tokyo with the help of a friend at
a British Air Force base. He had come across the world for one reason: to taste
the bitterness of defeat.
Flutter...
The newspaper he had thrown drifted slowly to the ground, a single corner
stained with fresh blood.
"Tch..."
Rob Robinson touched his cheek, feeling the sharp sting of the cut. He frowned
at the newcomer, his pulse quickening. "I can't believe it. Someone actually had
the balls to ambush me in the street."
"..."
Doyle glanced at Ren Shiroki, his lips curling into a slight, mocking smirk
before he turned back to Robinson. "I heard you were a top-tier 'MMA fighter.' I
actually had some expectations..."
"What a letdown. You aren't even qualified. Tell me, do you know any actual
warriors? Or just more 'athletes'?"
Doyle began to walk forward, radiating a sinister, razor-sharp aura. Robinson
felt cold sweat prickle his brow. He growled a warning: "Don't come any closer!
I'm a professional; I'm not supposed to brawling with civilians on the street!"
Doyle said nothing, continuing his steady advance.
"Ren, stay back! This guy is dangerous!"
Robinson shoved Ren behind him and lunged forward, grabbing Doyle by the collar.
"You punk! Are you looking for a death wish?!"
Suddenly, Robinson felt a searing pain in his palm. He recoiled, letting go of
the collar. His hand was covered in several deep gashes, blood pouring from the
wounds.
The realization hit him—this man had hidden razor blades on the inside of his
collar.
"――?!"
Robinson stared in horror as Doyle let out a soft sigh. "At the end of the day,
you're just an athlete."
Click!
A metallic mechanical sound echoed. Doyle bent his left arm, twisting his waist
with fluid grace to swing his elbow toward Robinson's throat. A glint of cold
steel emerged from the tip of his elbow.
In the heartbeat before that blade could sever Robinson's carotid artery—
Zip!
Ren Shiroki grabbed Robinson by the back of the neck and yanked him backward,
clearing the path of the strike.
"Whoa!"
Robinson hit the ground with a heavy thud, rolling once before looking up, his
eyes widening in shock. At the tip of Doyle's elbow, a sharp, surgical blade had
extended through a slit in the skin.
They say a Muay Thai master's elbow is like a knife, but Doyle's was a literal
blade. If Ren hadn't pulled him back, Robinson would have been gutted right
there on the pavement.
"Ren!!" Robinson scrambled to his feet. "This guy is a psycho! We have to run!"
"..."
Seeing this, Doyle couldn't help but laugh. He looked at Ren and arched an
eyebrow. "You're friends with this guy? He won't even fight back. He's nothing
but a pathetic, incompetent weakling."
Robinson froze, the insult stinging more than the cuts on his hand. Ren,
however, stepped forward, his eyes locked on Doyle. "You think Robinson-san is a
'weakling'?"
Doyle smirked. "Isn't he?"
Ren let out a light sigh. "From the first moment he saw you, he knew you were
dangerous. He was literally sweating from the fear. And yet, the very first
thing he did was put himself between you and me to protect me."
"Even after you mangled his hand and almost cut his throat, his first thought
was still to make sure I got away safely. He experienced the gap in our power
firsthand, and he still tried to save me."
"To me... that's the exact opposite of a weakling."
Ren cracked his neck, the sound echoing in the quiet park. He bounced lightly on
his feet, dropping into a stance—left arm extended low, right arm tucked tight
against his ribs.
"I'm going to have to teach you some manners."
"..."
Doyle studied Ren's posture and hummed. "As expected of someone who was at the
Dome that night. You definitely look like a better meal than the athlete!"
Doyle stood bladed, his left palm extended forward and his right hand held back
near his chest. He was about to spout more taunts when he suddenly felt the
pressure in the air spike—it felt as though another presence had appeared,
doubling the weight of the atmosphere.
How is that possible?
Before he could process the sensation, a left jab whistled from his blind spot,
slamming into his cheek with the force of a sledgehammer.
BOOM!
Doyle was sent hurtling through the air, crashing into a nearby thicket and
rolling several times across the grass before coming to a stop.
"...Eh?"
Doyle's head was spinning, his pupils vibrating uncontrollably. If he hadn't
reacted at the very last millisecond by twisting his neck to shed the momentum,
his neck would have snapped like a dry twig.
That wasn't Ren's punch. It definitely wasn't the athlete's...
There's someone else?
Doyle wobbled to his feet, blood and saliva leaking from the corner of his
mouth. He looked back toward the path and saw a tall, muscular man in a tailored
suit.
Tanned skin, slanted eyebrows, and sharp "dead-fish eyes." His long hair was
tied and draped over his shoulder.
Robinson's "heavyweight champion friend"—The God of War, Gaolang Wongsawat.
As it happened, Robinson had no idea that Gaolang and Ren had already become
acquaintances.
"His Majesty told me to go for a stroll. I planned to meet a friend for dinner
and thought a walk would be good for the appetite. I didn't expect to run into a
'crime scene'..."
Gaolang flicked the blood and saliva off his left fist, his gaze fixed on Doyle.
"Are you one of the death row convicts? Your reflexes aren't bad. That punch was
intended to shatter your cervical vertebrae."
"..."
Doyle wiped his mouth and grinned, leaping lightly over the bushes to return to
the path. He studied Gaolang for a few moments and laughed, turning to Robinson.
"I guess I was wrong. There is an athlete worth my time here."
Robinson was still in shock, but Ren and Gaolang both signaled for him to stay
back. Ren wanted to greet Gaolang, but the Thai master stopped him with a sharp
look—he wasn't going to let Ren interfere in this hunt.
"You enjoy bullying athletes?"
Gaolang took off his suit jacket and tossed it aside. He dropped into his Hitman
boxing stance, facing Doyle. "As you wish. Welcome to the domain of 'Life and
Death'."
The pressure Doyle felt earlier intensified until it bordered on true terror. He
had thought about a sneak attack while Gaolang was undressing, but the man's
guard was impenetrable; he had remained on high alert throughout the entire
motion.
"Hehe... well, can't be helped."
Doyle raised his arms, his muscles rippling. With a sickening Click-Schwing,
razor blades popped out from his left elbow and left wrist before retracting. He
then lifted his palms, raised a knee, and rotated his ankles.
From his palms, knees, heels, and even the soles of his feet, visible "slots"
revealed the presence of retractable surgical steel.
"Testing... one, two... everything seems to be in order." Doyle looked at
Gaolang with a cocky tilt of his head. "Didn't take the chance to strike while I
was showing off? You really are confident. But so am I."
He noticed Robinson staring at him in pure horror and explained with a smirk:
"As you can see, I am the weapon."
"..."
Gaolang's eyes remained cold. "You underwent surgical body modification just to
gain an edge?"
Doyle narrowed his eyes. "In the world of professional stage magicians, this is
common knowledge. For example—you place an empty glass on a table, cover it with
your palm, and in the blink of an eye, it's overflowing with beer. Or you use
your fingertip as a pipe and actually blow smoke."
"You've all seen tricks like that. It's not magic. It's because they have
'tubes' hidden inside their bodies."
Ren listened with a smile, while Robinson grew more horrified by the second.
Doyle continued: "It defies common sense. Most people don't think someone would
go that far, which is exactly why it works. Look at modern medicine—people have
artificial hearts, joints, and pacemakers implanted to stay alive. Why is it so
shocking to invest money in surgery to bury weapons in my own flesh?"
Click!
Doyle bent his left elbow, the blade popping out once more, aimed straight at
Gaolang. "Boxing is your specialty, right? Come on then, athlete. Let's dance."
"I see." Gaolang watched the glint of the blade. "Between the bare hand and the
cold steel... there exists a high wall."
The next instant—
Zip!
Gaolang lunged. His left hand became a blur, unleashing a relentless barrage of
Flash Jabs straight into Doyle's face.
Bang-bang-bang-bang!
Four jabs in a heartbeat. Doyle was sent staggering back, his nose a mangled
mess of blood and broken bone.
"However—"
Gaolang's lead arm swayed rhythmically, his voice cold and steady. "The 'high
wall' is a reality... but it has nothing to do with the gap in power between you
and me."
(End of Chapter)
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