Chapter 277: A Domain Without Grandmasters
"In the world of Pro-Wrestling... Grandmasters do not exist?"
Ren Shiroki's brow furrowed as he replayed the words. For a moment, his mind
struggled to grasp the logic.
He turned his gaze toward where Shibukawa was pointing. He saw the squad of
Super Japan Pro-Wrestling athletes in the middle of a hellish conditioning
block. They were performing "Hindu Squats" with high-frequency rhythm, their
bodies pushed to a near-breaking point.
Their senior, Kugo Kurachi, circled them like a predatory shark.
"Make your internal organs sweat! Forge every inch of your anatomy into
unyielding muscle!"
"Come on, you brats! Show me some damn spirit! If you can't survive a warm-up,
the ring will chew you up and spit you out!"
"Hah!" "HEI—!!"
The rhythmic sound of their breathing and the slap-slap of hands hitting thighs
filled the hall.
Ren's thoughts were still snagged on Shibukawa's riddle. He wanted to ask for
clarification, but the little old man simply wore a high-level, enigmatic
expression, gesturing for Ren to watch and think.
Soon, the conditioning block ended.
As the wrestlers wiped away sheets of sweat and downed liters of water, Kurachi
strolled back to the group. He was curious to hear the outsiders' take on their
"warm-up."
"The intensity is staggering. Just watching them made me break a sweat,"
Official Sonoda admitted, looking genuinely impressed. "Seeing this in person...
I think I'm becoming a fan of Pro-Wrestling."
Shibukawa squinted and laughed. "Hahaha! What a bunch of hardworking youths. To
put this much effort into a 'performance'... truly remarkable!"
Sonoda winced. While professional wrestling in the surface world was indeed a
performance, calling it that to a group of hyper-muscular titans who treated it
like a religion seemed like a tactical error. He prepared to play peacemaker,
but the wrestlers—Kurachi included—suddenly burst into a collective roar of
laughter.
"Hahahaha!"
Kurachi wiped a tear of amusement from his eye. "As expected of
Shibukawa-sensei! Sharp as a razor. But you're right—that's exactly what
Pro-Wrestling is!"
The "God of Wrestling" bared his teeth in a wide grin. "Call us actors, look
down on us, provoke us—it doesn't matter. All we can do is believe in the Ring.
That is the only way a true Pro-Wrestler can survive!"
"..."
Hearing this, Shibukawa put his hands on his hips and turned to Ren. "I've
wagered my entire existence on Aiki-Jujutsu. These boys? They've wagered their
entire existence on the Ring."
Kurachi beamed. "To be evaluated so highly by the [SAINT OF WAR] is an honor."
"Oho~!"
Shibukawa gave a strange, cackling laugh. Seeing Ren still lost in thought, the
Master's eyes suddenly widened. He turned toward the group of resting wrestlers
and let out a thunderous roar.
"IF YOU HAVE SPIRIT, YOU CAN DO ANYTHING!!"
The shout was so loud and sudden that Sonoda and Fusui nearly jumped out of
their skins.
But the wrestlers reacted differently. Their eyes lit up with recognition and
joy. They began to cheer and hoot in response.
"The Saint of War watches the matches too?!" "Man, that brings back memories! I
haven't heard that line in ages!" "That phrase still has so much power!"
Ren, Sonoda, and Fusui were lost. Kurachi explained the reference. "'If you have
spirit, you can do anything!'—that was the legendary catchphrase of the retired
pro-wrestler Kanji Igari."
Ren's archives hummed. He remembered the name.
Kanji Igari. A legendary old-school wrestler who had competed alongside
Shibukawa, Baki, Doppo, and Retsu in the Tokyo Dome Underground Tournament. He
had famously conquered the Sumo Yokozuna Kinryuzan before finally falling to
Baki Hanma. More recently, he had been humiliated and hospitalized by Sikorsky.
Shibukawa's voice dropped into a more serious, leisurely cadence. "I visited
Kanji in the hospital recently. He's the one who said it to me."
"In the world of Pro-Wrestling, Grandmasters do not exist."
Shibukawa repeated the phrase, looking between Ren and Kurachi. "Igari told me
that 'Masters' only exist in the traditional martial arts."
"In the Ring, there is no Gouki Shibukawa! There is no 'Bushin' Doppo Orochi!"
Shibukawa tightened his fist, showing the definition in his forearm. "The idea
of an old man using technical grace to overcome a youthful physique... that
concept is anathema to the Ring."
"That is what Igari said!" Shibukawa arched an eyebrow at Ren. "Sounds a lot
like your own 'irresponsible' philosophy, doesn't it?"
Ren paused. The fog in his mind seemed to thicken. Is it really the same?
Kurachi nodded, agreeing with Igari's logic. "In our world, we carry the flag of
entertainment. We use over-the-top personas, dramatic storylines, and
high-impact throws to win the crowd's hearts. It is a high-risk world of
'Real-Fake' combat. Wrestling techniques are tied to the physical prime of the
body. Once you age out of the physical capability to perform, you're out.
Therefore, you can never truly be a 'Grandmaster' who evolves through the
decades."
Ren Shiroki rubbed his chin, his mind diving deeper. He felt he was on the verge
of catching a thread.
Sensing the change in Ren's aura, Shibukawa suddenly flipped the script. He
shouted: "But I think that old bastard Igari was full of crap! He was lying
through his teeth as usual!"
Ren: "...?" Kurachi: "...??"
Both were caught off guard by the sudden contradiction.
Shibukawa laughed. "The core of Pro-Wrestling is 'Entertaining the Audience'.
Everything is geared toward satisfying the crowd's desires and making them roar
with joy."
"That is why Igari was always in his 'Strongest State' when he was being
watched! That is why Kurachi-kun's boys stand in the ring without a guard,
choosing to tank every strike their opponent offers! They are feeding the
crowd's hunger!"
"It's that simple." Shibukawa's gaze turned sharp. "A Pro-Wrestler who commits
to that entertainment until the bitter end... he is a Grandmaster in his own
right. A Master of the Audience."
"But what about you, Ren-kun?"
"What is 'Combat' to you? How far do you have to take it before your own soul
is... satisfied?"
"..."
Ren Shiroki stood in a daze. He didn't answer.
He walked over to a heavy, 150kg sandbag hanging nearby. He reached out, his
fingers tracing the rough surface of the leather, feeling the texture with his
fingertips.
Karate. Muay Thai. Wrestling. CQC. MMA. Kenpo.
The techniques of his Masters were a constant source of joy for him. He wanted
to taste every single one. But beneath the variety... there were the universal
constants.
[DRIVE RUSH]... [STRIKE AT THE APEX]... [PARKOUR]... [SATSUI CHOICE]... [FRAME
PUNISH]...
These weren't "Styles." They were the fundamental requirements the "Techniques"
placed upon Ren's physical body.
Ren began to wonder: How can I make my body move in the most 'Ideal' way to
satisfy the logic of these techniques?
THUD—
Ren gave the bag a gentle shove, making it swing in a tiny, tight arc.
Then—POP! POP!
Without warning, without even a visible wind-up, Ren fired two lightning-fast
punches. He hit the bag twice during its return swing.
Two clean gashes appeared in the leather—one deep, one shallow. The "Sharpness"
and localized impact of the strikes were significantly higher than they had been
even an hour ago.
Ren retracted his right fist. Faint wisps of heat seemed to rise from his
knuckles.
The techniques I've collected... how do I make them satisfy my hunger for
'Combat'?
Beneath the style... beneath the name of the art... there is the thing that
exists regardless of which tool I pick up.
The Combat itself.
Ren felt he had found a lead, but the final answer remained elusive.
Kurachi saw the look in the youth's eyes and smiled. "Need to clear your head?
Why don't you join us for a session?"
(End of Chapter)
☆☆☆
-> 30 Advanced chapters Now Available on Patreon!!
-> https://www.pat-reon.co-m/c/Hollowborn
(Just remove the hyphen (-) to access patreon normally)
If you like this novel please consider leaving a review that's help the story a lot Thank you