Chapter 355: Appropriate Striking Practice
Even with heavy sparring gloves on, [THE GOD OF WAR] Gaolang Wongsawat's jabs
could clock in at thirteen strikes per second. In the boxing world, they were
known as "Flash Paws."
That staggering hand speed sat right on the razor's edge of human reaction
limits!
Whish-thud-thud-thud-thud!
On the canvas, Gaolang's footwork was a fluid glide, his lead hand flickering
like a strobe light. He peppered Naoya Okubo with a relentless barrage, pinning
the MMA king in place. Okubo had no window to counter; he could only turtle up,
his guard absorbing a drumbeat of impact.
Creak, snap, zip—
The two moved in a high-speed dance of offense and defense, the intensity of the
"practice" echoing through the gym.
POW!
After eating another stiff jab to the forehead, Okubo suddenly dropped his
weight. He ducked beneath the follow-up flurry, lunging forward from a low-left
angle to drive a diagonal uppercut toward Gaolang's chin.
Whoosh—CLAP!
Gaolang twisted his torso, catching the counter on the meat of his right tricep.
He immediately executed a lateral slide, resetting his spacing to resume the
suppression.
Thud-thud-thud-thud!
The lightspeed jabs returned instantly, forcing Okubo back into a defensive
shell.
Below the ring, Arisa pumped her fists and cheered for both her friends.
Rama XIII smiled. "Even though he is the King of Mixed Martial Arts, when it
comes to a pure boxing exchange, Gaolang still holds the throne."
"I wouldn't be so sure, Your Highness," Hisashi Atami said, his eyes fixed on
the ring. "I truly believe that with Okubo-kun's adaptability, he could even
stand a chance against [THE FANG], Kanoh Agito!"
"Oh?" Rama raised an interested eyebrow.
The suppression continued. Okubo used his thick gloves as a shield, his
defensive posture rock-solid. But against a Heavyweight King, even a "blocked"
strike carried significant kinetic energy. The cumulative damage was beginning
to sap Okubo's stamina.
This isn't going to work...
Technically, this was a boxing-specific drill. But if it ended with him just
being a punching bag, Okubo felt it would be an insult to his own aesthetic. He
couldn't out-speed the jabs, and he refused to commit a foul.
So, what was the play?
Whish!
Gaolang adjusted his angle, aiming for Okubo's centerline to split his guard and
drag him deeper into a losing rhythm.
In the next micro-second, Okubo suddenly bottomed out. He performed a "level
change," sliding across the canvas almost horizontally—a movement clearly
derived from his elite wrestling background. It was an unexpected shift in
positioning.
It looked like he was going for a double-leg takedown—a foul in boxing—but
instead, he used the upward momentum of his rise to launch a massive overhand
right. It was a pure boxing punch born from a wrestler's entry!
Okubo roared, "Hah!!"
Gaolang pre-read the impact point and dropped his frame to brace.
BOOM!
He caught the heavy blow on his guard, the force sliding him back several steps.
Gaolang let his arms hang loose, bouncing on his toes to shake out the
vibration.
A flicker of genuine surprise touched his normally vacant, "dead-fish" eyes.
"Impressive. Not only did you evade the pressure, but you manufactured a counter
from a blind spot."
Okubo didn't look proud. His forearms were a bruised, angry red, and his
once-new gloves were already looking frayed. Even if a jab was built for speed,
when delivered by a man of Gaolang's caliber, the "weight" was terrifying.
Okubo panted, a wide grin splitting his face. "That's the first time I've ever
tasted punches of that grade. You're a monster, Gaolang-aniki!"
Below the ring, Rama XIII turned to Atami. "I heard IDEAL has been making
frequent moves against Kengan members lately. And yet, you're still here
indulging Okubo's whims?"
Atami smiled. "I have no regrets about contracting Okubo-kun. Like your [GOD OF
WAR], he possesses the rare talent for investigating the truth of 'Strength'."
"The bond between an Employer and a Fighter can transcend profit. It becomes a
manifestation of will across different realms. Just as you are to Gaolang, I
wish to witness Okubo-kun's ultimate potential."
Rama signaled to his guard, who struck the ringside bell.
DING!
It was a practice session, after all. Though they aimed for the intensity of a
real bout, they weren't trying to kill each other.
Rama stepped up the stairs and onto the canvas. He looked at Okubo. "How was the
session with my God of War?"
Okubo was busy using his teeth to loosen the Velcro straps on his gloves before
tucking them under his armpits to slide them off.
"He's disgustingly strong!" Okubo laughed. "I train every day, but in the realm
of striking, I'm still a 'civilian' compared to a top-tier specialist!"
"You're terrible at being humble," Gaolang muttered. "That was just a boxing
drill. It was no different than a localized muscle workout. Neither of us even
touched our true 'Style' yet."
"Hahaha! You really do get it, don't you?!" Okubo chirped. In his mind, once you
traded sweat on the canvas, you were best friends for life.
"Say, Gaolang-aniki," Okubo leaned in, unable to contain his curiosity. "I heard
you're friends with the [SOUL COMBATANT] too. No spoilers, obviously... but how
would you describe Ren Shiroki's style?"
"Style?" The question was odd, but Gaolang pondered it, recalling Ren's battle
against Dorian.
In that fight, Ren had used Muay Thai. It wasn't at a "Master" level yet, but it
had a distinct, high-torque flavor and a unique personal interpretation.
"If I had to put a name on it... Ren Shiroki's combat is 'Vibrant yet
Grounded'."
Okubo's grin widened. "Whoa. That's a hell of a compliment!"
Gaolang nodded. "If you don't treat him with absolute caution, he will end the
match in a single, unexpected frame. He is that kind of fighter."
Okubo clenched his fist. "Haha! It's getting more interesting by the second!"
[Three Days Later—Night, Outside the Tokyo Dome]
VROOOOM—!
A heavy black street bike roared through the night. Fusui Kure was at the
handles, Ren Shiroki behind her. They pulled into a secluded corner of the
Tokugawa private garage.
The two dismounted, removed their helmets, and grabbed their gear bags. Arisa
and Marco had already left earlier to secure their seats in the stands.
Ren and Fusui entered the Dome, taking a private elevator marked with the
Tokugawa crest. They descended straight to the sixth basement level—The Pit.
As the doors slid open, they were met by an elderly gentleman in a refined
western tuxedo. He was tall, his posture perfectly straight, with a mane of
snow-white hair slicked back. He was the veteran receptionist of the Underground
Arena—Mitarai.
"Welcome. Allow me to escort you to the waiting room." Mitarai bowed gracefully
and led the way.
The fighter's rooms in the Pit were Spartan—simple square tiles, basic benches,
a heavy bag, and a water cooler. For warriors about to step into the abyss, it
was more than enough.
Ren stripped down to his fighting shorts, leaving his clothes and shoes in a
pile. He began shadowboxing and throwing snap-kicks, his muscles gradually
warming up.
Whish! Whish-shish!
As his strikes picked up speed, his aura began to flare. A violent wind seemed
to whip around him, carrying the weight of a mountain.
Fusui sat cross-legged in the corner, watching him with her usual calm,
narrow-eyed gaze.
Mitarai stood to the side, his eyes filled with quiet admiration. "I've been the
receptionist here for many years. I handled the Maximum Tournament and saw Baki
Hanma take the crown."
The old gentleman spoke to Fusui, though his eyes never left Ren. "Shiroki-san
has a very... 'Vibrant' presence. He is unforgettable."
"He isn't pure and clean like the [CHAMPION] Baki. He isn't heavy and sharp like
the [BUSHIN] Doppo Orochi. He has a unique existence. He is a colorful
fighter—like a splash of vivid paint on a gray street. He fits the 'Street'
style perfectly."
Ren paused his stretching and grinned. "I'm honored to hear that from a man
who's seen every legend in the book, Mitarai-san."
Mitarai nodded with a smile. "You are the type of person who makes one think...
in this age of screens and technology, it's truly a blessing that we can still
witness the collision of human souls."
"Mitarai-san—" Ren pouted. "That description is way too poetic! You're making me
blush!"
Mitarai let out a rare, hearty laugh. "Hmm. Perhaps it is."
The warm-up continued.
"There is no rush, Shiroki-san," Mitarai reminded him. "There are two matches
tonight. You are the main event in the second slot. The first match features
another heavy-hitting guest."
Ren looked curious. "Who?"
"I believe you've already met him—"
Mitarai was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. The door to the waiting room
was rapped lightly.
"Pardon the intrusion."
Mitsunari Tokugawa pushed the door open. Following behind him was a tall,
powerfully built young man of African descent. His bronze skin glowed under the
fluorescent lights, and he wore a smile of absolute confidence.
It was Mohammad Alai Jr.
One of the fighters in tonight's opening bout was the son of the God of Boxing.
☆☆☆
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