Chapter 367: Autumn Days
Five days later. Soul Combat Hub.
In the dead of the night, long before the first hint of dawn, Ren Shiroki was
already awake.
Inside his room, the short-haired girl was still fast asleep. Ren moved with
practiced silence, sliding the door shut with a gentle click before heading down
to the first-floor training hall. A small crack in the window allowed a whisper
of the autumn breeze to drift in, keeping the temperature inside the dojo at a
crisp, perfect level for exertion.
Ren stopped by the washroom adjacent to the hall.
Splash—!
After brushing his teeth and washing his face, Ren bared his teeth at the
mirror, revealing a row of gleaming white enamel. He ground his teeth
together—clack, clack—testing the bite.
The surgeons of the Underground Arena were master craftsmen. Perhaps because
they had so much "practice" with pulverized jaws, the dental repair was both
aesthetically perfect and functionally indestructible.
Ren stepped into the center of the training floor. Dressed in a loose shirt and
athletic shorts, his bare feet gripped the polished wood as he began a series of
dynamic stretches, throws, and shadowboxing rounds. His training plan for today
wasn't a long-distance run, but high-intensity indoor striking.
Whish! Whish-shish!
As his fists and feet cut the air, Ren's muscles began to hum with activity. A
fine sheen of sweat coated his skin, warming his core.
The warm-up lasted roughly an hour. Outside, the first pale grey light of
morning began to bleed between the gaps of the distant Tokyo skyscrapers.
Ren approached the 150kg heavy bag suspended at the edge of the hall. He stood
side-on, settling into the relaxed, swaying Philly Shell.
Zip—!
Thud-thud-thud!
A flurry of high-speed jabs slammed into the bandage-wrapped surface of the bag,
the rhythmic, muffled impacts echoing through the quiet dojo. After a few
probing rounds, Ren's movements slowed to a crawl.
[ENGINE]—MAX OUTPUT!
His consciousness seized the reins of his biology, purging every ounce of
involuntary reflex. He brought every microscopic detail of his frame under
manual control.
Starting from the tips of his left fingers, he began the process of
[RELAXATION]. He burned away the "Non-Fighting Spirit" within his left arm,
allowing the limb to vibrate and blur into a visual state of translucency.
Finally, the arm held nothing but pure intent. It became a weightless soul.
—Now!
[ED: PSYCHO FLICKER]!
WHISH!
Ren's left jab exploded. His fist buried itself into the side of the heavy bag,
the impact so violent that the 150kg cylinder warped and imploded, a deep crater
forming where he struck.
Drip...
A heartbeat later, the sweat that had been launched from Ren's brow by the force
of the movement finally hit the floor. The heavy bag snapped back to its
original shape, swinging violently on its iron chains.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The movement had been "Illusionary." It had reached the Soul-Level.
But as the [COMBAT KING] Okubo had proven, a single trick wouldn't win a war. It
could even be turned against the user if they became predictable.
The physical weight returned to Ren's left arm, the sudden gravity making him
stagger for a moment. He closed his eyes, searching for that sensation of "Void"
again. After several minutes of silence, he fired another jab.
Whoosh!
This time, Ren didn't "Strike." He "Pulled."
Shick!
His fingers snared the canvas of the heavy bag, yanking it toward him with
explosive force. Though his finger-strength wasn't on Rihito's level and his
grip couldn't match Hanayama's, Ren's five fingers were still those of a
high-level combatant. The canvas groaned under the tension.
[PSYCHO FLICKER: SNATCH]!
The purpose of this variation wasn't to deal damage through the grip, but to use
the [SOUL-LEVEL RELAXATION] to close the gap and force the opponent into a
clinch or a follow-up strike.
"Hah... hah..."
Ren regulated his breathing, replaying the kinetic sequence in his mind. This
"Snatch Jab" targeted the recovery frames of an opponent's move, yanking them
into his pocket and forcing them to trade blows on his terms.
The ink-wash smoke swirled, carving out the sharp silhouette of the phantom Ed.
{Psycho Power... it's not something you can just switch on and off like a light,
kid.}
The young master stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his teal
jacket.
{Your logic is solid, though. Even the most legendary move has to be built on a
foundation of basic repetition. That's how I learned it when I was a lab rat.}
Ed watched for a moment longer before his impatient nature got the better of
him. He stepped forward, raising his hands.
{You're looking decent today. Come on, then. Show me what you've got.}
Ren grinned. "Thanks for the lesson, Master!"
{Tsk. Don't get cocky. Just because you called me 'Master' doesn't mean I'm
going to go easy on you.}
The two men dropped into identical Philly Shell stances. They began a high-speed
boxing exchange, their feet scuffing and grinding against the floor tiles as
they traded heat.
Screee!
Pop-pop-whoosh!
They traded countless rounds of offense and defense.
By the time the sun had fully risen, flooding the dojo with golden light, Ren
was on the verge of having his new teeth "knocked out" for the second time.
{Not bad. Keep that momentum going.}
Ed pulled back his fists, bounced on his toes for a second, and waved a
dismissive hand. The phantom and the smoke vanished.
Ren collapsed onto the floor, his entire body soaked in sweat. He lay there
gasping for several minutes until his heart rate finally slowed to a resting
pace.
He stood up and began a series of flexibility drills, gradually lowering the
intensity until his muscles cooled down. Only then did he head for the shower.
Today was Marco's turn to make breakfast.
The hulking young man—despite having to restart his mental life from that of a
child—possessed an incredible capacity for learning and a heart of pure gold.
Soon, a steaming, "Autumn-flavored" breakfast was carried out of the kitchen.
"Ren-aniki! Arisa-nee! Fusui-nee! Breakfast is ready!"
With the air turning chilly, the Hub members had abandoned the outdoor picnic
table for the warmth of the second-floor living room. The room, renovated by the
Mogichi Construction crew, was decorated in warm tones, making it an incredibly
relaxing space.
The four of them gathered around the table, eating heartily while they talked.
Marco recounted his recent adventures and sightings while tagging along with The
Lie Eater, Baku Madarame. Arisa, whose school term had started, spent half her
time talking about her friends and the other half complaining about her
homework. Apparently, the Koyo Girls' Academy favored "comprehensive"
assignments—standard textbook problems mixed with bizarre social-outreach
projects. Fusui updated them on Kure Clan business.
"Raian-aniki says he's taking a contract in Tokyo soon," the girl mused, her
chin resting on her hand. "I'm not sure what Grandpa is planning for the Kengan
circuit yet..."
She leaned over, her shoulder resting comfortably against Ren's arm.
After breakfast came the period for digestion and relaxation.
Marco went to clean the kitchen while Arisa retreated to her room to battle her
homework. Fusui sat at the living room table, stripping and cleaning her
firearms with rhythmic precision.
Ren sat on the sofa, flipping through a book. When he encountered a passage he
didn't quite grasp, he'd "consult" with the phantom sitting beside him—Zangief.
Ren and the Russian powerhouse—a man who, in his original world, was a PhD who
read over 300 books a year—laughed and pointed at the pages together.
The peaceful morning was coming to an end. Ren checked the clock; it was almost
time for his weight-training set. He snapped the book shut.
Clap!
Just then, a visitor arrived at the Soul Combat Hub.
Baki Hanma.
The boy was dressed in a long-sleeved tracksuit and a cap. A thin layer of sweat
coated his brow, and his breath came in steady, deep plumes of heat. It was
obvious he had just finished his daily cardio.
Baki's "morning run" was a thing of legend. He would start from his home in
Tokyo, run all the way to the Aokigahara Forest to visit an ancient tree he
called "The Elder," and then run all the way back.
On his return trip, a slight adjustment to his route took him past the Hub. He
dropped by occasionally to catch his breath and change his headspace before
heading home for his main training. Sometimes he just waved; sometimes he stayed
for a few minutes.
This time, Baki actually stepped inside, asking Ren for a towel. He wiped his
face, looking refreshed.
"Thanks, Ren-aniki."
Baki exhaled a long breath, glanced back toward the courtyard gate, and looked
at Ren. "Sorry for the intrusion... but you might want to get another towel
ready. He followed me all the way here."
Ren followed Baki's gaze.
Coming down the path Baki had just traveled was another young man, dressed in a
sleek black tracksuit.
It was Mohammad Alai Jr.
☆☆☆
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