Chapter 374: Willpower Addiction
"That body of yours... no matter how hard one works in the public fighting
world, it is simply unobtainable."
The elder Alai walked with a slow, deliberate grace.
"My son, my Jr.—the second of my name—he likely intends to challenge someone in
this world where monsters roam. Since the day I lost to him, I no longer have
the right to interfere with his choices."
As he spoke, the elder Alai stopped in front of a speed bag. In boxing, these
are used to develop hand-eye coordination, rhythm, and reaction time. It was a
simple bladder of air encased in leather, meant for rapid, rhythmic striking.
Whish—Whish-shish!
Old Alai unleashed a flurry of lightning-fast punches. The strikes were a blur,
creating a localized wind that rustled Ren's hair. Even as a spectator, the
technical beauty of the movement was breathtaking.
Ren's mind surged with data from old sports reports and underground files. He
began to recount the legend.
"London, the 1990s. In a match that didn't even last three rounds, you made the
'British Hero' Brian London look like he was punching at a ghost."
"You backed him into a corner, and then, in less than two seconds..."
"In that tiny window of time, you landed exactly seventeen heavy punches. Not a
single one missed the mark."
"That was the absolute zenith of hand speed. Based on the frame rate of the 8mm
cameras used at the time, your strike reached its destination in just 0.11
seconds."
Ren mimicked the motion of a jab.
"That speed far exceeded Sugar Ray Robinson's, who was once considered the
fastest in history. It actually exceeded the speed at which the human brain can
send a command to the muscles."
"In fighting terms... those punches were Unblockable."
Hearing his own history recounted so precisely, Alai Sr. let out a long, slow
breath.
"The son who knocked me down in the ring... his hands are even faster than mine
were."
His voice turned somber. "I worry for him. He is throwing himself into a world
that exists solely to decide who is the 'Strongest'. My love for my son is
absolute."
"However—"
Old Alai's tone shifted, a spark of the old fire returning to his eyes. "As a
combatant, I can't help but think: if the man I view as my greatest obstacle
were to stumble in battle, would I finally have the chance to surpass him?"
Ren raised an eyebrow and grinned. "That sounds a bit underhanded, doesn't it?"
Alai Sr. bared his teeth. "That's how this game is played. There's always
someone who wants to play until the very end."
Ren's voice dropped an octave. "That's... incredible."
Even now, over sixty and battling a debilitating disease, Mohammad Alai was
still obsessing over how to become more powerful. Ren looked at the old man's
frame. "Your muscles... they're tight. You're still training every single day."
The legend let out a boisterous, unrefined laugh. "Haha! You caught me! The
progress is glacial, but I'm still squeezing out results."
Ren exhaled, a sense of satisfaction washing over him. "This is it. This is
'Perfect'."
"What is?" Alai asked.
"Everyone," Ren mused. "You, the other masters, the fighters, the people in the
street... your existence, the sheer effort you put into 'Becoming' something...
it makes me feel alive. It fills me up."
Ren looked the boxing legend in the eye.
"You said Yujiro Hanma respected your 'Heart'—the will that refused to buckle
even against a superpower state. I love that. The fact that a human being can do
that... the fact that someone did it..."
"Whenever I see that kind of willpower, my skin starts to crawl. My muscles
itch."
Ren crossed his arms, taking deep, frantic breaths. His expression bordered on
the manic, a level of excitement that surpassed normal human boundaries.
"If there's such a thing as 'Combat Addiction,' then I think I've got something
worse. I think I have Willpower Addiction."
The two spent the rest of the afternoon training. Alai's routine was highly
scientific and modern, requiring partners for specific drills; Ren, who loved
the noise and energy of a busy session, was happy to oblige.
By evening, the sky was a deep, bruised red. Alai Sr. finished his set, bid Ren
farewell, and gathered his security detail to return to his high-end hotel. Ren
stood at the gate, watching the "Greatest" depart.
As Alai Sr. reached the street corner, he paused. He noticed a man in a long
trench coat walking toward the Hub from the opposite direction.
As they passed each other, the stranger paused. Sensing the boxer's lingering
Combat Aura, the bearded man gave a stoic nod. "Hm."
Alai Sr. nodded back, a silent greeting between veterans. He looked back at the
Hub one last time.
The Soul Combat Hub... unlike the Underground Arena, which exists only for the
kill, this place feels like... daily life.
Ren was heading to the kitchen to start dinner when he sensed a heavy, immovable
presence in the courtyard.
He turned to see [THE DEVIL LANCE] Kuroki Gensai.
Kuroki stood in his trench coat, his thick black beard and rugged features
making him look like a statue carved from granite.
"Kuroki-san...?" Ren was genuinely surprised.
"Hmph. Pardon the intrusion."
Kuroki remained in the center of the courtyard, showing no intention of coming
inside. Ren put on his sandals and walked out to meet him.
"You don't look like you're here for a workout," Ren noted. "What's the word?"
Kuroki was a man of few words. He got straight to the point. "I heard from my
old friend, Metsudo Katahara, that you are in possession of a Secret Key Card
for The Inside."
"Ah...?" Ren remembered the metal card tucked in his pocket. Furumi and the
others had warned him it would attract powerhouses, but he hadn't expected the
Devil Lance to come calling so soon.
"I will ask you directly," Kuroki rumbled. "Ren Shiroki... what is it you seek?
Wealth? Power? Or merely battle?"
Ren scratched his head, looking a bit confused. "Asking it like that makes it
sound so complicated."
Kuroki narrowed his eyes. "You understand that this card involves the Kengan
Association, global syndicates, and the monsters of the Ward. If you are looking
for a 'pure' fight, that card will only pollute your path."
"Conversely, if you seek wealth or status for your dojo, that card is a golden
ticket. There are many who would pay any price to help you expand your influence
in exchange for it."
"As a combatant... which type are you?"
Ren's expression turned peculiar. He looked at Kuroki with a hint of irritation.
"Did Metsudo-jiisan send you to collect it?"
"Not entirely," Kuroki explained. "He asked me to recover any cards from
fighters who didn't want the burden. To me, the hunt is a form of training. But
the question... that is mine."
"What kind of combatant do you intend to be? If your answer is half-baked, it
proves you are too green for the burden. Hand the card to me. It is useless to
you."
Ren was silent for a moment. Then, his face twisted into a grin—an expression of
pure annoyance at being underestimated.
"So, I have to give you an 'Answer'?"
He locked eyes with Kuroki, his aura beginning to boil. "Fine! Let's do it your
way, old man! Let's trade a blow and see what happens!"
The next instant—Ren exploded.
[DRIVE RUSH]!
VROOM!
Ren's silhouette warped as he crossed the distance in a heartbeat, entering
Kuroki's personal space.
Zip!
Both men raised their legs simultaneously, snapping out lateral [SOKUTO KERI]
(Side-blade kicks).
But Kuroki's movement was superior. He "fired" first, retracted his foot, and
stomped the ground to pivot inside Ren's guard before the younger man's kick had
even fully extended. It was a masterclass in economy of motion.
Kuroki spun his hips, transitioning the momentum into a spinning back-kick. His
heel buried itself into Ren's solar plexus.
WHACK!
The impact sent Ren sailing backward. He crashed through a pile of courtyard
supplies—CLATTER!—landing on his back in the middle of the wreckage.
He ground his teeth in pain, but his eyes were shining with manic delight.
"Yeah... this is exactly how it's supposed to feel!"
On the other side, a jagged tear had appeared in the fabric of Kuroki's left
trouser leg. A thin line of blood leaked from a shallow cut on his thigh where
Ren's side-kick had managed to graze him.
Ren had actually landed.
Kuroki looked at the wound, then at Ren. He could feel the intense, fermenting
Combat Aura radiating from the boy—a jagged, wild energy that seemed to warp the
very air.
"I see. Despite the gap in our years, I cannot view you as a 'child' of the next
generation," Kuroki mused. "You have your own Will."
"Shall we consider this a formal exchange between friends?"
"Hm..."
☆☆☆
-> 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