Chapter 410: Slashing
CLAP!
The massive hands of the world-renowned physician, Kureha Shinogi, slammed into
the backs of Ren Shiroki and Kosho Shinogi simultaneously. Both men were knocked
forward a step by the sheer force of the "blessing."
Hearing Kureha's words, the two combatants exchanged a look. They wore identical
expressions of technical euphoria and manic anticipation.
"Nice. That's perfect! Thanks, Doc!"
"Aniki," Kosho smirked. "Don't think I'm going to let you cut in line for my
'homework' this time."
The battle had come on short notice. Consequently, the tiered stands of the
Underground Arena were sparsely populated. There were many empty seats, a far
cry from the wall-to-wall crowds of the Maximum Tournament.
And yet, the pressure in the room hadn't dropped a single point. Every
"passerby" who had followed them from the construction site radiated a level of
intensity that made the air feel thick.
After parting ways with the fighters, the group of legends filtered into the VIP
section.
Metsudo Katahara, Mitsunari Tokugawa, Sayaka Katahara, Kanoh Agito, Kureha
Shinogi, Gouki Shibukawa, Doppo Orochi, Katsumi Orochi, and Fusui Kure. It was a
gathering of the underground's heaviest hitters.
Mitarai, the official announcer, had been caught in a gridlock across town and
wouldn't make it in time. Tokugawa waved his fan dismissively and pointed at
Sayaka. "You're up, girl. Give us a show!"
Sayaka patted her arms, her fighting spirit flaring. "Alright! Leave the
play-by-play to me!"
When it came to her specialty, Sayaka was a consummate professional. She was
confident she could bridge the gap for the audience.
For a real struggle, the "warm-up" on the road was more than enough. All that
was left was the ceremony of the cloth.
Slide—!
Just as Sayaka finished calibrating the microphone, a silhouette emerged from
the West Gate—The White Tiger.
Kosho Shinogi.
He wore a dark navy-blue Karate gi, sleeves rolled up past his biceps, a frayed
black belt cinching his waist. He was barefoot, his long dark hair tied back in
a sharp tail. On his handsome, stoic face, his eyes glowed like the edge of a
blade—an intensity etched into his very marrow.
"GENTLEMEN! LADIES! HE HAS ARRIVED!!"
Sayaka's voice thundered through the B6 level.
"Nicknamed [THE CORD-CUTTER], Kosho Shinogi is here to demonstrate the lethality
of the Shinogi Style in a true Street Brawl!!"
Zip!
Kosho suddenly dropped to the sand. Using only six digits—the thumbs, index, and
middle fingers of both hands—he hoisted his 81kg frame into a vertical
handstand.
Maintaining the handstand, he arched his back and began a high-speed Thomas
Flare, his legs spinning and swinging in a rhythmic, athletic blur before he
suddenly snapped back onto his feet.
Clap!
He landed perfectly, his breathing as calm as a mirror-pool.
"W-What... incredible control!!" Sayaka cried, unable to hide her excitement.
"That level of microscopic precision... that body control... he moves like a
world-class gymnast!!"
[The Stands]
[THE BUSHIN] Doppo Orochi sat with his arms crossed, his one eye fixed on the
sand.
"The Shinogi Style..."
He pouted, gesturing to Katsumi beside him. "Listen up, kid. I spend my days
cutting through timber and steel wire, but the Orochi-ryu is fundamentally a
'Blunt Instrument' martial art."
"Destruction. Pulverization. High-torque impact. That is the heart of Karate."
Doppo clenched his fist, his tone shifting. "But Kosho's style is an anomaly. He
has converted the Karate strike into an art of tearing, slashing, and piercing.
He has evolved his limbs into surgical blades."
"Simply put... his is the Art of the Cord-Cutter."
Doppo rubbed his own arms, a mock shiver running through him. "Man, it makes me
ache just looking at him. I really don't want to trade skin with that kid~!"
"Pops," Katsumi teased, "you've fought a thousand thugs. Don't tell me you're
suddenly afraid of a little 'Steel'?"
Doppo raised an eyebrow. "Kosho isn't a street punk with a knife. He's a master
who is the knife. At my age, I'd like to keep my scars to a minimum, thank you
very much!"
Then, from the East Gate—The Blue Dragon.
Ren Shiroki emerged from the darkness of the tunnel.
As he walked, he stripped off his track pants and jacket, finally pulling his
shirt over his head and tossing the bundle to the side. He was bare-chested and
barefoot, wearing only his fighting trunks.
His muscular frame was a map of high-density tissue and jagged scars—medals
earned from a dozen wars.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He stepped into the blinding glare of the arena lights, soaking in the roars of
the "passersby."
Whoosh!
Ren raised a bandaged right fist to the crowd.
The cheers increased in volume, the audience blessing the arrival of the two
predators.
"THE DUEL OF THE TITANS!!" Sayaka screamed into the mic.
"Height: 187cm. Weight: 103kg—[THE SOUL COMBATANT] REN SHIROKI!"
"VS!"
"Height: 177cm. Weight: 81kg—[THE CORD-CUTTER] KOSHO SHINOGI!"
A Pit official stood in the center of the ring, gesturing for the two fighters
to approach. Ren and Kosho met in the middle, offering a silent martial salute.
Physically, Ren held every advantage. He was taller, heavier, and possessed more
raw mass. But not a single spectator questioned the fairness of the match. In
the Underground, a twenty-kilogram weight gap was a triviality that "Technique"
was expected to overcome.
Especially when the lighter man was Kosho Shinogi.
"WEIGHT? IT DOESN'T MATTER!" "HEIGHT? IRRELEVANT!" "STYLE? MEANINGLESS!!"
Sayaka's voice dropped to a visceral growl. "The rules of the Pit are simple:
Bare Hands Only. Everything else is permitted by the gods of combat!"
Hearing the familiar declaration, Ren and Kosho both grinned.
Ren's was a wide, bared-teeth laugh—the infectious, rowdy joy of the street.
Kosho's was a thin, razor-sharp smirk—the cold confidence of a specialist.
"GENTLEMEN... TAKE YOUR MARKS!"
The two men turned and walked back to their starting lines. Unlike a sanctioned
match, they didn't drop into their stances immediately. They stood in a brief,
heavy silence, scenting the air.
The official returned to the edge of the pit. He lifted the heavy mallet,
targeting the massive drum marked with the Tokugawa crest. He swung with
everything he had.
BOOM—!!!
"BEGIN THE FRAMES!!"
Sayaka had a premonition: this fight wouldn't follow a standard trajectory. It
was going to be a war of high-frequency technical lethality. She focused every
ounce of her professional attention on the sand.
Her intuition was frame-perfect. Zip!
The instant the drum echoed, Kosho Shinogi leaned into a forward-lunge,
sprinting across the sand.
Ren was a fraction slower to start, but he pivoted side-on, his hands rising as
he glided forward. The two warriors were in a "Double-Lunge" state.
The distance vanished in a heartbeat. They entered each other's [NEUTRAL] zone.
BAM!
Kosho pushed off the floor, launching into a high-amplitude jump. He led with a
[FLYING SOKUTO KERI] (Flying Side-Blade Kick). It was his signature entry—the
same move that had once split Baki Hanma's ear open.
"—!!"
Ren dropped into his guard. Right arm guarded his ribs, left wrist stayed low,
but he snapped his left elbow upward, focusing his intent on the incoming
trajectory.
[DRIVE PARRY]!
CLAP!
Ren's forearm met the flying foot-blade with a heavy, wet smack, redirecting the
momentum and batting the kick aside.
The parry was successful! The first strike missed!
But today's Kosho Shinogi was lightyears ahead of his past self. His technical
adaptability had evolved. In the millisecond he spent suspended in the air,
Kosho twisted his hips and spine, his body performing a mid-air rotation.
Fingertip-blades. Hand-blades. Heel-blades. Toe-tips.
Every "Terminal" point of his four limbs flickered with a ghostly, lethal light.
He unleashed a high-frequency barrage of slashing kicks and "Slashing Fists" as
he spiraled past Ren, striking every available inch of the boy's frame.
Shick-shick-shick-shick-shick!
The sound wasn't the dull thud of a punch. It was the high-frequency "hiss" of
steel cutting through resistance. It made the audience's skin crawl.
Squelch—!
In a single pass, Ren Shiroki's forearms and outer torso were opened in a dozen
places. Fresh, hot blood erupted from the surgical lacerations, splattering
across the pristine white sand of the arena.
☆☆☆
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