Chapter 431: Roma!
Speak of a fighter, and the fighter appears.
Under the shroud of late evening, a lone figure slipped through the gatehouse
corridor and stepped into the perimeter of the Three Wolves sector. The sight of
battle greeted him immediately: the weathered concrete of the outer wall had
been pulverized, several gaping breaches exposing the dark hollows within.
Tracing the trail of destruction, the newcomer finally locked eyes with Ren
Shiroki and the bald lieutenant.
The man wore an unbuttoned floral shirt over a tank top, dark trousers, and a
travel pack slung across one shoulder. He was tall, athletic, with deep bronze
skin and styled white hair.
[THE ICY EMPEROR] Himuro Ryo.
Height: 181 cm. Weight: 82 kg.
Earlier, while investigating the Secret Key Cards, Heihachi Furumi of Furumi
Pharmaceuticals had reached out to this very man through his employer. Himuro
was the premier Kengan representative for the retail publishing giant,
Giinokuniya Bookstore.
Twenty-five years old, born and bred in the gutter of The Inside.
After claiming the title of Giinokuniya's primary fighter, he had blazed through
four consecutive Kengan bouts undefeated with blistering speed. He was one of
the most popular, high-tier contenders in the Association. During his off-hours,
he was known to moonshine as a rather suave bartender.
Ren's memories stirred.
In the original timeline of the Kengan Annihilation Tournament, Himuro had
entered as Giinokuniya's champion, but never made it to the opening bell. He had
been challenged beforehand by [THE GIANT KILLER] Suekichi Kaneda, who analyzed
Himuro's Jeet Kune Do counters after Himuro took him too lightly. The resulting
brawl left Himuro with a fractured right arm. Though he fought on with a single
limb, he was ultimately brought down, forfeiting his bracket spot.
He spent the remainder of that tournament watching from the stands with his arm
in a sling.
Despite his icy, cool-guy exterior, Himuro was surprisingly easygoing—the kind
of guy who could shoot the breeze over drinks with the likes of Naoya Okubo and
Rihito.
In this timeline, the unrestricted chaos of the Kengan Annihilation Street Brawl
had replaced the closed bracket. Without a limited roster, Kaneda had had no
reason to target Himuro beforehand.
Seeing Himuro approach, Ren and the bald lieutenant both paused.
"Yo," Himuro raised an open hand from a few paces away, signaling he hadn't come
for blood.
The silver-haired brawler stepped forward and extended a firm grip to Ren.
"First time meeting in person, Shiroki-kun."
Himuro smiled, producing two embossed business cards—one for himself, and one
for Ken Ooya, Chairman of Giinokuniya Bookstore.
A fine souvenir. Ren accepted them, tucking them into his pack.
Ren grinned. "The Kengan Association's Icy Emperor came all this way just to say
hello?"
Himuro wasn't one for beating around the bush, and he knew Ren wasn't either.
"Chairman Ooya sent me to build a bridge with you. Put our name on your radar."
Himuro swung his pack off his shoulder, unzipping it to reveal vacuum-sealed
rations, clean undershirts, and stacks of crisp US hundred-dollar bills—the
universal hard currency of the black market.
"The Chairman tracked your movement through Furumi-san. Consider these survival
supplies a gift from Giinokuniya."
Himuro leaned back against the brickwork. "Beyond making friends, the Chairman
wanted me to stick around the Ward for a few days, keep an eye on the faction
movements, and gather fresh intel. In short: treat me as a travel buddy. If I
get on your nerves, tell me to kick rocks and I'll vanish."
He smirked. "Oh, and if your Soul Combat Hub ever needs books, manuals, or
literary sponsorships, Giinokuniya is ready to foot the bill. The Chairman made
sure I passed that along."
"Haha, deal!"
Ren wasn't about to say no. He loved reading, and adding a bookstore
conglomerate to the Hub's sponsor list was a massive score.
"You even brought greenbacks?" Ren peered at the cash, raising an eyebrow. "I
packed rations and medical tape, but I completely skipped out on currency."
"That's why you need an insider," Himuro said, pocketing his hands. "The black
markets in the Ward sell everything—whiskey, fresh meat, ammo, antibiotics,
forged passports. But since the residents hail from every corner of the globe,
the yen takes a back seat. US dollars are king."
Ren nodded his thanks.
Himuro waved it off. "No sweat. I grew up in the Three Wolves district. The
street layout reshuffles every few months, but the basic survival rules never
change."
Himuro glanced sideways, locking eyes with the bald outlaw in the cast.
"Long time no see, baldy."
"Hah! Still kicking, Himuro!"
The two men locked left forearms in a rough, familiar clasp.
The bald lieutenant chuckled, turning to Ren. "Small world, huh? This is the
Kengan buddy I was telling you about. Turned out he was looking for you all
along. Guess you're the real celebrity here, Shiroki-kun!"
Himuro pointed a thumb at the lieutenant. "Watch your mouth around this guy,
Ren. He's got a short fuse. We threw hands years ago before I put him in his
place. To see him chatting peacefully... you must've rearranged his face pretty
good, huh?"
The lieutenant winced, hoisting his shattered right arm in its sling. "Yeah,
broke the damn joint. Looking at a month in a cast, minimum."
Himuro snickered. "Sounds like your usual luck."
"Shut your mouth!" the lieutenant barked back. "Act cocky and someone'll snap
your arm in half next!"
Himuro looked up at the stars, grinning effortlessly. "Not gonna happen. I'm too
good for that."
The lieutenant clicked his tongue. "Smug bastard..."
Midnight settled in. A small campfire crackled against the reinforced wall.
Between the bald lieutenant's reputation among the local garrison and the
arrival of an established Kengan heavy hitter like Himuro, the remaining outlaws
kept their distance. The garrison spent the night regrouping, nobody foolish
enough to poke the hornet's nest a second time.
The three men roasted sweet potatoes over the embers.
Himuro prodded the fire with a charred stick, exhaling a plume of smoke from his
cigarette. "So, Shiroki-kun. How deep into the Ward do you actually plan on
going?"
Ren thought about it. "I want to see the whole place."
Himuro scowled slightly, dragging on his smoke.
"The Inside isn't just a den of thieves. There are ancient martial artists
living in seclusion here, killers who walked away from civilization decades ago.
Even as someone born here, I wouldn't stroll through the core districts alone."
He tapped the ash off his cigarette, his eyes narrowing. "An outsider sticking
his chest out like this? You're painting a bullseye on your back. You aren't
taking this place lightly, are you?"
Ren leaned his head back against the shattered concrete, staring up through the
floodlights toward the bruised night sky.
"Facing a few difficult obstacles... that's kind of the whole point, isn't it?"
Himuro paused, letting out a dry, exasperated breath. "Kid... bringing a fist to
challenge The Inside isn't just 'difficult.' It's suicide."
Ren nudged the bald lieutenant with his elbow, grinning. "Hey, look. Himuro's
pouting."
The lieutenant burst out laughing. "Gwahaha!"
Even the thugs of the Ward had to admit: these tournament fighters from the
outside world were freer than anyone inside the walls.
Dawn broke over the concrete ruins.
Ren splashed his face with bottled water, wolfing down a pack of dry rations and
roasted beans.
Nearby, the bald lieutenant was on a satellite burner, trading whispered updates
with his network across the sectors. After hanging up, he walked over, his
expression grim.
"Shiroki-kun. The Ward is on fire. Outsiders have breached several perimeter
gates. Local bosses and syndicate enforcers are already moving to intercept."
"You better buckle up."
He nodded toward the clearing. "Starting with those clowns."
Across the gatehouse courtyard, the garrison had regrouped. After a full night
of rest and reinforcement, their numbers had swelled, and their bloodlust was
back in full force. At the front stood a heavily tattooed brawler wearing brass
knuckles.
"Hey, outsider! Before you get swallowed by the inner sectors, you've got
unfinished business with us!"
Ren tossed his water bottle aside, rolling his shoulders until his cervical
spine cracked like firecrackers.
Fwoosh—!
The ink-wash smoke churned violently behind him, the towering phantom from the
previous afternoon solidifying into terrifying focus.
Over two meters of sculpted, ancient muscle. A gladiatorial champion radiating
glorious, golden light.
Marisa!
The giant warrior-woman slammed her heavy, armored hand onto Ren's shoulder
blades with a bone-jarring THWACK!
{Hahaha! That's the spirit, boy! Let me show you how we handled the arena in my
era! CRUSH THEM!!}
RIIIP!
Ren tore away his ruined shirt, leaving his scarred, dense torso completely
exposed to the morning chill.
Step.
He advanced with heavy, immovable strides.
This time, the outlaws had adapted. They didn't charge in a blind, tangled
swarm. They broken into coordinated fireteams of three and four, maintaining
spacing to surround him without bottlenecking.
Ren, however, had also adjusted his strategy.
The moment the distance closed to three paces—
[DRIVE RUSH]!
VOOM!
Ren blurred laterally! A high-torque middle roundhouse kick swept from right to
left, acting like a giant broom that forcefully compressed three flanking thugs
into a single, tight cluster!
"What the—?!"
Before they could untangle their limbs, Ren's frame was already planted. His
core coiled like a catapult, driving his right fist forward with the unstoppable
momentum of a Roman war engine!
He held the charge for a single frame, then detonated!
"ROMA!!"
[MARISA: GLADIUS]!!
BOOM—CLANG—!!
A sonic shockwave tore through the courtyard!
The three outlaws were blasted backward like bowling pins, their chests caving
in as the kinetic impact scattered them across the gravel in a spray of blood!
☆☆☆
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