Chapter 455: The Invisible Terror
Despite being deep into autumn, the afternoon sun hung high and warm, lulling
people into a lazy, sleepy stupor.
Yet the moment Jun Guevara stepped onto the scene, that heavy, oppressive
atmosphere vanished entirely, replaced by an inexplicable, breezy lightness
carrying the distant scent of the sea.
As if the weather itself was bending to the whims of [The Second].
Whoosh—! Whoosh—!
The cool autumn wind blew across the street!
Guevara stood his ground, letting the breeze toy idly with the strands of hair
at his temples. He raised an eyebrow, shifting his gaze to Billy and Paklong.
"Word is, IDEAL is a pretty notorious criminal syndicate over in the States.
Your tentacles even reach deep inside the U.S. government."
"Everything from arms smuggling to illicit drugs—you've got your fingers in all
of it, keeping it locked down tight."
"Pretty impressive—for a criminal enterprise, anyway."
"..."
Guevara recited the details casually.
Across from him, Billy tightened his jaw, a single bead of cold sweat rolling
down his temple as he muttered under his breath, "J. Guevara..."
"Ha! I suppose I'm pretty well known!"
Guevara chuckled lightly. "If you want to rule over a pack of battle-hardened
bastards, you have to possess the kind of raw power that makes everyone view you
as the strongest."
"A criminal organization forged under those conditions... well, no wonder the
American police can't handle you guys. After all, they're just Americans."
Guevara's eyes shifted lazily, locking back onto Billy.
"[The Caracal] Billy Greco. Officially serving as a CIA clerk, while your real
identity is IDEAL's premier hitman."
"Word has it you once butchered over a hundred cartel traffickers solo in a
Mexican prison."
"And standing right beside you is a master of assassination kenpo who's been out
of the game for years—[The Hundredfold Slaughter] Paklong. The two of you
teaming up..."
"Now that is fascinating."
With that, Guevara pulled his hands out to shade his eyes, then shoved them
right back into his pockets, letting the warm sunlight wash across his face.
"You know? A sunny afternoon like this usually means tonight's going to be a
gorgeous night—a brilliantly bright, moonlit evening."
"Man, that brings back memories..."
"Back in my younger pirate days, every single voyage started on a night just
like that."
While Guevara was talking, Paklong furtively fished a steel ball from his
pocket, planning to capitalize on the distraction and launch a sneak attack.
Yet the exact microsecond the [Flicker Shot] was about to trigger, Guevara
suddenly stepped forward, physically shifting "Billy" between himself and
Paklong, completely cutting off the trajectory required to fire the steel ball.
—?!
Paklong froze dead in his tracks.
"..."
Did he notice me?
Snap!
In the middle of Paklong's hesitation, Guevara snapped his fingers sharply. The
crisp sound instantly yanked the attention of both Paklong and Billy back to
reality.
"You guys might be professional assassins, but your combat coordination is
painfully amateur..."
Guevara tilted his head with a mocking grin, hands still shoved deep in his
pockets. "On paper, it looks like a two-on-one. But just now, Billy actually
ended up acting as Paklong's human shield."
"If you two just blindly lean into a 'two-on-one' mindset without any real
synchronization, your advantages cancel each other out, your combat
effectiveness tanks, and I'll wipe the floor with you effortlessly."
"So, you two better think long and hard about how you're actually going to
cooperate to bring out your respective strengths. Otherwise... you won't get
another chance."
"..."
For a moment, Billy and Paklong found themselves thoroughly suppressed by
Guevara's overwhelming presence.
On the other side, Ren Shiroki stepped forward, shooting Guevara a sideways,
aggrieved look. "Mr. 2, you're having way too much fun over there."
"Oh—"
Guevara glanced sideways at Ren. "Well, this is my turf, after all! A touching,
fateful duel to the death? Sure, go right ahead. But random, sloppy street
brawls in my neighborhood? Absolutely not."
Ren pressed his lips together, lowering his head. "As expected of Mr. 2,
completely unbothered..."
Right on cue, Billy and Paklong made their move.
They were never close partners to begin with; their alliance was strictly a
business transaction between an employer and a hired gun.
Instead of trying to coordinate and constantly tripping over each other's toes,
they were far better off picking individual targets—that way, they could at
least operate at maximum capacity!
Billy locked his sights on Ren Shiroki.
Paklong sidestepped, shifting his weight until he was standing square opposite
Guevara.
"—Oh!"
Guevara's expression lit up with amusement. "You guys aren't completely
brain-dead, are you? Doing that at least lets you operate at full output. I can
actually feel your intent to kill ramping up."
"Hmph, don't act like you're some kind of prophet. Strong fighters all follow
the same behavioral patterns anyway."
Paklong's face hardened into a mask of grim focus. He spread his fingers wide,
locking his hands into lethal spear-hand postures.
The next instant—
Whoosh!
Paklong compressed his core, twisted his hips with explosive torque, and burst
forward in a sliding charge.
His speed was lightning-fast. In the blink of an eye, he transitioned from the
ground into a leaping spring, utilizing his limber, athletic frame to close the
distance on Guevara, his hands and feet primed to unleash a flurry of fatal
strikes at a moment's notice.
Watching from the sidelines, the local gang members couldn't help but gasp—
Old as he was, the man possessed a muscular, iron-hard physique that put many
youths to shame, and his sharp, predatory features radiated a palpable aura of
slaughter.
The wild precision and razor-sharp lethality of that man's martial prowess made
him look like a walking armory of concealed weapons!
What Paklong practiced wasn't martial arts aimed at self-cultivation; it was a
doctrine forged entirely through countless life-or-death battles—a living
incarnation of the [Hundredfold Slaughter]!
If any of those low-level thugs had stepped up to him, they would have been
hacked to pieces the exact microsecond they made contact!
"Hoh!"
Guevara hopped backward to evade, planting his back flush against the brick
wall.
Sensing the opening, Paklong whipped his torso around, delivering a razor-sharp
knife-hand chop aimed straight at Guevara's throat. Once again, Guevara dropped
into a low crouch, slipping beneath the arc so effortlessly that Paklong
couldn't even graze his clothes.
How is he so fast?!
But this is my chance!
Paklong's goal from the very beginning had been to restrict Guevara's mobility.
Knowing full well that Ren Shiroki had previously batted away a wave of fire
with his bare hands, Paklong—a veteran of countless real-world skirmishes—had no
intention of trying the exact same trick twice.
Instead, he had concealed a flask of volatile incendiary oil tightly clutched in
his palm, planning to hurl it the moment Guevara ducked to avoid his strike,
drenching the pirate leader from head to toe.
There was no way a man could parry a liquid splash!
Once he was soaked in oil and set ablaze, it wouldn't matter if he was "The
President" or "Mr. 2"—he'd be stripped down to charred meat!
Thinking this, Paklong unleashed the move—
Splash!
A stream of warm, piping-hot liquid went flying through the air. But it wasn't
Paklong's incendiary oil—it was Guevara's urine?!
Guevara had ducked to dodge, straightened right back up, and casually whipped it
out, letting fly with a powerful, unobstructed stream straight onto Paklong's
face and chest, drenching him completely.
——???
The sheer, staggering absurdity of the situation short-circuited Paklong's
brain. He completely lost his grip on the oil flask, dropping it with a loud
clatter as it shattered against the pavement below.
It took a full second for Paklong to register what had just happened. Then, a
shriek ripped from his throat: "Waaaah—!"
Staring down in horror as his pristine white designer suit was soaked straight
through with yellow stream, Paklong scrambled backward, screeching at the top of
his lungs as he scrambled away from Guevara.
"Hah, that hit the spot..."
Guevara finished up with a couple of satisfied shakes, looking thoroughly
delighted with himself.
Seeing this, Paklong's face distorted with incandescent rage. "You pissed on
me?! Are you out of your mind, you absolute lunatic?! How the hell is this a
fight?!"
"..."
Guevara didn't look the least bit ruffled. He calmly tucked himself back in and
buckled his belt.
"How is this a fight? You're asking a pretty silly question—"
"You wanted to ignite a spark, and I wanted to put it out. Simple as that.
That's literally what our battle just boiled down to."
Guevara shoved his hands back into his pockets, leaning back against the wall.
"End result? I easily put out your pathetic little matchstick flame."
"Mr. Paklong, is this really okay? Just letting me completely trash your
signature technique like that..."
"And here I am, standing right in front of you, wide open."
Guevara beamed like a ray of sunshine.
Paklong's eyelid twitched violently, his teeth grinding together hard enough to
crack enamel. "You—!"
Unwilling to back down, Paklong gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance,
glaring daggers at Guevara as they maintained their standoff.
On the other side, Ren Shiroki and Billy simultaneously stepped forward, slowly
closing the distance between them.
Between these two, who had tangled for so long, there were more than enough
reasons to settle the score once and for all.
The IDEAL leader's objective was to prop up "Electric Power" to conquer and
govern The Inside, which was why he had dispatched [The Caracal] and his crew
here.
Naturally, Billy never expected this mission to be a walk in the park.
"You're carrying a heavy load for us, Boss..."
Billy reached up, deliberately loosening his tie and ripping off the top collar
buttons of his suit jacket. His dark, sinister eyes spun in their sockets as
they locked onto Ren.
"But if you're the one giving the order, I'd gladly wade through a mountain of
blades or pluck flowers from a sea of fire just to bring it back to you."
"..."
As for Ren? He had his own reasons.
What reasons, exactly?
Even if the grand conspiracy hatched by Electric Power and IDEAL succeeded, the
ones who should be losing sleep over it were old man Metsudo Katahara and the
heavyweights of the Kengan Association, not an independent gym owner like Ren
Shiroki.
Was he doing this for justice?
That sounded far too much like a cheap shonen catchphrase.
When it all boiled down to it, Ren's motivation could be summed up in a single,
simple truth—
He just wanted to throw hands.
He wanted to test his mettle against that [Caracal]!
Stopping just half a step away from Billy, Ren shifted his weight forward,
sinking into a crisp fighting stance.
[RYU: HASHOGEKI (PALM BLAST)]!
Whish!
An invisible shockwave of kinetic pressure smashed straight into Billy's face,
startling him into throwing both forearms up in a cross-guard. His forearms
trembled violently under the invisible impact as a sheet of cold sweat broke out
across his skin.
—?!
It felt like an invisible, terrifying monster was hammering against his arms!
After a brief wave of shock, a searing spike of adrenaline surged into white-hot
fury. Billy's expression darkened into a scowl, cords of muscle bulging fiercely
across his neck and the back of his hands.
"DIEYOBBO—————!"
☆☆☆
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