The underground arena buzzed with a violent, intoxicating energy.
A man leaned close to a waiter’s ear, whispering over the deafening noise of the crowd.
“Spread the word. Masaki Fujimiya is here.”
The waiter nodded sharply, quickly setting his empty tray down.
He hurried up the metal grated stairs, heading straight for the VIP boxes where the heavy-hitting businessmen sat overlooking the bloodbath.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, bowing slightly.
“A message from Mr. Hayashi. Masaki Fujimiya has arrived.”
One of the businessmen swirling a glass of amber liquid smirked.
“Thanks for the tip.”
The waiter slipped away, heading straight for the betting counters.
A man named Shigeru sat at the main desk, a microphone resting lazily in his hand.
The waiter leaned in and relayed the message.
“Masaki Fujimiya is here.”
A greedy, almost predatory smile stretched across Shigeru’s face.
“Let’s see if he’s still got that same monstrous strength…” he muttered to himself.
Shigeru leaned back in his chair and flicked the microphone on.
“What’s up, degenerates!”
His voice blasted through the massive speakers, cutting fiercely through the arena’s roar.
“Tonight, we have a very special guest in the house. A man whose name alone demands respect. I’d talk about his past… but honestly, why call it the past when his legend is still breathing right here, right now! Everyone in this room acknowledges his power!”
Up in the stands, Ren’s expression shifted into deep unease.
Hio caught the subtle change, already knowing exactly who Shigeru was hyping up.
Masaki just smiled faintly, while Souta watched the unfolding scene with bored indifference.
Hio tilted his head toward Ren, his voice barely a whisper over the crowd.
“Tonight, you get to see who Masaki Fujimiya truly is.”
Ren’s eyes went wide.
Down below, Shigeru finished his introduction, his voice echoing off the iron walls.
“One of the absolute greatest fighters to ever walk into this pit… Masaki Fujimiya! I request you step down to the ground!”
The deafening crowd suddenly went eerily quiet.
Then, the frantic whispering began, spreading like wildfire.
“He’s actually fighting?”
“The betting odds are going to go crazy tonight…”
“We can make a killing off this!”
Masaki Fujimiya walked in.
His pace was slow.
Composed.
Almost terrifyingly calm.
His polished sports shoes stepped over the damp concrete, creating tiny ripples in the puddles of spilled alcohol and water.
A strange, suffocating hush fell over the entire arena.
Thugs and criminals paused with their drinks halfway to their mouths, merely staring at him.
Even the untouchable businessmen up in the VIP boxes—men who normally looked down on everything with utter chill and boredom—stood up, leaning eagerly over the railings.
Every single eye in the room was pinned on Masaki.
From his corner in the upper stands, Ren observed the spectacle, a tight knot of anxiety twisting in his stomach.
‘All these people…
they all stood up just to watch one man?
Just who exactly is he…?’
Masaki stepped quietly into the octagon.
No arrogant swagger.
No inflated ego.
Just an overwhelmingly serene aura.
But in the thick of the chaotic crowd, a shadowy figure moved.
The drug consumer.
Using the shifting bodies as cover, he jammed a syringe deep into his forearm, injecting a substance straight into his veins.
He grabbed Hio’s arm, hissing sharply.
“He just injected something! We have to stop the fight!”
Hio just smirked, not breaking his gaze from the ring.
“Relax. Everything is completely fine.”
Inside the octagon, the silence was heavy.
Not a single regular fighter dared to step up against Masaki.
He simply stood in the center, his hands hanging loosely at his sides—a state of pure, zen stillness.
Then, the drug consumer vaulted into the ring.
His veins pulsed visibly under his skin, emitting a faint, unnatural blue glow.
His muscles twitched erratically, overloaded with chemical adrenaline.
A tiny, knowing smile touched Masaki’s lips.
It was exactly as he had anticipated.
Up in the stands, the betting frenzy erupted.
Waiters rushed back and forth with silver trays as businessmen furiously threw hand signs, tossing stacks of cash into the pool.
“Fifty grand on Fujimiya!”
“Make it seventy!”
Above the arena, a massive digital monitor flashed the rapidly updating stats:
[ 70% BETS PLACED ON MASAKI’S VICTORY ]
Masaki dropped into his stance—low, precise, incredibly focused.
The drugged opponent charged instantly.
A wild, ferocious punch aimed directly at Masaki’s shoulder.
Masaki simply sidestepped.
Barely an inch.
The edge of his coat fluttered as the heavy fist cleaved through empty air.
The opponent let out a jagged, unnatural smirk.
“Haha…”
Masaki took a calm half-step back, his analytical eyes scanning the man.
‘The consumer showed his hand way too fast,’he noted internally.
Up in the stands, Ren watched with a deeply tense expression.
‘Taking down a drugged consumer is a nightmare…
and he’s going in completely alone.’
Without a fraction of a warning, the opponent lunged again, throwing a blind, ferocious punch backed by monstrous, unnatural force.
Masaki calmly raised a single hand.
Smack!
He caught the brutal punch dead in its tracks.
No struggle.
No pushback.
His feet didn’t even shift.
The crowd erupted into absolute pandemonium.
“OHHHHHHHHH!”
Masaki smiled slightly, unfazed by the roaring arena.
“You’ve got power. I’ll give you that.”
The opponent froze in sheer shock.
The glowing blue veins on his arms bulged violently as he tried to pull his fist back, but Masaki’s grip was like an iron vise.
Without a second of delay—Masaki moved.
A blistering flurry of strikes.
Right jab to the shoulder.
Left cross to the ribs.
A devastating elbow to the sternum.
Two rapid, piston-like punches squarely to the lungs.
Every single impact echoed like gunshots against the metal walls—thwack, thwack, thwack!
Masaki’s movements were terrifyingly fluid, like water flowing to a violent, inescapable rhythm.
Every motion was mathematically precise and utterly brutal.
Finally, a spin.
A high kick carved a perfect arc through the air, landing cleanly against the opponent’s jaw.
CRACK!
The massive fighter was launched backward, crashing heavily onto the cold iron grating.
His body went entirely limp.
The roaring crowd froze.
Utter silence washed over the massive arena, save for the heavy breathing of a thousand shocked spectators.
Ren stared in slow-motion disbelief.
He blinked, his own breath heavy in his chest.
“He didn’t even flinch… not once.”
Memories of his own recent battles flickered through his mind—Ikumi’s brutal kicks, Aoi’s heavy punches, the agonizing sting of every impact.
‘We fought with everything we had…
and we still struggled.’
But down there…
Masaki had moved like water.
No wasted motion.
Zero visible effort.
*’Is this…
the true difference between us?’*
For the very first time, Ren didn’t just admire his older brother.
He feared him.
And yet, simultaneously, he wanted nothing more than to reach that exact same level.
Behind him, Souta and Hio exchanged quiet, knowing grins.
They had expected nothing less.
Up in the VIP boxes, the silence finally broke.
Businessmen cheered wildly, cash flying through the air as bets were furiously settled.
Masaki stood completely still in the center of the carnage for a moment, before calmly turning around and walking out of the octagon.
Later — A Private Bungalow
The atmosphere was quiet and tense.
Masaki sat relaxed on a sofa, his eyes closed, resting his chin thoughtfully on his hand.
Souta and Hio sat across from him.
Opening his eyes, Masaki broke the silence, looking straight at Hio.
“Did you manage to hack the camera footage?”
Hio pulled out his phone, scrolling through the extracted data.
“Yeah. Looking at it now, Hayashi visited that arena exactly one day before we got there.”
Souta leaned back, raising an eyebrow.
“You think he knew we were going to show up?”
A thin, dangerous smile formed on Masaki’s lips.
“Maybe. But I also found out some interesting intel. In exactly three days, they are going to make a massive deal for this new drug with a foreign businessman.”
Souta and Hio mirrored his dark smile.
The real mission was finally starting.
Hio pocketed his phone.
“Should we call in Rank 1 for this?”
“No,” Masaki replied smoothly.
“He’s busy with another assignment.”
Hio leaned forward, genuine curiosity in his voice.
“Why not? Honestly, no one’s even seen him in over four months.”
Masaki folded his arms across his chest, closing his eyes once more.
His voice carried a finality that ended the discussion.
“We can’t call him.”
—Chapter 12 End—