The music had died.
The only sounds left were the ominous shatter of fallen glass and the gritty scrapeof combat boots against the floor.
Kirishima stood center stage, gripping a single axe.
His eyes were half-hidden in shadow, his breathing utterly composed.
The battlefield wasn’t just where he worked; it was where he belonged.
For a terrifying instant, silence held the room captive.
Then, a lone, desperate voice screamed—
“Kill him! Get him!!”
And chaos exploded.
Two men lunged simultaneously, a synchronized pincer attack.
Kirishima didn’t even shuffle his feet.
With a vicious swerve of his wrist, he parried the first strike.
Before the man could recover, Kirishima reversed the momentum, driving the blunt side of the axe head straight into his ribcage.
CRACK!
The second attacker swung a wild punch.
Kirishima caught the wrist mid-air.
With an ice-cold glare, he twisted the arm and used the man’s own weight to execute a flawless body flip.
CRASH!
The man slammed into the bar counter, scattering expensive bottles like bowling pins.
A third thug seized a heavy wine bottle and hurled it with lethal intent.
The bottle blurred through the air.
With a microscopically precise tilt of his head, Kirishima dodged.
The glass whizzed past his ear and shattered against the back wall.
SMASH!
Kirishima seized that exact microsecond of distraction.
A swift, predatory step forward.
The sharp edge of his axe arced in a diagonal flash across the man’s forearm.
A spray of crimson mist.
A howl of agony.
Before the man could fall, Kirishima buried a brutal front kick into his chest.
He was sent flying backward, writhing on the floor as he clutched his bleeding arm.
The remaining thugs froze.
For a single heartbeat, terror warred with disbelief.
But desperation won out.
Re-forming their line, they surged forward—a coordinated, three-sided assault.
A high kick, a straight punch, and a blinding spinning kick all aimed for him at once.
Kirishima blocked the first kick with his forearm and deflected the punch.
But the raw speed of the spinning kick caught him in the flank.
THUD!
The force sent him skidding sideways across the slick floor, finally losing his balance and falling over.
He landed exactly where he needed to be.
His eyes, now wide in the slow-motion clarity of combat, locked onto the axe he had thrown earlier.
It lay resting near a shattered table.
His gloved hand shot out, grabbing the leather-wrapped hilt as he seamlessly shifted his weight back into a rising stance.
From the back of the crowd, a voice trembled.
“Who… who put that axe there?!”
Kirishima let out a half-smile, a hint of pure madness gleaming in his eyes.
“I never leave my weapons behind.”
The next moment was a complete blur of lethality.
The three men rushed him together, but Kirishima was no longer human—he was lightning-fast.
In a single, fluid spinning motion, he became a whirlwind of steel.
A deep cut to the first man’s shoulder.
A grazing slash to the side of the second man’s neck.
A brutal horizontal tear across the midsection of the third.
Blood misted through the air, flashing red under the bar lights.
Then, Kirishima stood silent.
His twin axes were now violently dripping crimson onto the floor.
The room was filled only with the ragged rasp of his heavy breaths and the unsettling *crackle* of broken glass under his boots.
A lone survivor in the back was slowly, silently backing toward the doorway.
Kirishima’s gaze snapped to him.
He casually rested one axe on his shoulder.
His tone was like ice falling on marble.
“Now… who wants to be the first to die?”
An absolute, terrifying silence once again paralyzed the bar.
With that threat hanging in the air, Kirishima began a slow, methodical walk toward the private area where Rokura Hayashi, Arata asano, and Tensei arakawa sat.
Tensei’s men parted before him like the Red Sea.
Hayashi looked up, his eyes locking onto Kirishima’s bloody figure.
Instantly, Tensei bolted upright from his chair.
Arata, equally tense, stood up as well.
“Long time no see, my friend.”
Even in the face of the carnage, Hayashi stood and offered a bow of respect.
“Likewise, my old friend… Kirishima Raizen.”
A tiny, knowing smile touched Kirishima’s lips.
“On behalf of the Rankers, your challenge is accepted… Rokura Hayashi.”
Hayashi sighed, attempting to smooth over the tension.
“You shouldn’t have struggled so much just to come here. A simple phone call would have sufficed.”
“Maybe,” Kirishima mused, glancing around at the wrecked interior.
“But coming here in person… the ‘atmosphere’ is just so much better.”
Kirishima turned, preparing to leave the way he came.
Seeing his back, Arata snapped.
He couldn’t let it end like this.
“Hold on! You can’t just walk out of here empty-handed.”
Hayashi shot an annoyed glance at Arata.
“And what exactly do you intend to give him?”
Arata’s expression turned deadly serious.
“Not me. You will give it to him. Go ahead, Hayashi. Greet your ‘old friend’ properly.”
For a fleeting second, Hayashi’s mind rushed back to the past.
A brutal memory flashed—a cold business meeting room, filled with the lifeless, bloody bodies of rivals.
Standing amidst the slaughter were mid-15 Hayashi and Kirishima, their shirts soaked in the blood of their enemies.
‘Hayashi, I give you my word as a friend… I will never raise a weapon against you.’
The flashback faded.
Hayashi turned to Arata, his voice final.
“I gave him my word. I will never fight him.”
Arata let out a frustrated sigh.
If the boss wouldn’t maintain Prison’s honor, he would.
He immediately stepped into Kirishima’s path.
Kirishima sized up the younger man.
“So, is this child the new leader of Prison?” he asked, directing the question to Hayashi.
Hayashi nodded slowly.
Arata stood his ground—calm, unarmed, but radiating an aura intense enough to freeze the blood of anyone nearby.
Before him stood Kirishima Raizen—twin axes gripped loosely, bathed in the blood of Prison’s own men.
Their eyes met.
And in that silent locking of gazes—a spark of mutual respect.
Slowly, Kirishima lowered both axes.
With a casual CLINK, he let them drop to the floor.
The heavy metal echoed against the silence, announcing the end of the armed phase of negotiation.
Kirishima settled into a loose hand-to-hand fighting stance—feet firm on the cracked floor, shoulders relaxed.
Arata’s lips twitched into a faint, challenging grin.
Kirishima made the first move—a lightning-fast jab meant to test the waters.
Arata countered flawlessly, blocking with his wrist and rotating into a precise counter-punch.
Kirishima simply tilted his head, the wind of the fist brushing past his hair.
Arata unloaded a swift roundhouse kick aimed high.
Kirishima absorbed the impact on his shin.
Without a fraction of delay, he transferred his weight forward, driving a heavy punch straight into Arata’s chest.
THUD!
The explosive force generated a visible ripple in the hazy air.
Arata was forced back a full, staggering step.
But Arata’s guard held firm.
Grinning wilder now, he launched another kick—this time a blinding low arc.
It connected clean.
A solid hit on Kirishima’s side ribs.
The impact caused Kirishima to stumble for a half-step, but his eyes remained dead-locked on his opponent.
Creating some distance, Kirishima took a deep, centering breath.
“You’re a damn good fighter, Arata.”
Arata just gave a sharp, silent nod—no words needed, only respect.
Then… everything blurred.
There was no hesitation.
No complex strategy.
Just pure, unadulterated instinct.
Kirishima and Arata stood nose-to-nose in the center of the wreckage.
Broken glass crunched beneath their shifting boots.
The red neon light glinted off the sweat dripping down their faces.
No more dialogue.
Only breathing… heavy, synchronized, feral.
(The Brawl)
Then, the world turned into a blur of raw power.
No hesitation.
No guarding.
Just pure, punishing impact.
Arata threw a high-force right punch, putting every ounce of his body weight behind the blow.
The air itself seemed to crackle with thunder as the fist accelerated.
THWACK!
Kirishima absorbed the punch head-on, his shoulders only dipping slightly.
On almost the exact same beat, he launched his own counter-punch—and it landed even heavier.
The double impact halted both their bodies for a fraction of a second, as if the entire world had frozen on collision.
Their boots skidded uselessly across the floor, fracturing the tiles beneath them.
Then, the combination flows—
Arata threw a second blow.
Kirishima blocked it mid-air and retaliated with a rapid left jab.
Punches rained down relentlessly, finding homes on ribs, jaws, stomachs, and shoulders.
Every single impact echoed through the silent bar with a sickening thud, crack, and a primal grunt of exertion.
The atmosphere inside the bar had turned savage.
Every single strike carried a weight of mutual understanding—this fight wasn’t about winning or losing.
It was a brutal test of willpower.
Droplets of blood flashed through the air, mixing with a shower of sweat.
Blood trickled from the corner of Kirishima’s lip, but his expression had twisted into a wild grin.
Arata wiped the sweat from his cheek and redoubled the pace of his assault.
They fought in the pocket, exchanging heavy blows.
The impacts were so massive that the surrounding air vibrated with destructive energy.
No one took a guard.
No one took a single step back.
One final sequence:
Arata attempted a double-fist hammer blow.
Kirishima rotated his torso into a vicious cross-hook.
THWACK!
Their fists connected violently with each other’s faces at the exact same moment.
Both warriors staggered backward several feet.
Their breathing was ragged, their fists trembling, but their eyes remained connected across the space.
There was no anger.
No pain.
Only mutual respect.
Two fighters had finally realized they were absolute equals.
In the far corner, Hayashi and Tensei stood paralyzed, stunned by the level of combat they were witnessing.
Tensei broke the silence, his voice barely a whisper of disbelief.
“Who… who exactly is this kid, that he can stand toe-to-toe with Rank 1st IP?”
Tensei’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“It’s impossible… nobody can react that fast.”
Hayashi was locked deep in thought.
“I don’t know. But I do know one thing… that boy is no normal human.”
The air in the bar was suffocatingly thick, filled with the heavy metallic scent of sweat and blood.
Both fighters created distance once again, breaths rattling in their chests, fists clenched tight, preparing for another clash.
Then—
Trrrring!
Trrrring!
The harsh vibration of a phone echoed through the room.
Both Arata and Kirishima froze in their tracks.
A tenth of a second away from crashing back into each other, the noise snapped them back to reality.
Kirishima slowly lowered his fists.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.
He held the receiver to his ear.
A single, calm voice spoke from the other end:
“The job is done.”
A heavy pause settled over the line.
Kirishima closed the phone.
He exhaled a long, deep breath and fully loosened his fighting stance, the killing intent instantly evaporating.
Hayashi immediately stepped forward, raising a hand.
“Enough. That’s it. Let him go.”
Kirishima looked across the wreckage to Arata.
He offered a single, silent nod of acknowledgment.
Arata nodded back.
They both understood.
This fight was not over… it was merely on pause.
The lights in the bar seemed to dim as the scene faded out.
Two exhausted warriors stood at opposite ends of the room, forever bound by the respect they had hammered into each other.
—Chapter 16 End—