Chapter 58: Kuroki Gensai

By the time Shirataki Kyo had changed into fresh clothes and returned to the spectators’ seats for the gladiators with Saeko, the seats beside them were already occupied by the ever-enthusiastic good-natured Kazuo Yamashita and the somewhat drowsy, naturally curly-haired Ohma Tokita.

“Ah, it’s young Shirataki and Miss Busujima!”

“Hey there, Uncle Yamashita. Uncle Ohma, are you feeling alright?” Kyo greeted.

Ohma, called “uncle” yet again, clicked his tongue and grumbled, “Tch. Compared to a guy like you, messing around with muscle monsters, there’s no way I could say I’m not alright.”

“Haha, don’t say that. After all, what matters most in fighting is having fun.” Shirataki Kyo scratched his head like a bashful college student, then pulled Saeko down beside him.

At that moment, the arena was already alive with the spectacle of the burly, dark-skinned Jerry Tyson, who had just leaped from the commentary booth to the ring. Facing him was a man wrapped in a black karate gi, his body so thick and solid it seemed almost monstrous, hair bristling wildly—a middle-aged man who looked for all the world like a standing black bear.

Kyo recalled the match-up chart he’d glimpsed back in the slot machine room. “Genosai Kuroki... is it?”

Just then, a somewhat familiar voice called out from behind their seats.

“What’s with that old guy? His technique’s got no flair at all! Not even close to my Razor...”

“Idiot, Rihito. With basics that solid, I doubt that guy even needs to show his real skills against the likes of that black fellow!”

Those voices... Kyo turned his head, and sure enough, there were the two he’d eliminated on the Death Ship: the blond, spiky-haired Rihito, and the bowl-cut blond cross-dresser.

The two in the back row caught sight of Kyo as he turned around.

“Oh! It’s you, kid!” Rihito’s tone was aggressive, making Kyo almost expect him to come charging over to settle the score from the qualifiers.

Kyo tensed a little in anticipation.

But as always, things took an unexpected turn.

“Your match just now was unbelievably awesome! You said, ‘I’ll crush you all,’ didn’t you?”

“Trading blows lacks elegance, but in terms of sheer spirit, you were astonishing!” They clapped Kyo heartily on the shoulder, their praise sincere.

Now it was Kyo’s turn to feel a bit embarrassed.

Through their conversation, Kyo began to gain some insight into the personalities of the Kengan Association’s gladiators. They were, without a doubt, martial artists with fierce fighting spirits. They fought with abandon—insults, dirty tricks, ruthless moves, nothing was off-limits.

But battle, Kyo realized, was only the “first meeting” with them. If, in daily life, you turned out to be decent company, then even those who’d broken your bones or spat in your face in the ring could become your friends.

This way of balancing combat and everyday life—Kyo found it rather admirable.

As the group’s camaraderie began to deepen, the tide in the arena shifted.

Jerry Tyson, the burly black man, was proudly showcasing his greatest achievement after decades of martial arts study: the J-Style Morphing Fist—a martial art evolved from the Morphing Fist of the Republic, discarding animal mimicry in favor of emulating the violence of firearms!

Weighing nearly a hundred kilograms with muscles as hard as black steel, he charged across the arena arms outstretched, the whistling air sounding almost like a missile’s flight.

But Genosai Kuroki, standing there like a black bear, responded to these massive charges with nothing more than simple sidesteps or palm strikes, making the black projectile’s efforts futile time and again—never even stepping outside a three-step radius!

“F**K YOU, bro! Can’t you fight like a real man?” Jerry shouted, breath coming hard from the exertion—a marathon at full combat intensity was no joke, and even a giant like Jerry Tyson was feeling his stamina wane.

Kuroki remained cold and impassive throughout. Now, he breathed out lightly and replied, “Enough. The farce ends here.”

“Now’s my chance!” Jerry, seizing the brief opening, dug his powerful legs into the sand, leaving deep furrows.

He stopped short. Then spun and charged anew!

“Take this—my Flying Missile Kick!”

The sound of movement over the red sand reverberated through the arena’s sound system.

“What—?” Jerry’s wide eyes filled with surprise.

Beside him, Kuroki, his expression as cold as a still well, executed a deft pivot at just the right moment.

He appeared at Jerry’s side as the latter launched his charge.

“Think you can read my moves and attack from the side? Useless! Attacking a one-hundred-kilo man at top speed is like throwing yourself in front of a speeding truck—”

A dull thud.

Jerry’s confidence hadn’t even caught up with reality. Kuroki, posing in his karate stance, simply hammered down with his fist and forearm, striking the outstretched arms Jerry had held forward.

The self-proclaimed “rampaging truck’s” impact was instantly redirected into the red sand of the arena!

His fist drove so deep it gouged a furrow in the ground, and his overalls and shirt were shredded to tatters in a heartbeat.

But just when everyone thought the black man’s fight was over, Jerry grinned confidently and yanked his arms free from the sand, flinging a cloud of fine grit toward Kuroki.

“Bet you didn’t see that coming! My skin underwent organ specialization training in the Republic, like Iron Sand Palm—this sand’s nothing to me!”

He readied his Flying Missile Kick again, prepared to charge through the swirling dust.

But before he could move—

A sharp crack rang out.

A kick to the back of his knee sent him crashing down, one knee in the sand. A hand as broad and heavy as a bear’s paw clamped around his skull, pinning him beneath it.

A bone-chilling creak echoed—the terrifying grip threatened to crush straight through Jerry’s skull into the brain beneath.

The sound alone made his eyes dart in terror.

“NO! NO! N—”

A knife-hand strike whistled through the air, stopping at the side of Jerry’s neck, a bead of blood trembling at the fingertip.

“Your Morphing Fist is neither animal nor weapon, your foundation is all brute force but unstable and hollow. What did you even learn in the Republic?

Who gave you the courage to create a Morphing Fist that mimics something with neither flesh nor bone? Was it Guo Haihuang?”

The man like a black bear spoke the last three words with a resonance that seemed to carry an indescribable power.

Kneeling in the sand, his skull crushed, his throat bleeding, Jerry Tyson heard those words and immediately abandoned all fear and doubt in his eyes.

Instead, he was filled with a kind of reverent awe.

“You… you know…”

“Silence. You haven’t earned the right to speak his name. I merely had the chance to meet him once, to receive a day’s instruction.”

“Even so!” Blood was streaming steadily from Jerry’s neck, but he paid it no mind, exclaiming, “Even just for a day—I got to spar with someone taught by him! Isn’t that right?!”

“If that’s the summit of your martial arts ambitions, so be it,” Kuroki replied, turning away. “Referee, your call.”

“Ah—ah! I declare the winner—Motorhead Enterprise’s Genosai Kuroki!”

Whether it was just his imagination or not, Shirataki Kyo, sitting high in the stands, felt a searing, blade-like fighting spirit—sharp and focused—emanate from the bear-like man as he left the arena.

Yet when Kyo glanced at his companions—Saeko, Ohma, Rihito, Yamashita, and Keizaburo Sawada—not one of them seemed to notice a thing.