Chapter 83: The Madman

After nearly missing the entire fight between the two championship favorites—Fuyun’s Izumi and the Fang of Metsudo, Kana Akira—on the opening day, Bai Tangjing, following the tense schedule of the Kengan Annihilation Tournament’s final day, where he would have to fight three matches in a row, exchanged brief words with his master and Saeko before once again entering the fighter’s corridor.

Unlike most competitors, who made last-minute adjustments in their assigned resting rooms, Bai Tangjing, with a cybernetic intelligence monitoring his physical condition in real time and the ability to regulate himself using the superhuman energy of dragon’s blood inner force—an energy fused with both soul and flesh—could maintain a state of instant combat readiness at any given moment if he wished. For him, the resting rooms allocated by the Kengan Association were almost redundant. Except for that one time when Julius and his two companions tried to eliminate him from the tournament before the match, he had never encountered anyone else in this corridor.

But today, the young man met Tokita Ohma here.

Dressed in fighter’s shorts, his seaweed-like hair both robust and handsome, Ohma sat on a bench in the hallway, holding a can of energy drink. The youth naturally took a seat at the other end of the bench, right beside his opponent for the match in two minutes’ time. Ohma, as if oblivious, cracked open his can and took a sip.

“Mr. Ohma,” the youth said formally, removing his glasses to clean them, as if making casual conversation. “I’ve reached an agreement with President Nogi. From now on, we’re allies, you and I.”

“So what?” Ohma swallowed his drink with gusto, staring vacantly at the wall, a wry smile flickering on his lips. “Does that mean you’re willing to throw a match, kid? Sink to that level?”

“I don’t dislike you, old man.” After a brief silence, the youth seemed to drift off-topic, “To be precise, I can’t bring myself to dislike anyone who moves forward toward their goal, even if they have to crawl or kneel, staking their very life on it.”

“So, old man,” for the first time since the conversation began, Bai Tangjing turned to look at Ohma’s profile, “why not just surrender?”

“With your body so battered, your heart’s lifespan is hanging by a thread. Dr. Ei should have made that very clear to you.”

“As for me, I’ve yet to earn a single respectable scar in this entire tournament.”

“Instead of fighting under these circumstances, why not give yourself a peaceful farewell while you still can?”

Ohma said nothing.

But his hand, veins bulging, instantly crushed the can into a lump.

Clang!

With the shriek of twisting metal, the sickly-sweet energy drink spilled onto the floor, leaving an ugly stain.

“Business deals, the games of capital—I couldn’t care less,” Ohma said, his voice calm and sure, in stark contrast to his violent grip. “I care about only one thing—whether I can beat you. The answer can only be found in the ring.”

Though the man known for his ferocity and brutality had just crushed a can with a single hand, his expression was now one of composure and confidence. But what had never changed was that unwavering resolve, that iron will to prove himself, even at the cost of his life.

Beside him, the youth who had taken off his glasses, having received his answer, let the indifference that had colored his earlier persuasion fade away. The corners of his mouth curled uncontrollably.

It was a smile tinged with the scent of blood.

“Mr. Ohma, do you know?” The youth tucked his glasses into his pocket, that cruel smile still on his face. “Before coming to this deathmatch, after achieving a milestone in my training, I thought no one alive could hurt me.”

“That was until I met you fighters. In that moment, I thought—”

“Amazing!” he marveled, “To think there exists a group of warriors in this world with hearts burning like fire, honing their claws madly, desperate to trample all their opponents beneath their feet.”

“When Wakatsuki the Warrior dislocated my wrist with his Exploding Core technique, I’ll admit it,” Bai Tangjing raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at Ohma, “I was so happy, I nearly cried.”

Ohma continued to stare at the wall, his eyes empty, listening to this near-shameful confession. He said nothing, only chuckling softly in deep understanding.

The top-tier fighters were all battle maniacs who gave everything to the fight! No matter how one dressed up their lust for battle—loyalty to their master, obsession with wealth—it was all the same in the end.

From the royal hound of Thailand, the God of War, Gaolang, to the Fang of Metsudo—their final clash proved that loyalty and honor were but bubbles on the surface, light and insubstantial.

What truly kept them fighting, even as their bones shattered, was a desire rooted deep in human nature—a fixation with violence.

In the end, these were men obsessed with chasing the strong—madmen who sought to determine supremacy and life or death with their fists.

For such battle-crazed souls, to weep with joy at the prospect of a worthy fight was only natural. To be aroused on the spot would not even be surprising.

The youth stood up.

The shadow of his tousled hair hid his eyes, but it only made the blood-chilling curve of his smile more pronounced.

“All this time, first Julius, then Wakatsuki—nothing but muscle-bound monsters.”

“Uncle Ohma,” Bai Tangjing lightly patted Tokita Ohma’s shoulder, “I’m really looking forward to the surprises a technical fighter like you will give me, now that you’ve regained all your memories.”

Though Ohma’s body was battered like an old sack, his heart little more than a half-dead chunk of meat, Bai Tangjing’s cybernetic mind had analyzed that after defeating the Wu Clan’s Demon, Wu Lian, and the King of Stranglers, Imai Cosmo, the mysterious martial art’s pressure on his spine—and the resulting mental disorder—had completely disappeared.

In other words, even though Ohma’s body was ravaged, his fighting spirit was at its peak.

Having said his piece, the youth stripped off his jacket and strode toward the now roaring entrance to the arena.

Meanwhile, the seaweed-haired fighter opened his palm, still clutching the crushed can.

Within, the hard, angular metal had been compressed by a single hand—no kneading, just pure force—into a seamless metal sphere.

This was the combination of overwhelming grip strength and perfect control.

His hand opened, and the metal ball fell.

Tink, tink, tink…

Tokita Ohma rose, steady as a mountain, calm as stone, and walked toward the arena himself.