Chapter Eighty-Four: The Transformation of Wang Ma

“First semifinal match! Yamashita Trading’s Tokita Ohma versus Hakudo Storage and Logistics’ Hakudo Kagami!”

“Begin!”

Among the many fighters of all shapes and sizes, these two did not particularly stand out.

Now, they stood facing each other on the fine sand of the arena.

As the referee who had presided over numerous matches in this deadly tournament, the rotund Yamamoto Koishi, wasted no time; after briskly lowering his arm to start the bout, he quickly scurried away as if fleeing for his life.

Given the monstrous fighters and the fact that the tournament had reached the semifinals, one could only praise the wisdom of such a decision.

In the audience, Hisayasu Takemoto, his body still wrapped in bandages, stroked his chin with great interest.

He raised his eyebrows, observing the two competitors in the ring.

To his left sat the mature and graceful Saeko, as elegant as a blooming peony.

On his right, however, was Karura Wu, who had made herself quite at home.

The seat originally belonging to Yuta Sawanaga was now shared awkwardly with the white-haired Mitsuru Hikari, both of them sweating nervously and keeping their eyes fixed on the match.

It seemed the young woman raised in a family of assassins had already provided them with some “advice” on how the weak should survive.

Perhaps hoping to please her future in-laws, Karura—her athletic figure filling out her school uniform—widened her dark, white-pupiled eyes and asked, her expression charmingly innocent:

“Grandpa Takemoto, that Tokita Ohma is the guy who had that joke of a fight with Raian and was left half-dead, right? Why does Kagami look so serious?”

Saeko, sitting on the other side, frowned, feeling she’d made a miscalculation—she’d almost forgotten that Uncle Takemoto was friends with the Wu family elders, giving the girl an opening.

But the experienced old man seemed not to notice anything amiss, nor did he intend to intervene in the women’s subtle contest. He merely sighed in a tone befitting his age.

“The ill-fated Niko Style—could it truly blossom in this era? Fascinating indeed.”

Then, adopting the tone of a mentor guiding his juniors, he began to explain the situation to those beside him.

“If we’re talking about Tokita Ohma before today, he was still quite a bit below the top-tier fighters, like Julius, whom Kagami faced in his first match. Even if he entered that state where his heart is pushed to its limits, at best he’d be on par with someone like Kanoh Agito—wrestler types famous for their endurance.”

The old man’s sharp eyes first scrutinized Ohma’s footwork; the martial philosophy of grounding oneself through the bones gave Ohma a stone-like stability.

Then his gaze swept over the rest of Ohma’s body.

Since regaining his memories, the deeply ingrained training of the Niko Style’s Flowing Form made even his everyday movements seamless and fluid as running water.

“But today…”

Before he could finish, Saeko's slightly husky, sensual voice cut in.

“But today, even someone like Takeshi Wakatsuki, a muscle monster with no obvious weaknesses, likely wouldn’t be confident of victory against him, right?”

“Oh? Such perception and judgment…” Takemoto cast a surprised glance at his old friend’s daughter, then shook his head in self-mockery. “Really, all us old folks racked our brains trying to cure your trauma, but perhaps we should have just let you fight for real from the start.”

“I heard that Dragon Min, the one who made Gao Lang hesitate at the border, had at least a pound of flesh carved off his shoulder by you before he retreated?” The old man smacked his lips. “What a pity. If you’d finished him off, you’d probably be able to fully control your killing intent by now.”

“Oh, please don’t say that,” Saeko laughed demurely, covering her mouth. “If not for the year Kagami spent restraining me at your suggestion, the blood I’ve already shed would have made it impossible to keep my blade from her by now.”

The flash of murderous intent in the purple-haired beauty’s smiling eyes startled Karura, who shrank back like a frightened kitten.

Even Takemoto, who had somehow gotten caught up in the tension between the two women, could only use his sturdy frame to block their line of sight, forcing a sheepish laugh.

…

In the arena, neither fighter launched a wild, immediate assault. Both cautiously assumed their stances.

As Hakudo Kagami’s gaze swept up and down, data seemed to cascade across the boy’s retinas like a waterfall.

“His stance is as perfect as can be, but his physical condition is abysmal… This has to end quickly!”

Frowning slightly, the boy’s guard was textbook.

Yet his troubled expression wasn’t from facing a powerful opponent.

Rather, it was because his opponent’s condition was so poor!

Having trained his extraordinary energy reserves while perpetually “malnourished,” it was only in the past week that the boy had finally felt he was getting enough to eat.

And now, in this state—barely different from a novice entering the supernatural world—he found himself among the fighters of this deadly tournament.

His fighting spirit surged at the thought of not letting a single exciting battle slip by.

Now, facing Tokita Ohma—ready to burn the last of his life at the end of his road—Kagami’s only option was to settle this match decisively while Ohma’s body could still keep up.

Fox Shadow Style: Rakshasa Palm, Instant.

The fine sand beneath his feet twisted into a vortex by the force of his movement.

And in Ohma’s eyes, Kagami’s figure vanished like a wisp of smoke.

“It’s the Fox Shadow Style, but at this speed… Is he worried my body can’t keep up?” Ohma’s pupils shrank, then returned to that ember-like, deathly calm. “All right then!”

From the start, Ohma had recognized Hakudo Kagami’s strength.

Even with his memories restored, he had no absolute confidence in victory.

But anyone who goes into a fight already thinking about how they might lose doesn’t deserve to win!

Without retreating, Ohma launched into his own footwork.

His steps seemed erratic, full of uncertainty.

Each landing was alarmingly brief, touching down only on the barest edge of his toes or heels.

He moved as if walking barefoot over burning coals, terrified that even a moment’s contact would scorch his flesh.

Like a flickering flame, his evasive steps sought that fleeting instant for a counterattack—Niko Style: Fire Heaven Form, Fire Step.