"Heavenly Daigo Style: Fang of Heaven."
Repeated once more, he slammed his elbow, sharpened with the intent to win, against Takehiro's left side.
It was a merciless assault; for the first time, he felt pushed.
Though Takehiro winced and clenched his teeth from the blows suffered, he was still standing.
To the young man who prided himself on his martial arts abilities, this was unacceptable.
It played in his mind; memories from the past.
"You're not smart. You're not selfless. You're hardly sociable. Touma, my grandson, you're nothing without your martial arts abilities. This is the sole reason you were born into this world. Without it, what are you? If your fists are not effective, then what use do you have?" –Such scathing words were etched into his soul from a young age.
Words from a figure he idolized were fuel for his very being, even if they were hardly healthy to latch onto.
Squeezing his fist tightly shut, his smiling expression shifted to a fiery aspiration to grasp triumph.
…That's right. Martial arts is all I have. I tried to prove that I could be somebody without it, but at the end of the day–it's who I am! He thought.
"Win," that was the singular thought thumping inside of him like the beat of his heart; the thump of a violent drum.
Before Takehiro would retaliate in any way, successive blows were launched against him with devastating swiftness, and even more tremendous power.
"Boss…!"
"Fight back!"
"Boss–!!!"
The fallen thugs could only watch as their leader was relentlessly battered by the immaculate techniques.
"Heavenly Daigo Style: Ivory Fang."
The flying knee slammed against Takehiro's nose, which was already purple and spewing blood before his hair was grabbed.
"Heavenly Daigo Style: Ivory Jackhammer."
This time, he clutched onto Takehiro's hair, repeatedly kneeing the gangster's face before finishing the combination attack with a powerful front kick that knocked him back.
And again, Takehiro was still on his feet.
"Pytooh."
Takehiro spit out blood from his mouth, pressing his nose and exhaling as he shot crimson fluid out from his nostrils.
"Come on," Takehiro said quietly.
To anyone watching the bout between the two urban legends, nobody would contest the fact that the "Devil of Osaka" was no doubt losing this battle against the "King of Brawling."
However, to the two that were engaged in the clash of fists and spirit, Takehiro was winning as long as he was still standing.
–
"Boss…"
"I can't watch…"
Over the next hour, Takehiro was relentlessly pummeled, slammed with attacks that shouldn't be taken so lightly.
Still, despite taking hundreds of blows, Takehiro still stood. Blood dripped from his shattered nose, busted lip, and battered cheeks.
"--"
By this point, his fists were drenched in blood. It didn't feel good to just simply thrash an opponent of such lesser skill than himself, who served as little more than a punching bag–but it still felt like more than that.
As he moved in, he reared his fist back, thrusting it forward before–
He stopped.
"Huh?"
"Why'd the Brawlin' King stop?"
The spectating thugs were perplexed, watching as the silver-eyed young man stopped his knuckles just a few inches short of reaching the bloodied face of Takehiro.
He's…already unconscious, he realized.
Somehow, the Elysium leader was still standing tall while lacking consciousness, looking forward with blank eyes while blood slowly dripped onto the floor below.
He withdrew his fist with a small sigh before smiling.
"Let's call it a draw," he said.
Not being able to properly put down an opponent who challenged him head-on felt like a defeat to him.
Though it was likely the unconscious Takehiro couldn't hear him, he said those words to him before leaving.
As he left the warehouse, his path was obstructed by pillars of light cascading on him, shining around as the familiar, rugged thump of engines filled his ears.
Dozens of motorcycles were stationed in front of the warehouse, with thugs riding them that looked less than happy.
He took his bloodied fists out of his pockets, "...I guess it's time for round two, huh?"
But, before he could engage in another bout with the next division of Elysium, a commanding voice yelled out:
"Lay a hand on Touma Daigo, and I'll crush you all myselves!"
"--!"
He looked back, seeing the sturdy leader of Elysium, drenched in blood of his own as his embroidered uniform was dirtied in dirt, dust, and crimson.
Seeing him already conscious after such a short time felt bittersweet to him, but he began to raise his fists.
"You still want to continue?" He said with an anxious smile.
"No."
"No?"
Takehiro raised his fist up, gathering the attention of the entire gang, "--We, Elysium, on this day have suffered defeat! Touma Daigo, "The King of Brawling"--is the victor. I concede Elysium to you, Touma."
"Huh?" He looked forward in shock.
"Boss…?!"
"Huh?"
The thugs were just as taken aback, but Takehiro's eyes held little jest in them; they were nothing but smoldering with resolve and steel conviction.
"This was part of the deal," Takehiro told him.
"'Deal'?"
"We challenged you for the ticket, and in return, if you defeated us, the gang would be yours," Takehiro told him.
This "deal" wasn't anything he was made aware of until just now, but all it did was make him laugh out loud.
"What's so funny…?" Takehiro asked.
He waved, turning away, "I don't want your gang. I mean, I don't know the first thing about being a bike-riding thug, anyway."
"Still…You've earned it by right," Takehiro told him.
He pointed to the black-haired man, "Then, I appoint you leader of Elysium, Takehiro. And I quit. There!"
"Huh…?"
Spinning the responsibility of the gang right back onto its stalwart leader, he stuck his tongue out cheekily before going on his way.
"Cya," he waved.
Takehiro yelled out, "If you're ever in any trouble, just remember–Elysium will aid you!"
"Gotcha," he said, still waving.
–
As he returned home to the cafe, the first thing on his mind was the soothing prospect of a shower.
Standing in the hall bathroom with his shirt off, he rinsed the blood from his knuckles.
"Touma."
He stopped, realizing that Mr. Genji was standing in the doorway of the bathroom. The way his name left the mouth of the owner wasn't in a proud fashion.
"--"
"You told me you would stop this," Mr. Genji said.
He continued washing the blood from his hands before wiping his hands with the towel sitting on the counter.
"...It's just training–"
"Please don't treat me like a fool, Touma," Mr. Genji interrupted him.
"Sorry," he said.
"I don't mind if you fight, but keep it in a professional, controlled environment, please. I don't want you acting like a barbarian," Mr. Genji said.
"I understand."
With that, he stood there in the bathroom as Mr. Genji looked at him for a moment before leaving.
Looking in the mirror, he looked into his own golden eyes, staring deep into them to see what he could find: anger? Grief? Desperation?
He didn't even know what he was looking for, truly.
Just what kind of person am I, really? Without martial arts…who am I? "The King of Brawling", "The Martial Arts King"...those names are more famous than "Touma Daigo", he thought.
Deep down, he didn't want to disappoint Mr. Genji, who to him, was the only family he felt he had, who had been there for him like a caring grandfather in his lowest moments.