battle resembled a dream beneath the beautiful moonlight, a scene that could surely be found nowhere else.
The Demon City police had been ordered to ignore any gang wars if civilians weren’t caught up in the fray and the combatants outnumbered them by more than three to one.
There were three of them and one of him. And even if the ratio was different, Onizuka would still have stood there rooted to the ground. The contest unfolding before his eyes did not resemble any kind of human combat.
The short man threw a right hook. His opponent ducked behind a slab of concrete. The concrete shattered into a thousand pieces. And didn’t make a sound. As if awed into silence by the scope of this struggle, even shattered concrete dared not break the mood.
The man with the medium build now waved his right hand, as if scattering the moonlight. The short man jumped into the air. A crisscross of slashes tore into the stone wall behind him.
Before the short man touched down, his attacker raced across the ground, like the wind. The silhouette of the lanky man appeared in front of him, sitting cross-legged. The running man’s right hand—that had somehow sliced through stone—flashed again. An invisible surge of energy assaulted the sitting man.
Onizuka could feel it ricocheting off of him.
The short man twisted his body in midair. The man with the medium build reached his left hand behind him. At a distance of ten feet, the invisible power blossomed again.
Windmilling his arms and legs, the fierce surge of energy shot the short man skyward and sent Onizuka crashing into the concrete wall behind him. His skull still ringing, he somehow managed to open his eyes.
The fight was now a duel—at least until the short man came back down to earth.
The sitting man was wearing what looked like a black kimono jacket. Both eyes were closed. The only thing distinct about him were the dark shadows traced by his sunken cheeks. His age was indecipherable.
His adversary was dressed in black as well. Aside from his age, nothing else about him could be discerned. The one thing they did have in common was a demonic aura welling up from their beings, as if about to burst out of their skins.
Despite being bathed in it, Onizuka kept himself conscious.
The hands of the standing man suddenly sprouted dozens of extra appendages. It was an illusion, but that’s what Onizuka saw. He moved his hands up and down at a blazing speed, pausing only a fraction of a second in each stroke.
Whatever he was up to, at some point he tightly closed his eyes. And then opened them wide. At the same time, his infinite number of hands faded into a blur and concentrated into a line extending horizontally from his shoulder.
“Got you, Kongojin Roran!”
Together with the cry, his sweeping left hand grabbed hold of something. The man sitting on the ground convulsed. With a shower of blood, his head dropped to the ground. The fountain of dark blood formed a dome above his head, as if sticking to the air, and then faded away.
The nightmare battle having come to its horrifying conclusion, the stabbing pain washed away by the terror of the moment, Onizuka got to his feet. Now his ears made out a low and bitter sound, a voice crawling across the ground toward him.
A small silhouette stood behind the man with the medium build. Not the short man from before—he’d disappeared into the surrounding darkness—for this was a child.
He was barely three feet tall, ready to enter kindergarten. But the voice—what Onizuka had taken for tears, when he listened more closely—was the sound of an adult.
“I saw you, Renjo Aki, I saw what you did and how. Don’t count on it working a second time. Father, it was worth dying to show me that, wasn’t it?”
That was when Onizuka realized—the child wasn’t weeping. He was laughing. His words were suffused with joy. This young person was literally shaking with delight as he’d watched his father’s head drop from his
The Demon City police had been ordered to ignore any gang wars if civilians weren’t caught up in the fray and the combatants outnumbered them by more than three to one.
There were three of them and one of him. And even if the ratio was different, Onizuka would still have stood there rooted to the ground. The contest unfolding before his eyes did not resemble any kind of human combat.
The short man threw a right hook. His opponent ducked behind a slab of concrete. The concrete shattered into a thousand pieces. And didn’t make a sound. As if awed into silence by the scope of this struggle, even shattered concrete dared not break the mood.
The man with the medium build now waved his right hand, as if scattering the moonlight. The short man jumped into the air. A crisscross of slashes tore into the stone wall behind him.
Before the short man touched down, his attacker raced across the ground, like the wind. The silhouette of the lanky man appeared in front of him, sitting cross-legged. The running man’s right hand—that had somehow sliced through stone—flashed again. An invisible surge of energy assaulted the sitting man.
Onizuka could feel it ricocheting off of him.
The short man twisted his body in midair. The man with the medium build reached his left hand behind him. At a distance of ten feet, the invisible power blossomed again.
Windmilling his arms and legs, the fierce surge of energy shot the short man skyward and sent Onizuka crashing into the concrete wall behind him. His skull still ringing, he somehow managed to open his eyes.
The fight was now a duel—at least until the short man came back down to earth.
The sitting man was wearing what looked like a black kimono jacket. Both eyes were closed. The only thing distinct about him were the dark shadows traced by his sunken cheeks. His age was indecipherable.
His adversary was dressed in black as well. Aside from his age, nothing else about him could be discerned. The one thing they did have in common was a demonic aura welling up from their beings, as if about to burst out of their skins.
Despite being bathed in it, Onizuka kept himself conscious.
The hands of the standing man suddenly sprouted dozens of extra appendages. It was an illusion, but that’s what Onizuka saw. He moved his hands up and down at a blazing speed, pausing only a fraction of a second in each stroke.
Whatever he was up to, at some point he tightly closed his eyes. And then opened them wide. At the same time, his infinite number of hands faded into a blur and concentrated into a line extending horizontally from his shoulder.
“Got you, Kongojin Roran!”
Together with the cry, his sweeping left hand grabbed hold of something. The man sitting on the ground convulsed. With a shower of blood, his head dropped to the ground. The fountain of dark blood formed a dome above his head, as if sticking to the air, and then faded away.
The nightmare battle having come to its horrifying conclusion, the stabbing pain washed away by the terror of the moment, Onizuka got to his feet. Now his ears made out a low and bitter sound, a voice crawling across the ground toward him.
A small silhouette stood behind the man with the medium build. Not the short man from before—he’d disappeared into the surrounding darkness—for this was a child.
He was barely three feet tall, ready to enter kindergarten. But the voice—what Onizuka had taken for tears, when he listened more closely—was the sound of an adult.
“I saw you, Renjo Aki, I saw what you did and how. Don’t count on it working a second time. Father, it was worth dying to show me that, wasn’t it?”
That was when Onizuka realized—the child wasn’t weeping. He was laughing. His words were suffused with joy. This young person was literally shaking with delight as he’d watched his father’s head drop from his
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