Chapter 141: Button (Patreon)

Almost the instant Katahara Sayaka's voice faded, Tokita Ohma's form vanished from everyone's sight.

But it wasn't a flash-step — it was simply that his speed was so extreme that most of the spectators could only catch a smear of black afterimage.

Niko Style, Flame Kata: Raging Fire (lit. "Raging Flame") — he poured every ounce of vital energy in his body into his legs, tendons snapping taut and veins bulging, closing the distance with a start so explosive it seemed to carry zero delay.

In the space of a breath, his right fist was already thundering through the air, the Qi Jin vortex swirling around his knuckles even more violent than before the match began, no longer confined to the strike point but crawling up along the entire forearm. Niko Style, Adamantine Kata: Ironbreaker (lit. "Iron Crusher")!

Yang merely turned his body — barely, just enough that the fist grazed past the air in front of his face. The gust of the blow brushed against his cheek, sending a few loose strands of hair fluttering, as though the dodge had been thrown together on a whim. But his eyes stayed locked, unwavering, on Tokita Ohma's face.

That sensation — of being seen through completely — made Ohma's stomach drop, but he gritted his teeth again almost at once. He didn't even bother pulling his fist back; instead, he used the leftover momentum of the missed Tessai to wrench his hips and spin, his left leg scything toward Yang's flank like an axe.

Niko Style, Adamantine Kata: Ironbreaker Geri!

Savage, brutal — the mere howl of the wind it cut through was enough to tell anyone watching that a direct hit would rupture organs even without breaking bone.

Yang leaned back, slipping past the strike by a hair's breadth once again. But Ohma didn't pause even for a moment. The rotational momentum coiled his powerful frame like a drawn bow, and his right elbow drove toward Yang's temple like a hammer.

Yang raised a hand. The slap looked almost careless, thrown out with no apparent effort — yet Ohma, still airborne, felt his balance vanish out from under him in an instant. There was no chance to press the attack; the moment he touched down, he tumbled several meters across the ground, image be damned, and when he finally rose, his eyes were full of disbelief as he stared at Yang.

Every single attack had missed.

Outside the ropes, Tenma Nozomi found herself holding her breath.

Though her specialty was ground technique, Nozomi — who had once dreamed of standing at the very peak of combat sports, or rather, who was at heart a mixed martial artist built around grappling and joint locks — understood grappling arts well enough to read what was happening.

Her vision still hadn't fully recovered, but she could feel just how suffocating that burst of combination strikes from Tokita Ohma had been in that split second.

Without exaggeration, it had come down like a storm. If she herself had been standing in that ring, even blocking that first incoming heavy punch would have left her wide open for the follow-up to knock her out cold.

And Yang... from start to finish, his expression hadn't shifted even once. Every single dodge looked seasoned, honed — as if he'd rehearsed this exact sequence countless times before. The combination had been a genuinely terrifying, storm-like barrage, and yet he hadn't dodged it like someone narrowly escaping danger. He'd moved like someone who already knew exactly where each blow would land, simply stepping out of the space before the fist arrived.

Half-crouched on the ground, Tokita Ohma stared at Yang — who hadn't moved from where he stood, who had done nothing more than casually slap him once, and who now regarded him with the same cold, distant gaze, hands still tucked in his pockets. Ohma clenched his jaw.

Restless fury churned inside him, but after that exchange of attack and defense, even with hatred flooding his mind, he had regained his composure under the weight of Yang's effortless evasions.

Or rather — he'd begun to grasp just how dangerous this man really was.

"Not even close to the same level."

Arms crossed, watching the two of them clash, Juri Han said with a faint note of boredom, "That guy, Tokita Ohma."

Hearing this, Chun-Li and the others nodded in agreement.

Though it looked, from the outside, as if Yang had done nothing but dodge the whole time — enough that some confused jeers even rippled through the crowd —

anyone who looked closely would have noticed the martial artists and fighters scattered among the audience narrowing their eyes, expressions turning grim.

That storm of relentless blows made it look as though Tokita Ohma held the clear advantage — but in truth, it was Ohma who'd been backed into a corner.

In combat, the difficulty of attack versus defense can't really be measured on the same scale — they're challenges from entirely different dimensions.

But ask anyone who truly understands fighting, and they'll tell you defense is the harder discipline. The reason is simple: offense is about "tactical creation."

Defense, meanwhile, demands both "technical threshold" and "tolerance for error" at once.

Offense is proactive — you decide when to strike, with which hand, at which target. The motion originates in the brain and travels down through the nerves.

Defense is reactive.

Absent prediction, you have to wait for the opponent to throw the punch, wait for the visual signal to reach the brain, and only then can the body respond.

A trained ordinary person can get their reaction time down to 0.2 seconds. For boxers and martial artists with specialized training, a straight punch can land on target in just 0.1 seconds.

Which means the old idea of "see the punch, then dodge" simply doesn't work in most cases — you have to read the subtle motion of shoulders and hips to predict what's coming.

A missed punch costs you balance or stamina at worst — even with your guard wide open, under Modern rules you can clinch or retreat to recover.

A defensive failure means eating a clean, full-force hit.

In heavyweight fights, a single lapse in head defense can end in a knockout, full stop.

And right now, against the sheer weight and speed of Tokita Ohma's assault... Yang's reactions could only be described as an unhurried stroll through the park!

And on top of that...

Nearly fifty percent more body weight, and it hadn't even dented his reaction speed, his agility, or his judgment?

As the crowd noticed that the weight gain seemed to have zero negative effect on Yang — no extra stamina drain, no drop in endurance, no loss of agility — nearly everyone silently bumped up their internal estimate of how dangerous Yang really was in the Kengan Association's arena.

Picking up on the same thing, and having heard Juri Han's words, Kure Karura beside her nodded in agreement, then added:

"That fighter, Tokita Ohma... there's something special hidden inside him too."

"Wait, really?" Kure Fusui said, a little startled. "Seriously? How come I didn't— uh, I mean, then why isn't he using it?"

Before she could finish, she caught Karura's teasing glance and awkwardly scratched her cheek, quickly rephrasing the question.

Being of the Kure clan, Karura had an innate sense for the hidden potential in the human body. Hearing Fusui's question, she shook her head, then turned her calm gaze back toward the arena.

After a moment of quiet sensing, she said evenly, "If he could awaken that power and actually use it, he might be able to hold his own against A-Yang for a little while... but that's about the limit of it."

Having watched Yang closely all this time, Karura understood far better than anyone just how terrifyingly fast his growth had been.

In the ring, Tokita Ohma had also clearly sensed by now that the man in front of him was on an entirely different level from any opponent he'd faced before.

With that thought, Ohma let out a slow breath, quickly sifting through everything he knew about Yang. He didn't know much, but he managed to dredge up something useful.

Eighteen.

Yang was only eighteen years old.

Strange as it sounded, that was really the only piece of information about Yang that Ohma could recall having any use for.

The reason he even remembered it was that it had struck him as odd — that the Kengan Association would let someone barely out of childhood into a death match like this.

Age had made Ohma underestimate Yang, if only briefly, because no matter how you looked at it, a fighter's flesh and blood, his spirit, his intent — all of it needed time to be forged.

Eighteen — even a prodigy who advanced at twice the normal rate would still need time... but then again, who standing in this arena wasn't a prodigy?

And in the training of martial arts, mastering defense was far harder, far more painstaking than mastering offense.

Because when a fist comes flying straight at someone's face, instinct screams to shut the eyes, duck the head, step back.

But effective defense in a real fight — weaving, meeting the strike head-on to block — demands the opposite: eyes wide open, stepping to the side, even pushing forward into range.

Fighting against that instinct takes a training period far longer than what offense requires.

Eighteen years old, then... which meant the angle to attack was his time, his experience.

With that, Ohma took a slow breath, a cold smile spreading across his face. "Weren't you just going on about wrestling and vibes with that big guy a minute ago?"

"So what's this now? All you know how to do is dodge? What are you waiting for? Why aren't you attacking? Are you scared?!"

Hearing this, Yang only shook his head. "You think you can't break through my guard, so you're trying to bait me into striking first to create an opening? Whatever the case, your taunting could use some work..."

Even as he said it, though, he lifted his head, meeting Ohma's eyes. "But — I'll answer you."

As he spoke, Yang's hand rose to his collar, plucking a single button off his trench coat.

Seeing this, Katahara Sayaka called out helpfully, "A-Yang, no weapons or concealed blades allowed, okay?"

"Don't worry, it's just a signal." Yang nodded.

The Kengan Association's rules were broad — even a death on the ring floor came with no consequences owed, as long as it happened inside the ropes.

Except for weapons.

If someone improvised with what was on hand — knocking out a tooth to use as a weapon, say — that was one thing. But something like ripping a button off one's clothes and throwing it as an improvised projectile was strictly forbidden.

After all, if that were allowed, the next step would be fighters sharpening their buttons into blades, coating their belts in poison, or even packing them with gunpowder.

But Yang clearly had no intention of using the button as a weapon.

Hearing Yang's words and now watching his movements, Ohma glanced once at the button in Yang's hand, the corner of his eye twitching slightly. Then he dropped his center of gravity low, clearing his mind of every distraction until only Yang remained in his field of vision.

If it had been anyone else, Ohma might have worried whether they'd actually follow the rules.

But Yang...

Even meeting him for the first time, Ohma could feel it — that pure, cutting intent radiating off him.

As he thought this, in full view of everyone, Yang held up the button for Ohma to see.

Then he tossed it high into the air.

The instant it left his fingers, Yang dropped his center of gravity, feet spread shoulder-width apart, knees bent slightly, spine coiling like a spring being slowly compressed, each vertebra letting out a faint, crisp crack.

His right fist drew back to his hip, his left palm extended forward, fingers loosely spread.

Fighting aura surged all around him, his blood-energy boiling as if flames were rising off his skin — an invisible but unmistakable wave of energy that seemed to thicken the very air of the underground garage.

"That stance—"

In the front row of the audience, Iori Ichika's eyes narrowed instinctively, fixed unblinking on Yang, disbelief written across her face. "He's not planning to attack the instant that button hits the ground, is he? No way. That obvious?"

"Uh, could it be a mind game?" Tenma Nozomi added, sounding equally suspicious. "The button's a decoy to split his focus, and he'll strike before it even lands..."

At that, even Kure Fusui beside them couldn't hold back a laugh. "You two really don't get Brother Yang at all, do you!"

"...?" Tenma Nozomi and the others looked confused.

Kure Fusui, meanwhile, gazed at Yang's poised, ready stance with a soft, warm expression and said, "You'll see soon enough... Brother Yang is the kind of man who answers everything, and swallows everything whole."

On the arena floor, Ohma spared the button only a single glance before locking his focus right back onto Yang.

Just from the feel of the air against his skin, Ohma could roughly gauge when the button would touch down. But compared to the button, what held his attention was Yang himself.

Especially that intent spreading through the air, as though it meant to swallow him whole.

Yang's expression stayed just as flat, just as cold as ever — and yet this man called Tokita Ohma could feel, with startling clarity, a heat coming off him that felt unfamiliar and yet strangely long-missed, radiating from another person toward himself.

It brought back, unbidden, the memory of the overwhelming pressure and conqueror's will that had exploded off Yang before the match even began — the intent to utterly humiliate him.

As he thought of it, the corner of Ohma's mouth curled upward.

Not with anger. Not with madness. Something purer than either... just from that single presence, Ohma understood with total certainty: this man, Yang, was nothing like the worthless piece of trash who had killed Niko.

Fists were the best way to talk. A fight was the best way to understand each other.

Feeling that pure, cutting ferocity, Ohma realized with perfect clarity that the man before him, this Yang, meant to do nothing more than beat him — that, and only that!

Even as he thought it, the button touched the ground.