Right now, Kazuma's blood was boiling, adrenaline pumping through his veins—but his mind remained eerily clear.
The small fry didn't matter. No matter how many he took down, it wouldn't make a difference.
He had to storm the top floor, seize the flag, take out the leader first!
Seizing the moment while the wakashu and shatei in the room were frozen in shock by the sudden turn of events, Kazuma charged straight for the staircase.
But the enemies on the second floor had already been alerted. A hulking brute with a neck nearly as thick as his shoulders appeared at the top of the stairs. The moment he spotted Kazuma, he stood there stunned.
It wasn't surprising. In 1980s Japan, seeing someone dressed like a samurai straight out of a taiga drama would short-circuit anyone's brain for at least a moment.
And in that brief instant of hesitation, Kazuma's wooden sword jabbed him squarely.
The narrow space wasn't ideal for slashing techniques, but Gatotsu was perfect.
The brute howled in pain but immediately tensed his muscles, managing to stay upright. He even grabbed hold of Kazuma's wooden sword—
—but Kazuma was already moving in, landing a solid kick straight to the groin.
No matter how strong a man's skills, nothing protects against a kick to that vital spot.
The brute collapsed, clutching himself, and Kazuma slipped past him through the opening. With a swift kick, he sent the man tumbling back down the stairs, taking out several wakashu below who were trying to climb up after him.
Second floor: cleared!
Kazuma barely had time to register his surroundings when a gleaming knife lunged at him.
He twisted aside, letting the blade whistle past him.
In the same motion, Kazuma jammed his wooden sword into the attacker's mouth, pinning their jaw shut.
Using the unfortunate thug as a human shield, Kazuma charged into the remaining yakuza like a bowling ball knocking down pins.
But more yakuza were already closing in—this was their stronghold, after all. The second floor was where the shatei and wakashu usually relaxed and played cards.
With a chorus of war cries and the unmistakable ring of blades being drawn, Kazuma suddenly found himself surrounded by seven or eight shimmering blades.
Without hesitation, he kicked over a side table and the vase atop it, sending them crashing down the stairs to block the advancing yakuza below.
Then he yanked off his straw hat and hurled it like a frisbee at the thugs.
The wide hat sent water droplets flying as it spun, scattering their vision at just the right moment.
Kazuma followed immediately behind, moving faster than the hat itself.
The encirclement shattered as one of the thugs took a direct hit and went sprawling, landing in a painful split—his crotch slamming into a chair leg with a scream louder than the thunder outside.
To Kazuma's left, another thug shouted and swung his blade. Kazuma dodged with a swift sidestep, then countered with an upward thrust to the man's face.
A blade whistled through the air behind him. Kazuma instantly released the hilt of his wooden sword—just as a short wakizashi struck its handle.
Without missing a beat, Kazuma drew a fresh wooden sword and flung it into another thug's face.
Though the sword wasn't heavy, Kazuma's throw packed incredible force—blood gushed from the man's nose.
Drawing another, Kazuma repeated the process—sword after sword flew through the air. In moments, every thug surrounding him was bleeding from the face.
The formation collapsed. Kazuma charged toward the stairs leading to the third floor.
One thug tried to intercept him with a chair, but Kazuma blocked with his wooden sword, then stomped on the man's toes.
He was wearing solid wooden geta that day—the kind with real wooden teeth.
The poor thug howled, mouth open so wide it could've fit two light bulbs.
Kazuma grabbed the chair from his hands and smashed it over his head. The chair splintered with a crack, dropping the thug to the floor in silence.
But just then—a flash of cold steel caught Kazuma's eye.
The strike came without warning, no yakuza roar, just a sudden sideways thrust aimed at Kazuma's shoulder.
Instinctively, Kazuma raised his arm, using its side to deflect the blade.
A bloody gash opened on his forearm.
But he had deliberately avoided the tendons and major vessels—his hand remained functional.
Still, the pain triggered a surge of fury in Kazuma's mind.
When he was in pain, Kazuma didn't just get mad—he went berserk.
And right now, he wasn't just at level three rage—he was at level nine.
With a roar like an enraged beast, he turned on the attacker—a sullen-faced wakashu. Kazuma slapped the dagger aside, grabbed the thug by the collar, and heaved him upward—straight into the ceiling lamp.
His strength was inhuman—his entire left side screamed with effort as he pushed past human limits.
The yakuza crashed through the fluorescent light fixture with a sharp crack like gunfire, followed by the acrid stench of leaking mercury vapor.
Kazuma roared again, venting the agony and fury burning inside him.
And then he noticed—the surrounding thugs were shrinking back in fear.
Seizing the moment, Kazuma gripped his wooden sword and charged up the stairs.
A few minutes earlier.
Kazuma's fierce shout had echoed clearly from the first floor to the third:
Rishin-ryū Shihan-dai—Kiryu Kazuma—present!
Tsuda Masaaki, who had been flipping through a magazine one of his lackeys had brought, jumped in alarm. "What the hell? Why is he here? Is he trying to get himself killed?"
Ōta Jūzō moved to the stairwell, listening.
Heavy impacts and the screams of wakashu filtered through the gaps between rolls of thunder.
Buildings in this era weren't exactly soundproof.
Shin'nosuke frowned. "Something's not right..."
Ōta Jūzō's expression grew serious. "A man with nothing to lose is dangerous. When someone is ready to throw away their life, they burn the brightest. Anyone who underestimates that kind of resolve ends up paying the price."
Tsuda Masaaki scoffed. "Don't give me that. There are over forty men in this building alone! What's he gonna do—take them all on? He's just a cornered rat."
Just then, a sharp, gunshot-like crack rang out from below, followed by Kazuma's furious roar.
And the once-boisterous shouts of the Tsuda-gumi thugs abruptly fell silent—as if someone had cast a mute spell.
In a yakuza fight, you had to shout. No shouting, no spirit.
The sudden silence said it all.
Shin'nosuke began stripping off his jacket. "I'll go take care of him."
Ōta Jūzō stopped him.
"Take the fire escape outside. Go rally more men. I'll handle things inside."
Without another word, Ōta Jūzō vaulted over the stairwell railing, landing firmly on the second-floor staircase, blocking Kazuma's advance.
Raising his arm, he tore off his shirt with a rip and cast it aside, revealing the Wheels of Hell tattoo across his back.
Kanto Union, third-tier organization—Tsuda-gumi Wakagashira—Ōta Jūzō—present!
(End of Chapter)