Power Level: 105,285
Current PL: 105,285
The dark violet upon the sky's canvas drifted above the concrete jungle that was West Capital. Strands of charcoal grey clouds streaked across, creating a veil over the bright white moon that loomed within the distance. Stars glistened like diamonds, much brighter than what they were recently. Some considered it a good omen, that luck would come once day broke. For others, it was considered an omen of peace in the days to come.
For a certain duo, it would be the night they would forever remember—when the demon came.
A chorus of sounds played within the alley between two shops. Hard-soled shoes frantically thumped against concrete flooring; the loud, clanging sounds of metal trashcans rung out as they were knocked around; the wails and cries of adult men echoed into the night as though they were being attacked by wild animals—and for all intents and purposes, they effectively were.
One man flew from the mouth of the alley, soaring through the air as though he was hit by a speeding truck. He landed on his back hard and slid across the road, his clothes and even skin being torn as the asphalt grated through them. His right arm was limp, dangling broken by his side. Blood poured from his forehead, nose and lips. His left eye had swollen like a plum, fully closing it. Barely moving, the man struggled with a shaking left arm to reach into the inside of his jacket. Numb, twitching fingers managed to grasp around the handle of a blade.
When the man pulled it out and looked ahead towards the alley, intent of retaliation. But all thought of fight turned to unrelenting fear as he caught the sight of a pair of long, thick legs only a few feet from him, and two more thinner ones dangling a foot off the ground. Slowly his eyes turned upwards, and the view made his entire body go limp, his fingers uncurling around the knife, and the blade dropping to the ground with a soft clink.
A hulking monster of a man loomed over him, face shrouded in shadow against the moonlight, with only crimson red pinpricks for eyes to be seen. A huge, muscular arm was held out to the side, with its roped hand wrapped around the skull of another human, its digits clenched around it like a vice. The man dangled like a ragdoll, his life hanging only by the slimmest of threads. His eyes were rolled back and glazed over, a sign of his unconscious state. Gashes in his face and body poured red liquid down his cheek and soaked into his bright yellow hoodie and blue denim pants. The only signs of life in him were his twitching hands and trembling jaw.
"Thugs like you do not belong in my world," spoke Sansho, the demon's voice low and growling, and his tone etched with killing intent. "I will send you to oblivion."
"N-no, please," the prone thug pleaded, trying to push himself away from the warrior with both feet, but he only stayed in place as the heels of his shoes scraped across the asphalt, "J-just let me go! I'll change! I'll get a job! I promise!"
Sansho didn't even spare the fool a moment before letting out a guttural, bestial roar as he slammed the handheld head into the grounded thug's, sending out a cringing beat and skull collided with skull. Blood shot outwards as flesh tore apart. His hand unclamped from around the head he was grasping, leaving the two of them laying unconscious on top of each other. He would give the pair of them a second chance—their only chance. As payment for his 'service', the demon leaned down and reached into both of their pockets, taking their wallets.
"Hey!" a voice called out in hushed tones, but over the deathly silence of the barren streets it was audible for Sansho to catch it. The warrior ignored it as he stood back up, but once more it called. "Hey! Big guy! Over here!"
Flashing eyes turned to another alleyway just opposite of the first. A rather thin man stood half within its shadows, his other half exposed under the street light. A pale-looking man in formal wear stood with his back against the wall, his eyes, shadowed by the rim of his trilby, were looked onto the demon's. Under his three-quarter-length wool coat he wore a suit jacket and white shirt, with a red tie striping down the middle. Pin-striped trousers were held up by a black leather belt, fastened with a gold buckle and lined with golden studs. A couple of large, gold and diamond rings lined along his fingers. The entirety of his attire was likely worth more than the entire contents of the thugs' wallets.
"What do you want?" was all the reply Sansho gave, his brow furrowing as he watched the man turn a ring around his finger between the thumb and forefinger of his opposite hand.
"Straight to the point! I like that in a fighter," the man answered, a small smirk on his face. He waved for the warrior to come closer, and, after a pause, he did so. Pushing himself off of the wall, the thin male brought himself fully into the light. "You can call me… 'Mister Jay'. I've got a little business going, and I need a few… tough guys to keep it going, ya see?"
Sansho huffed. "Fight you own battles, you cowardly worm!" he exclaimed, hot breath and spittle washing over Jay's face.
"No, no, you—" the man pulled out a handkerchief, wiping the spit from his cheek —you've got it all wrong, my friend. Ya see, my boss owns an underground fighting circuit… you know, out of the way of the law and rules where people can just fight till their heart's content! You either win… or you lose. If you win, we'll hand you some cash; a good incentive, right? If you lose… well, better luck next time." His lips twisted into a snide grin, with an eyebrow raised up. "So, what do you say, big guy? Ya look like you could do with some zenni."
A moment of silence fell between the two of them. Sansho gazed into Jay's eyes, and almost piercing straight into his soul. The man had not flinched or back down in any way. It seemed that he was good on his word. "Take me to your "underground circuit"."
Bright florescent lights ran across the steel beams above the large warehouse. The mix of white and primary illumination painted the stained, crumbling brick walls as though it were a rave party. The floor below was large an open, with different sections. Over to one side was a large bar, lined with people standing as they ordered drinks, while others sat on the stools facing both towards and away from the bar, with those facing away looking over across to the other side of the room. The other side had a large crowd gathered around a boxing ring, inside two fighters dishing it out.
Sansho looked down from the catwalk where Mister Jay had escorted him to. His eyes glanced around the warehouse floor, catching the sight of the huge amount of people who were here, as well as the two fighters in the ring. One of the combatants wore traditional Muay Thai boxing equipment, while the other wore nothing but a pair of baggy pants and slip-on shoes. The two were in the middle of a match, both beaten and bruised and showing fatigue.
"Some good fighters, there," lauded Mister Jay, catching the action out of the corner of his eye before turning towards them. He leaned forwards and rested his arms across the steel railing. "The kick boxer guy is Aat. He once went into the Tenkaichi Budokai, but was disqualified for delivering a few too many below-the-belt shots. His martial arts days were over… until we picked him up." His eyes shifted to the other, and raised his chin slightly. "The other guy is Hao-Lang. They say he tried to become a disciple under the Crane school, but was kicked out after three days for his lack of discipline. We don't care about those kinds of things here. He makes good money all the same." Pushing himself off of the railing, the man turned to Sansho. "But first things first. I'm gonna have to introduce you to the boss."
Mister Jay had led his newest fighter to a small alcove in the warehouse, to the outside of an office-like room above the ground. The perimeter was constructed from thick, bulletproof glass that were covered by blinds on the inside, disallowing the two of them to see into the room. An oak wooden door served as the entrance into it. The sharp-dressed man placed a hand on the door handle and opened the door inwards, standing by one side as he allowed the demon to enter first. As the two did, Jay closed the door behind them.
The room was large, and yet scarce of much décor. The floor was carpeted in a fine, pale tan fur. A few bookshelves lined the far side wall, with a couple of posters hanging between them—one was of the Tenkaichi Budokai held some years ago, while another was of a night club that had opened last week. Near the back wall was a large glass desk, covered in paperwork and a small computer on the left side of it. The back wall itself had a notice board, with several pieces of scrap paper pinned to it, notes and lists and dates written on each one.
At the desk sat a short and stocky man, dressed almost as sharp as his 'recruiter'. Slumped against the brown leather office chair, the man—Mister Big—was in the middle of taking a puff of his expensive cigar, the end of it lightning up like a firework. A large clout of smoke poured from his nostrils as his eyes turned up to meet the two men who had just walked in. "'ey, you gots me another fighter, Jimbo?" he asked, his voice several decibels higher than what was socially acceptable.
"Please, boss, don't call me that," Jay replied, embarrassed by his own real name. "Yeah, I got ya a new fighter. A strong champ, this one. I found him laying the smack down on two thugs just across from here."
"So what else is new?" the boss bellowed as he flung his hands up, nearly dropping the burned ash of his cigar on the carpet, not impressed by such a feat. "If this guy couldn't take on a couple of knife-wielding shit faces, then I don't want him anywhere near my ring!"
He sprung off the chair and walked around the desk. "I mean, look at this guy! I'd be surprised if he couldn't beat the snot out of ten—no, twenty thugs! Hell, he could probably kick ten tons of shit out of a two ton horse!" His face went stern, and he looked up at the demon that was nearly a full two foot taller than him. "But he ain't fightin' thugs or horses here. He's fightin' against trained fighters—trained killers! So tell me, big guy; why should I let you fight in my ring?"
Sansho glared down at the short, tubby male. His brow furrowed, and, for a split second, the crimson of his eyes flashed a bright magenta. "If you doubt my skill again, then I will paint this room red with your entrails."
Mister Big had had a good many fighters come and go from his "business". Some were cocky, some were arrogant, some were humble—but this was the first time someone had issues a death threat. His beady, sunken eyes widened slightly. His hand, for a moment, trembled before the hulking demon, nearly dropping his cigar on the floor. But he managed to keep his composure, and a small smirk spread across his thin lips. "I like your attitude," was all he replied. He turned to make his way back around the desk. "'ey, Jimbo, tell that fat-ass Beefcake that he's up in ten minutes. Tell 'im he's up against a new guy. That'll get 'im to move."
The warehouse was not as packed as it was a few minutes ago. Some of the patrons had taken the downtime between fights to go outside for a smoke break, though some opted to sit in the nearby lounge. Some of them went to walk down the block to get a late-night meal. Others were tapped out of all of their betting money and had no reason to stay any longer. Others were simply tired, and made their ways home after a lively and energetic night's worth of entertainment.
Those who stayed found themselves spending the break at the bar, ordering whatever drinks they could with their freshly paid out winnings, or with whatever money they had left if they found themselves on the other side of the fence. Both men and women downed glass after glass of alcohol, some even to the point that they could barely walk two steps without falling rear over head. Some of them were placing their own bets on who could take the most shots. All the while laughter and loud conversations rang out across the building, some of them talking about how great the match was. It was confirmed that Hao-Lang had one the fight.
Several ring crew crawled and ran and jumped about the ring, cleaning off as much blood and spit as they could from the canvas, ropes and turnbuckles. A thin, lanky man in a tuxedo was in the middle of the ring, a microphone in hand. He made his way to the edge, leaning his body out between the top and middle ropes. Mister Jay was giving instruction to the announcer, who nodded a few times. His pulled himself back into the ring, and stood at its center.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he exclaimed into the microphone, getting the crowd's attention as his voice rung and echoed throughout the warehouse, "I've just been told that we've got a small change of plans! Before the next scheduled match, we're gonna have a small exhibition! Tonight's fighters will be our newest guy, Sansho, up against our favourite former super-heavyweight boxing champion, Beefcake!"
Immediately the crowd began to cheer. A large, rotund, obese man made his way from the backstage area of the warehouse. The man was completely bald, save for a small, blonde ponytail that covered a small part of the back of his head that hung down to his shoulders. A pair of red, white and blue shorts clung tight around his waist and thighs. Large, white sports boots donned his feet, and heavy white boxing gloves covered his large hands. Despite how obese the guy looked, his body was well toned and defined, his five-hundred and fifty pound mass comprised almost entirely of muscle.
About a half of the crowd had rushed over to the bookies that had their own stand near the far end of the warehouse near the end of the bar. Given the boxer's reputation for scoring quick, easy victories, every single last zenni had been placed on him to win.
But as Sansho approached the ring, most of those betting types instantly regretted their decision. The demon was only a few inches taller than his heavyweight opponent, but the contrast in physique had one him favour with the crowd. If not for his build, then for the immense, foreboding aura that filled the floor. With such a scarred and battered body, fiery hair, and blackened, sunken eyes, they wondered what was to transpire—a bout, or a bloodbath?
Beefcake, however, was anything but perturbed by the warrior's presence. The knuckles of his gloves pounded together before he readies himself in a shoot stance, hopping lightly to and fro. For a man who was over five-hundred pounds, he was surprisingly light on his feet. "So this is the new guy, eh?" the large fighter spoke out in a gruff, regal accent, with a grin across his puffy lips. He cocked his head to one side for a moment. "Gonna knock this wanker out in five seconds tops."
The announcer made his way out of the ring as both fighters stood in their opposite corners. Without warning or countdown, the bell rang.
The two combatants made their way to the center of the ring; Beefcake quickly skipped up, keeping his guard up, while Sansho casually walked up to his opponent. The large boxer bobbed and weaved his body from side to side in a figure of eight, gauging the demon and waiting for some sort of attack—or, at the very least, some sort of guard. But there wasn't any sign of either, the warrior standing straight with his arms by his side, his usual snarling expression gazing right back into the boxer's eyes.
"Make your move, fat man," taunted Sansho, goading Beefcake.
Beefcake grimaced, and glared into the demon's eyes. His eye twitched, his opponent's words about his weight striking a nerve. "You mother—" a powerful and quick right hook swung right towards Sansho's head, aiming to strike him in the temple. Bu an even quicker arm from the demon rose up to catch the gloved fist. Trying to pull it back, the strength of this former superheavyweight champion was not enough to even get it to budge an inch within the warrior's grasp. "You son of a bitch!"
Sansho huffed. His fingers tightened harder, the tips of them scraping and puncturing into the thick leather. "You should spend less time eating and more time training." His arm snapped forwards, pushing out and pushing not only Beefcake's arm, but his entire body backwards. While he was sent back a few paces, part of his glove stayed in place—the padding from the top of it was torn away, left clutched in the demon's roped hand. Pieces of foam and stitching flew out from the massive hole that was left in the boxer's glove, with a huge chunk of it was clenched around Sansho's fingers. The crowd gasped and cheered, never seeing such a spectacle like this before. Those who betted against the demon groaned and held their heads in their hands.
Beefcake looked down at the destroyed boxing glove, eyes wide and teeth gritted. He placed the hand underneath the opposite arm and tugged away, pulling off what was left of the glove before grasping it by the cuff, chucking it out of the ring. The padded leather let out a loud thud as it impacted with a nearby wall. He did the same with the second glove, and hurled it away. "A'ight, wank stain," the man growled, holding his bare hands in front of him, fists clenched, "the kid gloves are off!"
The large man bounded across the ring, showing off how quick he was despite his large size, and began to lash out with a flurry of jabs and hooks, aiming for head and body shots. But Sansho's agility was quicker than the heavyweight's speed, dodging and weaving between attacks as though they were in slow motion. His arms and wrists took to blocking and deflecting a few strikes like swatting flies from around him. Beefcake scowled at the warrior before pulling back his right arm, muscles tensing before it flung outwards with a powerful punch towards Sansho's face. The demon shifted sideward, letting the powerful strike pass by him, and his opponent stumble shortly after. The warrior hunkered down and spun on his front leg, the back leg extended out and sweeping the boxer out from under his feet. In the short moment Beefcake found himself airborne, Sansho rotated back around, his sweeping leg now arced above his head, and then slammed down onto his opponent's chest, stomping him into the canvas. The whole ring shook—roped violently waved up and down as though caught in a gale; the ring posts rattled, nearly breaking from their fittings; the canvas bowed and tort under the force, sending out a rumble like thunder. Any more force would have sent the boxer through the ring.
For a moment, there was only silence. The crowd were stunned from what they had just witnessed. Beefcake, a superheavyweight boxing champion who had only a few losses in his six year professional career, and not a single loss since his tenure in the underground fighting circuit, had been taken out by a newbie. Not only that, but a newbie whose leg could cause enough racket as though a hydrogen bomb just struck a bomb shelter.
And then applause and cheering erupted from around the warehouse. people clapped and whistled and fist pumped into the air, all directed to Sansho. Others cursed and stomped their feet and flipped the demon the bird before storming out of the warehouse, angered that they lost their money on the bet.
But before the announcer could make his way into the ring to declare the winner, the canvas shook. Despite having taken such a powerful attack, Beefcake still found the strength to push himself up back onto his feet. "You little fuck!" he cursed, his voice shaken and ragged, his breaths heavy. "We aren't done!"
The demon turned his head slightly, his crimson irises gazing over his shoulder. "Go home, fat man. You have already lost."
Beefcake groaned as he staggered up straight. The groans became a growl, and then a shout of anger and defiance and a wounded pride. He ran towards Sansho, intended to blindside him with a powerful—and reckless—punch to the back of his head.
Crimson eyes flashed from over the demon's shoulder. An aura of red ki began to ebb and flow from his right hand, pulsating once as he clenched his fist. As the boxer came close, Sansho went low as he spun around. His ki-infused fist drove straight into the man's chin with a powerful uppercut, snapping his head back. Bright streaks of red and magenta trailed as the demon launched himself almost ten feet into the air, taking the now barely conscious Beefcake with him.
"Goushouma!"
As Sansho reached his peak, his opponent continued to incline from the force of his strike, his head crashing into one of the florescent lights. The tube cracked and unhinged itself from the couplings, falling towards the ring and bouncing off of the ropes before rolling along the canvas. The man began his descent, clearing the ring entirely and towards the concrete floor outside. The crowd scrambled away as the large body slammed against the concrete like a small meteor. Blood seeped from his twitching mouth as he lay unconscious on the ground.
After composing himself from the shock of witnessing such brutality, the announcer scrambled himself to his feet before rolling into the ring with microphone in hand. "T-there you have it, folks," he stuttered for a moment as he brought himself to stand upon the mat beside the demon. "Your winner, Sansho!"
Considering what had just happened moments earlier, the crowd needed the extended break to unwind and take in what they just saw. Within a matter of minutes Sansho was already the talk about the venue. Not a single conversation had gone by without his name being the center of discussion, or at the very least in mention. Talks of who he was, or where he came from, or who he studied under—many fighters came and went, but they had never seen such a technique before. The gambling types praised and joked how they were going to be millionaires so long as Sansho was part of the fight. Even those who bet against him had hopes that they would make their lost money back tenfold the next time.
Up in the office, Mister Big sat in his chair with a huge, toothy grin plastered across his face. His thick thumbs fanned out a single stack of zenni bills, with another several stacks piled on top of each other.
"I tell you what, Jimbo," the boss spoke out, not even attempting to mask the excitement in his voice with professionalism, "this guy… he's gonna make me bunts of cash!" bringing the notes together, he double-looped the elastic band back around the pile before sitting it on top of the rest. His hand reached out for the ashtray, gripping the sat cigar between his fore and ring fingers before bringing it up to his lips, lighting it with a Zippo lighter with the other hand. With a long drag of it, the end of it lit up. A billow of smoke flowed from his lips as he exhaled, almost filling a quarter of the room with it. "Y'know how much I just made from a single fight? One-hundred thousand! With no payouts!"
Mister Jay stood against the wall near the door. His thumb and forefinger rotated the ring on his opposite ring finger from side to side, the gold and diamonds glistening and shimmering in the light. "Aye, I saw," he responded. Pushing himself off the wall, he made his way open to the covered windows. His hand lifted up a few of the blinds as he peaked out from the gap, looking down onto the warehouse floor. "Shame it's only gonna be for the one night. Everyone's gonna put their money on this guy now. They'd be stupid not to—he took out Beefcake in two hits."
"Well fuck that loser!" The short man twirled a quarter turn on his chair before standing, making his way around the desk. His hand lightly frisked the top of the cash pile. "It might've been a one-night fluke, but I'm gonna make tons more! Think about it. Everyone's gonna go away with an awesome night's worth of entertainment, right? They made a good amount of cash on the bets, right? They go home, they talk to their friends or whatever, and before you know it—BOOM!—I gots more people comin' in. That means I generate more cash on the entrance fee; I'm generatin' more profit from the bar and the lounge; I'm probably gonna be getting more VIP pass purchases too! I'm pretty sure that's gonna cover whatever payouts there is!"
"Provided you make a good turnover in customers."
"And if not, I'll make up the difference by lowing the odds on him. Maybe up the entrance fee a little."
Suddenly the door flung open, smacking against the side wall with a resounding thud, causing the two men inside the jump and turn towards the doorway. Sansho ducked under the doorframe as he stepped inside, his topknot brushing against the wooden frame. His head turned towards Big, his eyes locking onto his. "I have won," the demon growled in a low tone. "I have come for to claim my prize."
The boss man was about to let out a verbal lashing, but Jay's hand raised up to stop the man from speaking. "Let me handle this, boss." He turned to Sansho, looking up at him as he spoke in a calm manner, "You're new here, so you don't know how things work around here. Ya see, all of our fighters get paid after the night's over, so you'll have to—"
"Do you deal with payments?" asked Sansho, cutting off his recruiter before he could finish his speech.
"Well, no. The boss does."
"Then get out of my face."
The man was taken aback by the warrior's gall, his disrespect. There was a moment of pause between the room, and tension filled it like a gas leak. He turned to the boss, his expression one of irritation and uncertainty. He gave Mister Jay a nod, who then proceeded to step back a few steps. Sansho closed the gap between himself and his 'employer', the little man barely coming up to his abdomen.
"A'ight, now you listen here, big guy," he began, his voice crackling under the pressure of his own fury, but also his own nervousness, "I make the damn decisions around here, not you! You get paid when I say you'll get paid, and you'll get paid at the end of the night like every other fucker here! And if you don't like it—" he began to prod at the demon's gi shirt with the lit end of his cigar with each word "Then. Get. The. Fuck. Out!"
A bad choice of words and actions. The swift hand of the demon snatched the stocky man by the scruff of his shirt and jacket, fingers tightening like a vice before hoisting him up into the air. The boss man's own fat fingers gripped around the demon's, trying to pry them open but to no avail. His stubby legs dangled and kicked about in the air as though he was a petulant child.
Sansho pulled him closer until they were nose to nose. His sunken, black demonic eyes pierced into Big's own glazed over ones. His breath huffed through his nostrils against the man's face. "You dare stain my clothes with your filth? I expect compensation. Double my earnings. I want it now."
The boss choked as his collar tightened around his fat neck, struggling to get the words out. "A-Alright, alright! Just… put me down, damnit!" The demon's hand released him from its grasp, letting him fall onto his feet before he stumbled. With heavy breaths he gazed back up at Sansho, and then staggered around to the desk. Picking up two stacks of bills, he tossed them at the demon, skidding across the carpet. "There! Twenty thousand! Ya happy now?"
Sansho kneeled down and picked up the stacks. It was more than what he would find on any thug he would steal from before. It was enough to keep him going for a month or so. "This is acceptable. Who do I face next?" His tone was much calmer, more civil than prior.
"No more for tonight," Jay chimed in. He looked towards his boss, and decided to take the conversation over. He could see how riled up Mister Big's face was, flushed red from rage and lack of oxygen. "I set up every fight so that each fighter only has to fight once a night. It gives everyone the chance to recover from their injuries, so that they're good to go sooner rather than later. Besides that, sometimes our fighters get pretty messed up after the first fight anyway, and can't continue even if they wanted to." He flashed a small smirk, and raised a upwards-palmed hand to the demon. "And wouldn't you want to face someone who is in good condition? I don't think you would want an opponent who could barely stand, right?"
The man was playing on his pride, but Sansho found wisdom in his words. With a huff, he turned and made his way to the door. "Then I will be back tomorrow night—" his head turned and looked over his shoulder, crimson eyes flashing against the light "—and you better have my money." With that, his hand grasped the door handle and slammed the door shut.
A moment of silence and tension flooded the office. A few more passed before Mister Big slammed the heel of his fist against the desk once he was certain that the demon was out of earshot. " God-fuckin'-damn him! Who does he think he is, eh?" he shouted. He made his way over to the cabinet just behind his desk. "This brown-skinned Karate Kid-wannabe fuck is giving me demands—" he began to rant as he pulled a bottle of gin from one of the drawers. He grasped a tumbler glass and poured the liquid in, filling the glass half way "—like he's the fuckin' boss! News flash, asshole, I'm the fuckin' boss around here!" The man collapsed in his chair, spinning around to face his desk.
Jay gave a light sigh as he sat upon the glass top of the desk. "Boss, ya need to relax," he spoke up in a soft tone, not wanting to further anger the man than he already was. He watched him take a quick shot of his alcohol. "The guy's new, so he'll come to understand and accept how things work. We just gotta break him in a bit. He'll come around in short time." He gave a light smile as he arced his body backwards, resting on the palms of his hands. "Just think of all the money this guy's gonna make you, right? It'll be like people paying to come and see the next world champion!"
Mister Big turned his head towards his confidant, raising an eyebrow. A small smirk crept across the corner of his mouth. "Yeah, he is gonna make me a fuck ton of cash, ain't he?" His demeanour turned a complete one-eighty, his frustrations replaced only with thoughts of glamour as he imagined himself being surrounded by piles of zenni. "Eh, what's a few thousand zenni to me, when I'll be making double that tomorrow night?" With a light chuckle he twirled the liquid around the inside of his glass before taking another shot of it. "This… This is some good shit…"
It seemed that Mister Big's plan was starting to take effect. While the night before drew around two-hundred patrons, tonight drew closer to three-hundred. Word had spread around the city in hushed tones about some fighting god that had taken out the great Beefcake almost as quickly and the bell rung. The free publicity had started to garner this underground operation a lot of attention from those looking to see a bit of unsanctioned, no-holds-barred action.
Despite the influx of spectators from the norm, they were well catered to—the boss man made sure of that. He had anticipated the increased numbers, so money was well spent on the extra seats, drinks, and other furnishings; he even went the extra mile to put in a couple of pool tables in the now-extended VIP lounge, using the profits from the increased number of bought VIP passes.
Back in the office, Mister Big was sat upon his now bigger office chair—complete with mahogany framework and arm rests—puffing away at his expensive cigar while Mister Jay stood beside him, the taller man turning a ring between his fingers. The boss was reading through a sheet of paper, on it a list of names and times.
"A'ight, so it goes like this," said Mister Big, giving the details, "First, we got Beefcake against Killer Karlov at one. Then we got Tyke Bibson against Miyamoto at one-fifteen. Then you're up against Aat afterwards at one-thirty. You got that?" He flicked the burned out ashes of his cigar into the ashtray.
"I have," replied Sansho, stood opposite of the pair from the other side of the desk. "That gives me one hour to prepare."
"Actually, before you go," interrupted Jay, stepping around from the desk. He had a piece of paper in hand, bring it in front of him before placing it down on the desk in front of the warrior. "While this business may not be… legal, the boss own a legitimate company, the Iron Fist Workshop. In order to keep our competition at bay, all of our fighters have to sign an exclusivity deal. Basically, you can only fight in the company's sanctioned tournaments." Reaching a hand into his pocket, Mister Jay pulled out a small black pen and clicked the top of it. He held it out towards the demon. "if you could…?"
A large hand reached out and grasped it from the recruiter's. Deep red irises glanced down at the paper. The demon placed the flat of his thumb along the top half of the pen's length, and, with a quick push, snapped it in half before dropping it on the floor. The thick, black ink seeped from the tube and spilled out onto the pale carpet, staining it as it soaked into the fibres. His hand then reached for the paper, and scrunched it up into a ball as the digits crushed around it. "I fight where I please," he growled as he dragged his hand and the paper ball from the desk before tossing it on the floor to his side.
Before either one of them could chastise him, Sansho had already walked out of the room. Mister Jay let out a sign as he ran his forefinger and thumb across his brow. Mister Big, however, clenched his cigar hand tightly to the point that the tobacco had been squeezed out.
"That could have gone better," the taller man exasperated. "I guess we can't really have him show up in public, in case any other organisations try to buy him out."
"Little fuckin' shit," grumbled the boss in a harsh tone as he pulled another cigar from the case he kept in his suit jacket pocket. He quickly lit the end with his Zippo and took a deep drag of it. "With him out of the bigger picture, that's gonna cut my damn profits in half," he continued, smoke pouring out of his mouth as he spoke. "I'm losing millions now because of this red-haired shit face! All of those sponsorship deals, all of that merchandise—gone!"
"Even so, boss, this guy is gonna draw you more money than probably all of your other fighters put together. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me if this guy started making more money than one of your fighters in sanctioned tournaments."
Big's mood completely changed hearing that—Jay was a good financial manager, so it was wise to find truth in his predictions. The stocky man chuckled with a half-smile as he flicked the ash into the tray. "Yeah… Yeah, you're right. The guy has already made me this much. I expect him to be makin' triple by next month."
Streaks of red and blue and green ran across the walls of the warehouse as the lights changed from their normal white glow, signalling the preparations of the next fight. The ring crew began to enter the squared circle to begin cleaning, using whatever tools and chemicals they had on hand to get the blood stains out from the canvas. Spectators began to crowd around the ring in anticipation for the next matchup, while some sat at the bar and the lounge with their drinks to enjoy the entertainment from their seats.
The announcer stepped through the ropes and to the middle of the ring. "Okay, Ladies and Gentlemen," he called into the microphone, his voice amplified by the surrounding speakers, "it's time for the big fight you're no doubt here for! This fight's gonna be brutal, it's gonna be bloody, and we wouldn't have it any other way!" The crowd erupted into a primal, bloodthirsty cheer matched only by the Romans at the Coliseum. "Introducing to you first, the man with a thousand strikes, Aat!"
The cheering carried over from the announcer to the fighter as the Muay Thai practitioner made his way from the curtain. A man with a dark tan not unlike that of Sansho, walked down the ramp and headed towards the ring. Sports tape-wrapped hands and feet pushed him up onto the ring apron before he climbed through the middle ropes, entering onto the canvas. He slightly pulled up his green and white-striped shorts before he rose his arms into the air, giving the crowd his attention and gesturing his confidence. They immediately fell for it.
"And his opponent, our resident newbie and, dare I say, Fighting God, Sansho!"
The crowd grew louder in their applause, the announcer using the popular, fan-derived moniker for the warrior no doubt riling them up. A large arm swatted away the curtain, revealing the tall, muscular demon in all of his glory. As he made his way to the ring, the audience began to cheer his name. He launched himself off of the ramp, and soared over the ropes before landing in the middle of his, Aat having to move out of the way or he would have been stomped on. The extravagant entrance of the clothed warrior caused the spectators to cheer louder, even starting a "Let's Go, Sansho!" chant with a rhythm of five claps between each cry. The crowd was unanimously on the demon's side.
The complete switch of his support to his opponent frustrated the kick boxer. As he make his way to the center of the ring, he looked up and scowled at the demon that was a clear foot taller than him. He jolted his head forwards as though he was about to headbutt Sansho, trying to psyche him out and get him to flinch. But nothing happened. The demon stayed standing, never moving an inch as though he was a statue. The only reaction he gave was a shift of his eyes towards the announcer, waiting for him to leave the ring. He did.
After a moment, the bell rang.
Aat immediately back off, jumping backwards and into his corner. His hands were held up in front of him, though not like a boxer would, his hands instead clenched with the knuckles facing outwards. His front leg was crooked, with the foot bent onto the ball as though ready for a knee strike. Cautiously he moved himself forward, approaching the demon with half steps as he kept his stance up. The man was good at gauging his distance—a swift kick came around from the side, with the top of his taped foot aiming to strike at his opponent's thigh.
The strike snapped against cloth and muscle, sending a thwapping noise out across the ring. The crowd let out a unified "ooh" as the blow landed.
Sansho, on the other hand, was not fazed by it. He had barely felt the strike, and his leg hadn't even moved or flinched from the impact. It was like hitting the broad side of a tree trunk with a rolled up newspaper. The demon found some sick humour in watching Aat fail to do anything meaningful to him, and awaited for the next strike. He was disappointed at watching his opponent try the same tactic again, letting him dish out another couple of kicks to the same area. It was clear to Sansho that Aat was trying to wear his leg down, to then take advantage of it as the fight progressed, but even a thousand kicks from someone so weak would not do so.
A fourth kick lashed out from the Muay Thai fighter. Once more it connected against the thigh of the demon, but now a huge, muscular arm was wrapped around it, holding the leg in place between Sansho's fore and upper arm. Before Aat could even so much as try to pull his leg free, the warrior turned sideward and thrust his free arm outwards. His clenched, roped fist drove into his opponent's sternum, causing his ribcage to impact in an inch—anymore and the force would had stopped, or even ruptured, his internal organs. The force sent the tanned man hurling backwards, his back smacking against the padding of the top and middle turnbuckles.
Dazed and winded, the kick boxer could barely see anything out of his eyes besides blurred colors and wavering figures. It took a few seconds for his sight to finally adjust back to normal, with him shaking it off and pulling himself back to his feet with the top ropes. He pushed himself off of the turnbuckle, and charged towards the demon. Jumping off of both legs, he dove straight at him with his knee up, aiming to drive the point of it into the warrior's chest.
A large arm crossed in front of Sansho's chest as the knee was about to strike, catching it with an outward-turned hand. His free arm lashed out, his palm slamming into Aat's face and fingers tightening around his skull, and, with the full weight of his body, slammed the back of his head into the canvas with a thunderous crash. The entirety of the ring quaked under the demon's might.
It all seemed to be a repeat of what had happened the day prior with Beefcake, with Sansho winning the fight in record time and with only minimal effort. But Aat was more resilient to the beatings than the heavyweight boxer was. His legs wrapped around Sansho's upper arm while his arms wrapped around the lower half. He began to push down with his legs and pull backwards with his arms, trying to snap it in an armbar.
He barely made the demon's arm bend. Sansho growled as he watched his opponent try and put on a submission hold, but at this point it was like watching a kitten trying to latch onto its master, but he gave him some respect for lasting longer than the last guy did. With the Muay Thai fighter still holding on, Sansho hoisted him into the air, picking him up as though he was a bag of feathers. Spinning on his back leg, Sansho swung the man's body around until he was in parallel with the ring post. The demon's drove the still-clutched skull into the top turnbuckle, sending out a tremendous thud and bone clashed with padded steel.
The crowd let out a gasp as the mere sight of seeing such a hulking beast of a man man-handle another as though he was a rag doll, and even more so as watching something that made even their stomach churn. They watched Aat's body go completely limp, his limbs unravelling from Sansho's arm and his body swinging down and thudding against the middle and bottom turnbuckles. The roped hand released its hold upon the head, letting the rest of the body slump down into a sprawled seated position in the corner. Blood and nasal mucus ran down his face and dripped onto his lower lip, and then onto the canvas. The only relief the spectators found was being able to see Aat's chest heaving up and down from his slow breaths.
Silence and tension filled the place. Murmuring and muttering hummed quietly in the background. "W-well, there you have it, folks," the announcer's voice came through the speakers, cutting through the awkward silence, "the winner is Sansho!"
Two months went by. Life was getting good for Sansho and the "business" he was working for. Sansho had regular fights, and every victory that he got he was given a sizeable payout. The boss had even upped his winnings by double because he was drawing in so much. The business itself was making money hand over fist, drawing in hundreds of thousands of zenni every weekend. The place was like a veiled tourist attraction, with everyone wanting to catch a piece of the action—and, more importantly, to see the Fighting God in action.
But almost as quickly as the money came in, so did the money drain away. Business took a turn for the once after the first month. No one but the boss knew why, and he knew it was because of Sansho.
Ten-thirty in the morning. Inside the warehouse all was quiet, its doors closed until midnight. Mister Big and Mister Jay were in the office on the upper floor. Mister Big had a hand over his forehead as his sunken, beady eyes stared blankly across the desk as the monitor of his computer. his free hand lay flat on the mouse, his forefinger slowly scrolling through an online article.
"I can't fuckin' believe this," he grumbled from under his ragged, alcohol-soaked breath. "How can this piece of shit do this to me! I took 'im in, I gave him a job, I paid him in cash these other fuckers can only hope to dream of, and this is what I get for all my troubles!"
Mister Jay had been standing by the desk, watching his boss scroll through all of these different articles for the past half an hour. He gave a sigh before sitting on top of it. "I never thought the guy could be so… brutal." he spoke, rubbing his brow between finger and thumb.
"Three fighters!" the boss screamed out as he slammed the mouse on the desk with a loud clap. "Three… mother fuckin'—" he shot up from his seat, mouse in hand, and launched it at the screen, cracking the glass "—fighters! All crippled! Hao-Lang, Bedros Mavros, Red Liger, they're all fucked! I'm down by three fighters!" The stocky man turned about in agitation before sharply turning towards the drinks cabinet. Pulling out the bottle of gin, he grunted as he found only a quarter of a glass worth of it left in the bottle. He began to slam glasses and bottles against the top of it as he poured the remaining liquid into the tumbler. "And that's not even counting the guys who are taking time off to recover from broken bones and torn muscles and shit!"
Jay hummed as he looked down onto the desk, his finger placing on a sheet of paper before pulling it towards him. It had a list of seven names—all fighters who were going to be out of action for, at the very least, the next month. "At least we're only down permanently by three fighters," he chimed in, trying to fight the light in the situation. "Shouldn't be too difficult for me to go find three other fighters to replace them."
"But I'm down eleven people right now! I ain't gonna be able to afford to keep this place runnin' if this keeps up the way it is! Taking a cigar out of its case and lighting it, Big took a long, deep drag of it. Smoke puffed and flowed through his orifices as he continued, "I'm losin' more fighters than I am getting them! And with this black-eyed prick takin' most of my earnings every night, and with everyone getting payouts because they're only betting on Sansho for a quick easy buck, I'm losin' more money than I am getting from the bets!
"Not only that, but he's sinking my damn reputation! Who in their right fuckin' mind would come and work for me if they knew that at some point this beast of a guy is gonna break every single bone in their body before sending them to the emergency ward! With so many guys out of the picture, all of my sponsors are startin' to pull out one by one now that my fighters are becoming "accident prone!" Even my insurance companies are starting to bail!
"And the crowning shit-stained cherry on the diarrhoea sundae; I've got the authorities crawling up my ass like suicidal gerbils! How many more times are the feds gonna buy the whole "training accident" bullshit I've been feeding them whenever they ask about how my guys are getting injured on a regular basis, considering they haven't been fighting in any public tournaments?"
"Just do what you normally do, boss," responded Jay with a shrug of his shoulders. "Just bribe them to look the other way."
"With fuckin' what?" exclaimed Big, laughing without humour. "If I gotta keep slipping the cops the thousands I'm already giving them, then I wouldn't last any longer than the next couple of months! And when they find out I can't pay them anymore, they're gonna fuck me so hard that I'm gonna need ointment for two weeks before I can even sit down! And if they tell their superiors that I've been running a gambling den and dodging the tax man like he was my ex wife, then my ass is gonna be hurled off to prison for ten years minimum!" With a shaking hand, the boss to the glass to his lips and chugged a mouthful of the alcohol.
A small smirk crept across the lips of the taller man, coupled with a slight chuckle. "Well, if you do end up doing time… why don't you just transfer all of the assets onto my name?"
Mister Big slowly placed his glass on the table. His head turned to face his partner, eyebrows raised. He took a drag of his cigar as he leaned forwards. "Look… Jimbo," he started, puffs of smoke flowing from his mouth as he spoke, ""I like you. I trust you. You wouldn't be my right hand man if I didn't…" He gave a half smile as he flicked away the burned ash on the end of his cigar. "But I would sooner hang myself by my own fuckin' foreskin, let gravity give me a botched circumcision, and then play it like a fuckin' violin before I hand over all of my life's work to someone else." The boss sighed before reaching over to his glass. "Besides, they'll freeze all my assets and revenue once they find my tax return documents…" He took a sip of his drink.
Jay couldn't help but give out a soft chuckle. "So… what do you plan to do about Sansho? Gonna get rid of him?"
"Oh, fuck no. Could you imagine how pissed he'd be if I told him that he ain't workin' here no more? I don't fancy having my office repainted using my blood and my head as the paint brush."
"So…" He mimed putting a gun to his head and firing it. "The 'Alternative'?"
A small grin crept across the corner of Big's lip as he gave a wheezing chuckle. "Yeah, that. Send whoever the fuck wants the job—there's plenty of our guys who'd love to have his head as a trophy." He swished the liquid around the glass. "He may be a "Fighting God", but he ain't gonna be able to survive a few gunshots…"
The following evening was like any other—dark, cold, and the home of thugs, robbers and murderers that used the cover of darkness to their advantage. The streets were quiet tonight, save for a few restaurants within the southern square. Street lamps illuminated the sidewalks and roads, a few flickering from disrepair.
The sound of an opening door faded in against the nightly silence. Sansho stepped out from one of the restaurants—a nice Japanese restaurant that served traditional food—carrying a polished, black, wooden gourd, two litres in capacity that held a fine yet strong blend of sake. A length of white rope wrapped around the middle of it between the two bulbous parts of the bottle, with the other end wrapped around the demon's hand. Sansho made his way down the street, the gourd flung over his shoulder, heading towards the warehouse.
In took a few minutes before the warrior turned onto the block where the venue was. He had the neck of the gourd between his lips, drinking the alcohol while the container was balanced on his shoulder, using the hand with the string wrapped around it to keep it from sliding off. His eyes caught the sight of three figures when he pulled his lips away from the gourd, each one dressed from head to toe in black, with hoods shrouding their faces. The two on each side were lithe but athletic-looking men, while the one in the middle was much more rotund and several inches taller than the other two.
"Oi, shit face," the middle man cursed. "We've got a score to settle, me and you."
The barely tipsy Sansho furrowed his brow as he stared down the larger male. He recognized his physique and voice. "What do you want, Beefcake?" he called out, his voice a little slurred from all the alcohol he had drank this evening. "I have a fight to win, so get out of my face. That goes for your friends as well."
Beefcake chuckled. He reached into his back pocket, followed by the other two mirroring the action, and all three pulled out a weapon. The three men aimed a pistol each at Sansho, with a series of clicks sounding off as they took the safety off. "Can't do that, mate. Boss man needs you dead, so we ain't leaving here till you're laying on the floor in your own blood. Nothin' personal—it's just business. Ah, who the fuck am I kiddin'—it's personal for me."
The demon huffed before sliding the gourd over his shoulder again, pouring the sake into his mouth for a moment and gulping it down. He turned back to face them once more. "Pull the trigger, and you've sealed your fate. You will not get another chance."
The trio took him up on his threat. Gunshots began to ring out and echo into the empty street. Bright flashes flared up in the night as shot after shot fired at the demon. The soft clinking sounds of bullet jackets hitting the floor accompanied the bangs. Before long, the deafening blasts became comparably-mute clicking sounds as each gun tried to fire with nothing in the chamber.
Shaking hands and stuttering noises came from the boxer. Despite over fifty bullets being pumped into the man that was hardly ten meters in front of them, he was still standing with not a single scratch of scuff on him. Every bullet that they fired, aimed right at his body, lay in a scatter by his feet. "W… What the fuck are you?" stammered Beefcake, fear caught in the lump in his throat as he forced the words out.
"Your death."
Not even a split second went by before the demon suddenly appeared before them, their eyes never catching the moments in between. By the time Sansho came inches from Beefcake, the gourd was now clenched in his right hand, and then driven into the face of the former boxing champion, sending him hurling back and sliding across the tarmac.
The other two tried to simultaneously attack from the sides, one of them aiming to strike at the demon's skull, while the second went to land a blow on the opposite temple with a spinning heel kick. Sansho's arms flung upwards, one each to block the incoming attack, with the gourd's string wrapping around the leg of the right-most assailant.
Tugging gourd string-held arm inwards, he pulled the fighter off of his feet and left him doing splits on the ground. The left arm turned outwards, twisting his wrist to grab the other attacker's. An audible snap sounded out as bone broke, coupled with an agonised wail. The demon's leg foot lashed out against the back of the pained attacker's front leg, sending him down onto one knee before he was met by the hardened ball of the warrior's foot. Bone smashed against cartilage as the foot was driven hard into the man's nose, crushing it inwards against the rest of his face and sending him hurling backwards, blood spraying out and gushing from the crushed nose, soaking into the asphalt below.
The third, prone thug managed to shift his free leg to the front, trying to bring Sansho down to one knee with a leg sweep. The demon's leg didn't budge, rooted firmly in place. Instead, the attacker let out a blood-curdling cry as Sansho stomped down onto his shin, snapping the tibia and fibula bones in multiple locations, with parts of it piercing through muscle and flesh and creating small lumps under the man's jeans.
Sansho hunkered down as rolled along the side of the fallen attacker, bringing the strung up ankle with him. The caught leg arced up and over until it was almost parallel with the man's body, the head of the femur dislocating from the hip. Before the assailant could so much as let out a cry of pain, Sansho knocked him out by smashing the hardwood gourd into his forehead. The demon looked down and had somewhat recognized the man—Juao Gabriel, a capoeira fighter who was scheduled to be Sansho's opponent tonight.
Beefcake had finally gotten to his feet in the midst of the ensuing madness, and charged the warrior with his hands held close to his chest in the usual boxing stance. By the time he got close and let out a strong left hook, Sansho had unravelled the gourd from the unconscious fighter's leg, now using it to control the boxer's strikes. He found himself missing his target as the demon stepped to the side, and using the slack string to wrap around the extended arm and pulling it behind him, Sansho now standing with his back against Beefcake's. The former champ's head arm was being held back by the demon's free hand, while the latter once again began to drink from the gourd as he held the boxer in place. "You… You son of a bitch!"
Sansho further indignified the entangled boxer by refusing to acknowledge he was there, casually drinking his sake. His eyes shifted as he saw the other person get to his feet, his hood now down. It was Aat, the fighter that had been put out of action since his defeat at the hands of Sansho a couple of months ago.
Wiping the ever-flowing blood from his face, Aat yet out a nasal, muffled cry as he charged at Sansho. A sharp tug from the demon's gourd-holding arm pulled Beefcake's arm backwards even more, his elbow at an angle behind his head, the unnatural bending and the force causing his shoulder to be dislocated from the joint and the triceps to tear away from bone. The boxer cried out in agony before he was tossed to the floor. The Muay Thai fighter soared through the air with a raised knee as he tried to attack Sansho while he was still off guard.
Dim-witted fool, the demon thought to himself. He was never off guard.
A large arm raised up to block the knee strike, almost mirroring that which happened in their last fight. But unlike before, Aat brought up the rear knee to deliver a second strike, driving it into Sansho's chin, his head snapping back a few inches. It wasn't as though the demon wasn't prepared for the strike, or didn't see it coming; he merely wanted to gauge it.
And it was feeble.
A free, roped hand grasped as the kick boxer's ankle, and the demon's skull ploughed into his forehead with a powerful smack, smashing Aat down onto the asphalt, the back of his skull thudding off of it. Immense agony shot through his grappled leg as a huge foot stomped down on his knee, a resounding crunch and snap of bone could be heard as his shin bent forwards almost at a right angle. It was followed by a deathly shriek, and then silence, the pain and shock rendering the poor fighter unconscious.
With the two small fry out of the way, Sansho now had Beefcake all to himself with no interruptions. He cracked his dense knuckles as he turned to where the boxer was now beginning to stand himself up.
"You fudge-packing, thunder cunt fuck!" the boxer yelled out at the top of his lungs, his voice cracking at its highest decibel. "You're ruining our damn livelihoods! I ain't gonna let you leave here alive! You hear me, arsehole!"
"Your livelihood ended the moment you came here," warned Sansho as he dropped his arms by his sides, the gourd hanging by the string held in his right fist. "Start saying your prayers, lard ass; you are already dead."
Beefcake roared aloud as he ran at the now blood-stained warrior, arms tucked close to his chest and fists at head level. He unleashed a flurry of blows, hooking and jabbing and uppercutting at Sansho's head and body and arms—anything to do some meaningful damage and wear. But every blow was parried and deflected to the sides, each strike missing and clearing its target by inches. "You… cock-sucking… wide-nosed… shit-skinned… prick!"
Before he could curse any further, a swift strike to the man's rotund, muscular gut silenced him after a heavy wheeze, drool flying and dripping down his mouth. Sansho tugged the string tort between his hand and jumped over the boxer, flipping behind him. The string wrapped around the front of Beefcake's thick neck and pulled tight as the demon landed on his feet. Strong, demonic-empowered arms hoisted his enemy's entire five-hundred pound plus mass off of its feet, as though he was carrying a simple rucksack. Large, tree trunk-like legs writhed and kicked. The man began to choke and gasp harshly for what little air he could as the chord tightened around his trachea and jugular veins.
A sharp tug of the chord let out a deep, resounding pop as it snapped multiple vertebrae and severed spinal nerves. The boxer's entire body went slack against the demon's back before dropping to the ground lifeless.
"Right, maybe we can get this shit put back together again," exclaimed Mr. Big with a heavy sigh. He began shuffling through some of the letterheads in his hands—contracts, insurance claim papers, medical bills, and the like. "What with that stiffing fuck outta the picture, I can hopefully start building all of this back up again. That bastard nearly undid everything I've worked for in the last two years!"
Sat upon the corner of the glass desk, Mister Jay was flicking through documents on his tablet, looking across lists and spreadsheets and tables. "With him out of the picture, we should be able to get ourselves back into the black in about three months—two if we siphon money from our Iron Fist Workshop profits."
"That's out of the question," the boss snapped back as he delved into his pocket to retrieve a cigar. "I've already used five percent of last month's profits just to keep everything we have so far, and the investors are already askin' questions about what the hell expenses could justify spending ten million zenni! Any more of it, and they'll start sending official enquiries! The last thing I need is having what remaining investors I have pulling out."
"Three months it is…"
A sudden crash came from the front of the office. The wooden door imploded inwards and flung off of its hinges. Shard and splinters of wood scattered across half of the room, littering the carpet—the men inside had to shield themselves with their arms just to avoid getting hit in the face by them. It was fortunate that it didn't attract any unwanted attention, the loud music and loud voices down on the warehouse floor masking the destruction.
A large body made its way into the room. Sansho's bright red eyes shone as they fixated upon the two at the desk.
"You—What the fuck are you doin' here!" Big cried out as he bolted up straight from his seat, pushing it back against the cabinet behind him and slamming his hands on the glass top. "And where the fuck are my guys!?"
"They're all dead," replied the demon, his voice low and rumbling. A deathly silence fell, and tension rose about the room. Mister Big's unlit cigar dropped from between his fingers onto the carpet, his eyes wide and lips trembling. Mister Jay, however, was not as disturbed by the news. His thumb and forefinger clenched tight around one of his rings. "You're next"
Jay pushed himself off of the desk with both hands. Slowly he began to remove his suit jacket, revealing a black and gold-trimmed waistcoat. His hands reached to his collar and removed his red tie, whipping it from around his neck before tossing it onto the desk. "Yeah, can't have you doing that, big man," he spoke with a calm, cool and collected manner. "I liked you, y'know? Thought you were gonna be a big drawer. But you're just a liability, a mistake—one that I'm gonna have to correct."
A smirk spread across the boss' lips, coupled with a confident chuckle. "Ya see, Jimbo 'ere ain't just my financial manager; he's my right hand, my bodyguard. All these other guys are just wash-ups and has-beens. Jimbo is a real fighter—6th Dan in tae kwon do! He don't need a gun to put you in the ground, ya fuck!"
Sansho snorted, and scowled at the fighter before him. "Then you had best abandon hope. Abandon courage. Abandon life. You face a denizen of the realm of demons." His right hand lashed outwards, hurling the empty gourd towards Mister Jay.
A swift, almost lightning fast leg flung upwards from the side, smashing the top of his dress shoe into the container. The gourd smashed into the nearby wall, shattering into thick shards of hard wood. In the midst of the fragments another quick leg lash out towards the demon, striking him in the side of the head.
It was powerful, enough to stagger Sansho to the side. Even though he let the strike land is a way to figure how strong this tae kwon do expert was, he was taken aback by how strong his attacks were, not even entertaining the thought of him being able to get him to budge. This man was definitely a much more worthy opponent than everyone else he had faced in this place so far. It make his blood burn with violent excitement.
Another kick lashed out towards the red-haired warrior, the heel of Jay's back foot coming around to strike the same place with a backwards roundhouse. A large forearm blocked the leg in its tracks, but it quickly snapped back and lunged forwards again to drive the rubber sole of his shoe into the demon's stomach. The attack struck, his opponent underestimating the speed of his kicks. Sansho was pushed back, but Jay continued to assault him with a flurry of kicks from his right leg alone.
Sansho continued the parry and dodge whatever attacks came his way, but his opponent was no amateur—quick feints from one targeted point to another managed to get through the demon's defense, striking at torso and limb. The strength was enough to buckle and budge his limbs, but barely even close to doing any real damage. Another sudden strike came from Jay's other leg, but was met with the warrior's large roped hand, his fingers clutching around the leg before spinning him a quarter turn, slamming him against the window.
Winded but still conscious and aware, Jay managed to step out of the way of the incoming fist. A loud thump sounded about the office as Sansho's hardened knuckles cracked the inch-thick, shatter-proof glass, the cracks spreading outwards several inches in the shape of a spider's web. Before his opponent could react, a snap kick to the back of the demon's front leg brought him down to one knee, and another to the back of his skull send him head first against the glass. The cracks expanded, and chips of the layered glass flaked off onto the carpet.
Sansho ducked to the side as the heel of the tae kwon do fighter smashed into the window, creating an indentation through several layers. While Jay's leg was stuck in the glass, Sansho sprung back to his feet and drove his foot into the man's side with a spinning back kick, sending his hurling across the room before he stopped by the doorway. A flying kick aimed at his head almost decapitated the man if it weren't for his quick reflexes, rolling out of the way. The demon crashed into the side wall, sending out an explosion of brick and mortar and dust as his leg ploughed through it.
Jay found this to be the perfect opportunity to strike while his opponent was trapped. He had scarcely taken three steps forwards before his body crumpled to the side—Sansho's leg, still in the wall's cavity, spun around, ploughing through the rest of the wall before coming back out, smashing into the man's side. The fighter was hurled through the air, along with chunks of brick and plaster board, before landing hard on his back on top of the glass desk. Dazed and disorientated, his looked up at the ceiling with blurred vision, seeing only the lamp hanging above him. He blinked a few times, trying to regain his vision. When he did, he was met only with the shadowy silhouette of the demon a foot above him, his crimson eyes staring down at him like a beast above its prey. His limbs flung upwards as a huge fist drove into his stomach, sending him through the glass desk. Papers and stationary flung upwards and outwards from the impact. The computer catapulted across the room and smashed into the far wall, with bits of glass and plastic scattering across the floor.
Sansho kept his fist in place and he knelt over the barely conscious Jay, his eyes staring into the twitching, prone fighter's. Slowly he stood up, taking his hand away from the man's chest, and stood straight. His head snapped around, catching the short boss man in his sights. Stepping over the shattered glass and metal frame, he approached him.
Trembling and stuttering, Mister Big tried to back off as far as he could from the demon approaching him. He didn't have far to go, his back arched over the drinks cabinet only a single step behind him. His hand fumbled around the top of it, until the tips of his fingers found a bottle. Trailing it up the length of its body, his fat digits wrapped around the neck of it and swung it wildly in front of him. It was easily stopped by Sansho's stronger hand. "What… What the fuck do you want from me!?" he screeched, his voice higher than normal and cracking under his own despair.
"Your life," grumbled Sansho as he looked down upon the trembling man. Before he could act any further, he felt a sudden stinging pain across his cheek. Flesh split as glass sliced through it, the large shard embedding itself in the wall above. Blood trickled from the wound and down the demon's face. He turned around, and saw Jay, still conscious but beaten and bloodied, sat up amongst the glass pieces.
Still with fight left in him, Mister Jay quickly sprung off of his feet, another large chunk of glass in his hand, and lashed out at Sansho, trying to drive the sharp point of it through one of his eyes. A burly hand stopped his own in its tracks, and fingers crushed his in an iron grip. The man cried out as his hand was crushed under the force, his fingers and palm slicing against the edges of the glass. Sansho brought his rear arm around, driving a fist into the fighter's stomach, sending his flying backwards with only the cracked window to brace the impact. The cracks now spanned the entirety of the window panel. Chunks of thick, broken glass fell not only from the inside of the window, but the outside as well. Before he could even think about pushing himself from the glass, he was driven harder into it by a soaring kick from Sansho. The force sent him crashing through the inch-thick window, followed by large ice-like chunks of glass. Sansho, the office, his boss—everything began to drift away and rise upwards from his vision as he drifted away from it all, falling further and further. The man's body slammed into the concrete fall from the near forty foot height, blood pooling around his lifeless body.
The sound it made, coupled with the clanging noise of glass hitting and further shattering upon the warehouse floor, drew the attention of those below. Patrons looked on in shock and horror as they met with the sight of the bloodied, brutalised corpse, while security rushed from parts of the lower floor around the body. As they, and everyone else, looked up, they were met only with the visage of the demon's shadowed body and bright, piercing red eyes.
Fear. Terror. Vulnerable. Hopelessness. These were the only things that remained within Mister Big as he tried to move his shaking, jelly-like legs, trying desperately to get away from this monster if it weren't for being petrified of him. His heart skipped a beat when the blackened, sunken eyes of Sansho turned to face him once more. Heavy footsteps stomped across the carpet as he drew closer. "G-Get away from me!" he shouted, trying to push himself off of the cabinet and make his way across what remained of his glass desk. The leg of his suit trousers caught upon the splintered end of the steel frame, tripping him up and onto his front. Numb arms and stiff, thick fingers dragged and clawed his tubby body across the carpet. He turned to see where the demon was, but was met only with his rugged palm across his face. Hoisted into the air, his arms and legs dangled and flailed helplessly. "I-I'll give you whatever you want! Money! Power! Y-You name it, and you've got it! Just… P=Please don't kill me…!"
The demon scowled. Thick, dark creases spread across his face. Sharp teeth bared past his scarred lips. "Only death awaits you!"
A bright flash of red and purple filled the room, coupled with an ear-piercing, bone-chilling scream. By the time security had gotten into the office, they were met only with a half-destroyed room, and the dead, lifeless—soulless—body of their boss. The demon who was once here had completely vanished, leaving only death and destruction in his wake.
A dark atmosphere loomed about the southern centre of the city. The entire street where the warehouse was situated was cordoned off with black and yellow tape. Every business building and store front was closed. Half a dozen police cars were parked along and at the ends of the road, blocking it off from both sides. Police and investigators swarmed the area, some along the street to investigate the murders of the fighters whose bodies had been taken away hours earlier, while others were sweeping the warehouse where the undergrounding fighting circuit had taken place. Some investigators were taking statements from witnesses on the sidewalk away from the scene.
One of the pubs a couple of blocks away from the scene had a sudden influx of customers. People gathered at the bar, some with pints of beer in their hands, as they gazed up at the large television above, their full attention fixated on the news coverage.
"—What could only be a described as a massacre occurred earlier this morning," a female news reporter began on the television screen. "Police are still continuing their investigation in a multiple murder case on Barley Boulevard. Five men have been found dead; three of them along the road, and two inside an old warehouse building where, allegedly, illegal fights and unlicensed gambling were being held.
"The three roadside victims were Aat Kunchai, a former professional Muay Thai fighter; Juao Gabriel, a capoeira practitioner who used to work with the World Fighting Champions Association before leaving after an alleged altercation with the company's CEO; and Joshua "Beefcake" Bradley, a former multiple superheavyweight boxing champion. All three men were martial artists employed by the Iron Fist Workshop.
"The other two victims are Jimbo Avidan, the financial manager of Iron Fist Workshop; and the CEO of the company himself, Percy Smalls, otherwise known as "Mister Big".
"Witnesses have come forward and told authorities that something of a demon—of all things—stood at the shattered window of the warehouse's office, situated above the warehouse floor nearly forty feet up, when they found the body of Jimbo Avidan on the floor below. By the time security got to the office, the man was gone. The identity of the murderer still remains unknown.
"Police speculate that the murders are connected, and likely part of a "gang war" between Iron Fist Workshop and the World Fighting Champions Association; the two organising bodies have had a string of social media wars and even legal battles over their fighters, with many jumping ship from one company to the over in recent times. More will be reported once more information has come to light.
"In other news—"
A sharp sigh came from the bartender as he shook his head, peeling himself away from the television as he walked across the bar, away from everyone else, towards a lone customer. He took the pint glass in his hand and placed it tilted under a pump, pulling the handle with his free hand as a dark liquid poured into the glass. "How much more are they gonna keep going at this until they're satisfied?" the middle-aged man grumbled, in part to himself and in part to the customer. "Don't suppose you know about any of this? You look the type…" The bartender placed the pint of beer on the counter.
Thick, dark fingers wrapped around the body of the glass before pulling it close. Black and red eyes shifted from the screen to the bartender. "Nothing that has not already been told," replied Sansho, feigning ignorance of the day's earlier events. He brought the rim of the glass to his lips and chugged back a mouthful of beer. It was different from what he usually drank, but he found the taste palatable. "You dislike fighters?" the demon asked.
"Real fighters, yes; not these stupid idiots who use martial arts to seek fame and fortune. I guess I shouldn't be speaking ill of the dead, though…" The man leaned over the bar, his face only a couple of inches away from Sansho's before speaking in a hushed whisper, "But, between you and me, I'm glad Percy's dead. That's one less corporate asshole ruining martial arts to deal with. I'd give the guy who done him in a medal, too."
The demon gave a half-humoured huff as the bartender reclined back over the counter. He took another chug of his alcohol. "How much for the drinks I have had?"
"Two pints? A thousand zenni."
The warrior reached his free hand into the inside of his gi, and took out a thick, black wallet, placing it on the counter. "This will cover the cost. Two more drinks, as well."
Puzzled, the bartender's hand reached over and picked it up. Undoing the button and opening it up, his hand immediately reached into the notes section. A large wad of zenni bills was inside, totalling to just under twenty thousand. As he was about to close it, he spotted a driver's licence inside of a windowed compartment. It had Mr. Big's picture on it. The sudden realisation of how and why this man was carrying this wallet hit him as he peered up at Sansho. A small smirk spread across his face. He took two thousand from the notes and placed the rest of the money back inside, buttoned it up, and passed it back along the counter. "For you? Next two pints are on the house."
A smirk sprawled across the corner of the demon's lips. A final chug of his beer emptied the glass.
WC: 13,863