章節 9: Meeting Big Deal III End
As the thugs gathered, eyeing the trio with hostile intent, the air crackled with tension. It was only a matter of time before chaos erupted once again.
"Is that all the cheerleaders you've got?" Toji called out, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I was expecting a bit more than a bunch of wannabe tough guys—something with short skirts and shit." He raised his hand, feigning a casual demeanor. "Look, dude, I just wanted to talk; it's your men who complicated all this."
Jake glanced at his men piled up like garbage, noticing Old Face and Lineman lying unconscious on the ground. His eyes turned red with rage. "Ah shit, here we go again," Toji muttered. All the surrounding guys jumped at him like he was some prey.
"No. 1, take No. 2 and No. 3, and pick up my sister from school to home," he said, cracking his knuckles. Reluctantly, Jacob took No. 3 in hand and ran toward the Rolls Royce, smacking away guys in front of him as they bolted.
With that distraction, all the thugs surrounding Toji pounced on him like he was their prey. But instead of being the one in danger, they quickly realized that they had underestimated him, in this game of jungle he wasn't the prey, but the predator.
Like an afterimage, Toji vanished from sight, only to reappear beside Jake, the leader. Without hesitation, he landed a punch square in Jake's gut, knocking the air out of him. The force sent Jake crashing into a nearby car, crumpling it like cardboard.
With six ribs broken on one side and a neck injury that left foam bubbling from his mouth, Jake lost consciousness, unable to process what had just happened. In that instant, the fight had shifted entirely.
As if on cue, Jerry Kwon charged at Toji like a bull, but he was no match for a seasoned fighter like Toji. With a swift, elegant flip, Toji maneuvered around Jerry and brought his hand down onto the back of his head, driving it three feet underground and creating a massive crater.
With their leaders incapacitated, the rest of the thugs scattered like ants out of line, disoriented and unsure of what to do next. Some decided to run, Some decided to surrender, and others, emboldened by misguided bravado, chose to attack. Neither strategy worked.
The mob surrounding Toji was like a writhing mass of insects, buzzing with misplaced confidence. He barely registered their numbers, his mind already slipping into the well-worn groove of combat. He'd fought bigger crowds before, deadlier too. This? This was child's play.
Toji didn't feel fear or even tension. What he felt was boredom—a quiet longing to end this fast, stretch his muscles a bit, and head home. He had to pick up his sister after all, and this scuffle was nothing but an annoyance on the way to his real life. These guys were small fry, barking dogs trying to puff their chests and act tough.
The first idiot rushed him, a bat held high above his head. Toji's eyes tracked the arc of the weapon lazily, already knowing exactly how this would go. With one swift motion, he sidestepped, his hand shooting out like a viper and grabbing the man by the throat. The bat never connected—it clattered uselessly to the ground as Toji slammed the guy into the dirt, his face cracking against the pavement with a sickening crunch. The body spasmed, and the crowd flinched as blood pooled from his broken nose and mouth.
"Next," Toji muttered, rolling his neck, the crack of his vertebrae audible even over the rising murmurs of the crowd.
The next wave came in more coordinated, a group of five rushing him from different angles. They thought they'd overwhelm him with numbers, but Toji had danced this dance before. His body moved like a well-oiled machine, muscle memory kicking in as he dodged a poorly aimed punch and caught the fist of another thug mid-swing. With a sickening twist, he snapped the guy's wrist backward, the bone breaking with a loud crack. The man's scream was cut short as Toji drove his knee into his gut, sending him sprawling.
Toji's hand shot out, grabbing another by the collar and slamming him into the next attacker, using the man's body like a human shield. He swung the limp thug into the others, knocking them off balance. It was almost too easy.
The mob hesitated now, fear starting to spread like a virus among them. They had expected an easy victory, a numbers game where they could swarm and overpower him. But Toji wasn't a normal fighter. He was something else—something cold, methodical, and utterly lethal.
The ground around him was already littered with groaning bodies, the air thick with the metallic scent of blood. One of the guys had tried to sneak up on him with a knife. Toji had seen the glint of the blade a mile away. The guy hadn't even gotten close before Toji had grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and driven the knife straight into his own thigh. The thug had crumpled, screaming in agony as blood poured from the wound.
Toji's shirt was already starting to tear, the fabric straining against the movements of his body as he effortlessly dispatched one opponent after another. A punch here, an elbow there, every move calculated and devastating. He didn't waste energy. He didn't need to.
A particularly large thug—twice the size of the others—charged at him, wielding a metal pipe like a club. Toji smirked, finally seeing something that might provide a bit of entertainment. As the man swung the pipe, Toji ducked, stepping in close and delivering a brutal uppercut to the man's jaw. The crack of bone was almost satisfying. The giant staggered, but Toji wasn't done. Grabbing him by the neck, he lifted the guy off the ground with one hand, slamming him into the pavement with such force that his face caved in, blood splattering across the asphalt.
The mob went still for a moment, horrified by the carnage. Toji barely noticed. He wiped a splatter of blood from his cheek, looking down at the body with mild disinterest.
"Is that it?" he called out, his voice calm, almost bored. "I thought this was supposed to be a fight."
It was a taunt, and it worked. The rest of the thugs, fueled by fear and stupidity, charged all at once. Toji sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Guess I'll have to clean up," he muttered.
The next few moments were a blur of violence. Toji moved like a predator among prey, his fists and feet a whirlwind of destruction. One thug had his face caved in by a brutal elbow strike, his nose disappearing in a spray of blood and cartilage. Another tried to hit Toji from behind, but Toji spun, grabbing him by the neck and snapping it with a quick, fluid motion.
A bat came swinging toward his head. Toji ducked, grabbing the wrist of the guy holding it and twisting. The bat fell, and Toji caught it mid-air, using it to bash the man's skull in, the sound of bone crunching beneath the wood loud and sickening. Blood sprayed across his torn shirt as he swung again, taking down another attacker, the bat shattering in his hands from the force.
Now, with his shirt torn and blood splattered across his muscular torso, Toji looked like a demon in the midst of the carnage. His movements were effortless, brutal, and efficient. The pile of bodies around him grew, and the remaining mobsters began to realize they had bitten off far more than they could chew.
One by one, they tried to flee, but Toji wasn't in the mood to let them off easy. He moved faster than they could react, taking them down before they even got ten feet. A punch here, a kick there—limbs broke, bones shattered, and blood spilled like a river onto the cracked pavement.
When the last thug hit the ground, groaning and writhing in pain, Toji finally stood still. He was breathing evenly, not a trace of exhaustion on his face. His shirt was completely ruined, torn and bloodstained, but his expression remained calm, almost indifferent to the massacre around him.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and placing it between his lips. With a flick of his lighter, the flame ignited, and he took a slow drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that drifted lazily into the air.
The ground around him was littered with broken bodies, blood pooling beneath them. The mob had been reduced to nothing more than a heap of unconscious or dead men, and Toji stood at the center of it all, the last man standing. His eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the scene as if assessing whether anyone else was stupid enough to get back up.
No one did.
As he took another drag of his cigarette, Toji's mind wandered back to his real priorities. This had been nothing more than a warm-up, a brief diversion. He had places to be, people to see, and he was late to pick up his sister.
"Well," he muttered to himself, glancing down at the bodies, "that was a waste of time."
With a final exhale of smoke, he turned and walked away, leaving the carnage behind without a second thought.
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