CHAPTER 59: THE LEGEND OF THE STANDING MAN
A few days later, a college student who had been drinking at that Shinjuku bar would recall the night to his friends with wide-eyed fervor:
"The guy just—shing!—ripped his clothes to shreds! He was standing there in nothing but a traditional white fundoshi!"
"Who even wears a loincloth these days unless they're a sumo wrestler? It should have been a joke..."
"But looking at that body... I didn't want to laugh. I didn't even feel like I was looking at something 'exposed.' I felt this... this wave of shock and awe. Like I was looking at a god or a demon!"
"And you know what? That tattoo on his back? It wasn't just ink."
The student leaned in, lowering his voice.
"I heard the story from a beautiful Yakuza lady sitting at the next table. It turns out that tattoo has a history written in blood."
Bar Second Floor. The Balcony.
"That... that is..."
Hana Mitani's eyes were fixed on Hanayama's back. As a Yakuza Patriarch, she recognized the legendary motif instantly. It was a piece of history whispered about in the high offices of the major syndicates.
"The 'Otokodachi'... The Standing Man of the Hanayama family!"
Seeing Nozomi and Ichika's confusion, Hana began to recite the legend from memory.
"In the second year of the Genna era... February, 1616. In the Musashino region, an event occurred that would define the underworld for four centuries."
"A wandering gambler sought shelter for the night at the home of a wealthy farmer named Hanayama."
"The farmer treated the traveler with immense hospitality, despite his profession."
"But that night, a band of dozens of bandits raided the estate. They slaughtered the family with a cruelty that turned the home into a living hell."
"In that slaughter, only one person survived: the eldest son, Miyakichi Hanayama."
"How did he survive? Because of the traveler."
Hana's voice dropped to a somber register.
"Facing a mob he knew he couldn't defeat, the wandering gambler didn't flee. He picked up Miyakichi and hid the boy under a massive bronze temple bell in the yard. Then, he hoisted the bell onto his own back, using his body as a shield to protect the child."
"The bandits hacked at him. They stabbed him dozens of times. Even as his breath left him, the gambler refused to fall. He stood as an immovable pillar until the bandits, shaken by his resolve, bowed in respect and departed."
"When Miyakichi grew up, he entered the 'Industry' to honor the man who saved him. He had the traveler's final stand—the man carrying the bell—tattooed across his entire back. That image has been passed down to every head of the Hanayama family. It is known as The Standing Man."
Kizaki, listening to Hana's story, let out a low chuckle of approval.
"You know your history, Mitani-san."
He leaned against the window frame.
"Everything you said is true. But in this generation, there was one man who was unsatisfied with the artwork."
"My Boss. The 16th Head of the Hanayama family, Kaoru."
"He felt that a 'Standing Man' that hadn't been sliced apart by real blades wasn't a real Standing Man."
"So, at fourteen years old, he walked into the Tomizawa-kai headquarters and finished the job himself. He took the cuts. He took the scars. He let the enemy's steel 'complete' the masterpiece."
Kizaki looked down at the giant below.
"Kaoru Hanayama. Fourteen years and two months old. A boy who refused to fall despite a hundred wounds. That was the night the Standing Man was truly born."
While the group processed the lore, Ichika Iori was scrolling through the police database. The more she read about Hanayama, the more her shark-teeth ground together.
Field Report: "Target is effectively a non-human entity. Do not engage even with automatic weapons."
Retired Wrestler Interview: "Facing Hanayama is like trying to stop a landslide. It's over in one second."
Cult Leader Dossier: "Hanayama is the Chosen One. His 'Might' is a gift from the heavens."
"Well," Ichika muttered. "Ren-kun is in trouble... right?"
"It's worse than that," a new voice spoke up.
It was the Bar Owner—the scarred man in the biker jacket. He was sweating as he watched the alley. He rolled up his left sleeve to reveal a forearm that looked like a gnarled tree root—twisted, lumpy, and horrifically scarred.
"My arm exploded," the owner said.
"I tried to make a name for myself by jumping Hanayama years ago. The second he caught my arm... BOOM."
"I quit the life that night. I opened this bar next to his office just so I'd never have to be his enemy again."
Nozomi's breath hitched. She looked down and saw exactly what the owner was talking about. Hanayama wasn't punching anymore. He was grabbing.
"Ren-kun... please, for the love of god, don't let him touch you!"
ZIP!
Hanayama threw a punch. Ren dropped flat to the pavement to dodge it, then snapped upward in a vertical rising kick.
[JAMIE: LUMINOUS KICK]!
"RAAA!"
Hanayama tanked the kick to the jaw. Teeth flew, but his posture didn't shift a millimeter. His hand blurred through the air, snatching Ren's right calf mid-flight.
First his right hand clamped down. Then his left. One hand above the ankle, one below the calf.
"It's... it's coming!" the bar owner gasped, his knuckles white. "The VICE GRIP! Hanayama's signature kill-move!"
BOOM!
A sharp, wet explosion echoed through the alley, like a firework wrapped in raw meat.
Ren's right leg—the space between Hanayama's two hands—literally burst. The skin couldn't contain the pressure. The muscle tissue was shredded from the inside out, spraying a fountain of blood onto the pavement.
The spectators were paralyzed.
Nozomi's pupils shook. Her kinetic vision showed her the mechanics: Hanayama's grip was so absolute that it cut off all circulation and compressed the blood and fluids in the limb into a high-pressure vacuum. When the pressure peaked, the limb exploded.
It was a technique that required no "Skill"—only a level of raw grip strength that could tear a truck tire to pieces.
After the explosion, Hanayama released the mangled leg. His massive body swayed slightly.
He was far from uninjured. Ren's strikes had all been targeted at vitals—the philtrum, the jaw, the solar plexus. The Thomas Flare double-kick to his face earlier would have killed a normal man instantly.
Combined with the massive amount of high-proof bourbon he had just chugged, Hanayama's world was a hazy, spinning blur.
But his will was made of iron.
Driven by the pure instinct of the "Natural-Born Strong," Hanayama lunged forward. He moved like a starving tiger, his massive frame flying through the air as he dove toward the wounded Ren!