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Code: CBA84
Ending: 10/08/25
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The black sedan sat idle at the curb, its tinted windows reflecting the dull light of the sun.
Kenshiro moved like mist—silent, calculated, untraceable. Years of ancient martial knowledge fused with a soul that had walked the bloody road of a Martial Master in his past life, allowing him to slip through even the keenest defenses.
The two men inside the car remained oblivious, speaking in low voices, their tone tinted with idle sarcasm.
"Boss sure gets paranoid," One of them muttered, adjusting his tie. "Following around a kid and two extras. I swear, he's losing it."
"Right?" The other scoffed. "A boy who just lost his parents—how the hell is that a threat? Maybe he's scared the kid's gonna cry him to death."
They both chuckled, shaking their heads.
That was when they felt it.
A whisper of breath that wasn't their own.
Before their hands could reach for weapons, Kenshiro's fingers struck in rapid succession, his body flowing like water, his expression stone-cold. Within a single heartbeat, he had pressed into the sides of their necks, then below their ribs, striking deep with surgical precision.
Both men froze.
Their eyes went wide with shock and confusion as their muscles locked, as though invisible chains had bound every limb in place. Their mouths opened to scream, but another quick jab from Kenshiro's fingers silenced them. Their throats seized up, robbed of sound. They could do nothing but tremble in place.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Kenshiro leaned forward, resting his elbows on the seat between them, his youthful face lit only by the dim interior glow. But what haunted the two men more than his presence... was his eyes. Those cold, calculating eyes.
They did not belong to a grieving boy.
They belonged to a predator—one that had tasted death and remembered the flavor all too well.
"Good afternoon," He said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. "Since we're all getting so close... I thought I should introduce myself properly."
The men stared in helpless horror as Kenshiro tilted his head, a small, humorless smile curving his lips.
"You've been following us since the cemetery," He continued, tone eerily conversational. "Watching our every move. Think I wouldn't notice."
He leaned closer to the man on the left, his voice dropping further. "Tell me... why is your Boss so interested in me?"
Of course, no reply came. Their eyes screamed in silence, panicked and pleading. One of them began to sweat profusely, his breathing fast and shallow.
"Oh. That's right," Kenshiro said, feigning surprise. "I shut off your voices."
Kenshiro sat still in the backseat, his fingers curling slowly into a relaxed fist. The silence in the car was unnatural—thick and suffocating—broken only by the shallow, wheezing breaths of the two immobilized men in the front seats.
He leaned back against the seat, eyes closed briefly, as if listening to the sounds of their struggle. Then, without warning, his eyes snapped open—those cold, emotionless orbs glowing faintly in the shadows. His voice sliced through the tension, low and terrifyingly calm.
"I knew you wouldn't talk," He said.
Then he moved.
With a blur of motion, Kenshiro's fingers shot forward again, striking several precise points along the sides of their necks, shoulders, and lower backs—pressure points that most people didn't even know existed. But he did.
These weren't just ordinary acupoints.
They were specialized nerve centers, ancient torturous spots long forbidden in most schools of martial arts. In his previous life, only a select few masters had known how to use them—to break even the strongest of men without leaving a single visible wound.
The result was instant.
The two men began to convulse violently, their bodies jerking in their seats like puppets having their strings ripped apart. Their muscles seized, their veins throbbed, and their skin began to prickle and twitch uncontrollably.
"Ngghhhkk—!"
A strangled sound came from one of their throats, barely more than a hiss of agony. Their mouths opened wide, desperate to scream, but no voice came. The earlier voice suppression points Kenshiro had struck kept them silent—turning their pain into a mute hell.
Thud... Thud...
bodies jerked violently.
One of them slammed his knee against the dashboard.
Shff. Shff.
Their breath came in gasps—desperate and uneven.
Their muscles seized and their veins pulsed erratically.
Their skin twitched, as though alive with insects.
Their faces twisted in agony, red and wet with sweat.
Drip...
A bead of sweat hit the seat.
Then another.
Their eyes widened in terror as their bodies began to convulse, locked into place but screaming with movement. It felt like a thousand fire ants were crawling beneath their skin, biting, chewing, burning from the inside out.
One of them slammed his head weakly against the steering wheel.
Thump!
Another gritted his teeth so hard they crackled slightly under the pressure.
Gnnnnnkkhh!
Through the rearview mirror, they saw him.
Kenshiro was leaning against the back seat. a pleased smile on his face. He was calm, silent, and merciless. His face held no anger, no passion—only a still, cold detachment. The kind that didn't come from rage but from a deeper, far darker place.
A part of him long-buried was now awake again, and it showed in his every gesture.
His eyes locked with theirs through the reflection.
They screamed at him with their gaze, begging for mercy.
Please have mercy.
Stop this.
But Kenshiro simply watched—letting the pain marinate, letting it deepen.
Then he smiled.
It was a slow, cold, cruel smile.
Like a hunter admiring a caught animal twitching in the trap.
"Hurts, doesn't it?" He murmured, voice barely a whisper—more terrifying than a scream.
"That feeling... like your nerves are being peeled back layer by layer... like fire crawling beneath your skin."
The two men couldn't respond. Their faces contorted in mute agony, tears streaking down like rain.
Drip. Drip.
One of the men sobbed quietly through gritted teeth, tears running down his face.
"It won't kill you," Kenshiro said, still watching with interest. "But it will make you wish you were dead."
He leaned forward just a bit, placing his elbows on the back of their seats, letting them feel the heat of his breath against their necks.
"You're feeling only a fraction of what I felt when I didn't even get to see my parents' bodies for one last time..."
His voice deepened. "This... is just the beginning."
The second man's face twisted in horror, veins bulging across his temples.
"I'll loosen your throats in a moment," Kenshiro said calmly. "Let's see if you're more cooperative... once you've tasted a little hell."
He sat back and watched.
Watched them tremble, watched their pride break apart like fragile glass.
They would never forget his face.
Never forget the voice that carried no warmth. Never forget the boy whose eyes burned with quiet vengeance.
And they could tell already now that soon… neither would their Boss ever forget him.