My Hokuto Academia
AN: Yes, I'm aware of Smash of the North Star. A friend actually pointed it out to me, but my story is going down in a different direction. Complete with some OCs inspired by the cast of Hokuto no Ken and Souten no Ken respectively.
Just a fair bit of warning, there will be SPOILERS for both My Hero Academia, Hokuto no Ken, and Souten no Ken (and its continuation, Regenesis).
I DO NOT own Hokuto no Ken or My Hero Academia, they belong to their respective creators, Tetsuo Hara, Buronson, and Kohei Horikoshi. Support the official releases, especially of Souten no Ken.
Italics = Flashback
'Italics' = Inner Thoughts
Chapter Sixty-One: Hell's Emissary
DING!
The elevator doors opened, revealing the lower levels of Erinyes Ultra-Max Facility. Each cell was empty. As the three walked out, Jourdain led the way. The cells looked rustic, almost as if the maintenance stopped several years ago.
"What type of prisoners do you have down here?" asked Dabi.
"The ones you either see on death row or say, name a slasher movie," Jourdain answered. "Word of warning: Do not piss off some of the celebrities here; I use that term loosely."
It was Bloodgash's turn to ask questions, wanting to confirm a few things. "Are some of them gun-for-hires?"
Jourdain briefly stopped, turning towards Bloodgash. The guard's expression turned into one of curiosity but instead asked, "Actually…yes. Some of them were found in Paris. Why?"
"I might know of some of them," replied Bloodgash. "However, I'm hoping not to run into this one guy in particular." There was distaste in his voice, getting Jourdain's attention.
"Describe him for me?" questioned Jourdain.
"He's about 180cm and 81 kg [5'11, 180 lb]. Dark-blonde hair, track runner's build, wears glasses, and most of all: he's a smarmy prick," heavy emphasis on the last part.
Jourdain sighed a bit, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Ugh… I know who you're talking about. I'm guessing he's fair-skinned on top of that?" Bloodgash nodded in confirmation. "That guy's responsible for making me lose a whole week's salary…"
"You thought the other guy would kill him or at least put him out of commission for a while? Am I getting that right?" Bloodgash questioned. The guard could only nod in disappointment, confirming it.
"Great… so that prick's here," the merc said. Turning towards Dabi, he said to him. "Dabi, whatever you do. Stay a fair distance from this prick."
Dabi only shrugged in response. The three continued walking, Bloodgash asking a couple more questions to Jourdain. The pounding of fists gradually became louder, partly drowning out the mercenary's questions. The guard asked him to repeat that, this time with some force.
"ANY – OTHER – CONVICTS – THAT - WE – NEED – TO – WORRY – ABOUT!"
"There are a few, but they are known by their epithets," responded Jourdain. "Tell your friend to listen because I will say this only once."
Bloodgash signals for Dabi to pay attention.
"The ones you want to be wary of? The Grim Knight of Maderal Oleaga, ex-member of the Spanish Legion and war criminal; the Sharpshooter, professor-looking fellow; Hundred Hand, inner-city Karate prodigy-turned-thrill killer; The Beast of Chicago, mob hitman with the aura of a slasher villain; The last one is surprisingly the most cooperative: Duskhawk, former Pro Hero-turned-slaughterer. Any more questions?"
"Any others?" asked Dabi.
"There are a few that are considered a clear and present danger if they ever broke out. Those are the ones we keep under constant supervision," Jourdain responded but his tone changed. "God forbid if they did."
As the three were getting closer, the increasing cacophony of fists and cheers stopped any further talk. There was a small doorway that was ajar, showing signs of a crowd cheering on. Jourdain went ahead, then pushed the doors open, revealing the entire spectacle: a barbed wire cage and two fighters going at it. One was a slim dark-blonde convict wearing a light blue short-sleeve shirt with dark jeans; the other convict was a taller man with a heavy build, brown hair, and wearing a dark blue long-sleeve shirt with beige-colored pants. Both of them were wearing Quirk-Suppressor Collars.
The dark-blonde was dodging the heavier man's blows by side-stepping and swaying away. Bloodgash's eyes widened a bit, recognizing the dark blonde. "Oh, great... it is him," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Whoever the heavy guy is, he doesn't have much of a chance."
Jourdain sighs knowingly. "... I hate the fact you could be right. The heavier gentleman over there? That's Tyler Castle, a slasher-style hitman from Chicago. His winning streak's five wins so far. On the other hand, that blonde prick has been making headway. A lot." He emphasized. Dabi narrows his eyes at the fight, wondering how-
SWISH!
The dark-blonde shifted to the side, making the heavier man's punch miss completely. The former responded by striking the heavier man's liver twice, stunning the man, and bringing him down to a knee. He was clutching his liver in pain, gritting his teeth.
"You... piece of-"
BOOM!
The blonde convict silenced him with a quick uppercut, leading Tyler to drop his guard. The former pressed forward with a barrage of strikes, battering Tyler's unprotected frame, alternating between his face and chest. Castle held his hands up in a pathetic attempt to guard up, quickly trying to lessen the damage despite it. As the other convict was wailing on him...
'This is the Beast of Chicago? The boogeyman of the Chicago underworld?! Really?!' thought the other convict, clearly disappointed. This fight was becoming one-sided, but he had to give him some credit. Castle's far more durable than he admits, even if his combat skills were amateurish at best. However, Castle was slowly rising while still guarding up. The blonde did not let up his volley, increasing the torque of his strikes.
Castle needed to think of something. And fast.
'Wait, this might be it.'
The hitman thrust his palm forward. Right into the other fighter's face. The blonde briefly froze up, stopping his volley of strikes. Castle stepped forward, taking advantage of this brief window of opportunity, and primed his fists to deliver a one-two combo despite being in pain. The straight punch into his nose was a little payback.
POW!
KRACK!
The other blonde held his now-bleeding nose, even spitting some out. The expression on his face turned to shock, then shifted into a small smile. "It looks like I took you a bit too lightly," the blonde said. Castle wasn't taking chances, he threw another-
BOOM!
The blonde intercepted his strike with a straight punch of his own, right into his mouth. Castle was reeling, now noticing that the blonde bastard put a little more force in that punch. "Were you holding back?!" he near-yelled. The blonde responded by taking an orthodox stance, egging him on. The Chicagoan hitman didn't take the bait, he wasn't the Beast of Chicago for nothing. Castle keeps his distance away, unsure if this blonde prick has more tricks up his sleeve.
"What's the matter, not used to targets that fight back?" taunted the blonde, getting closer to Castle. He dashes forward, fists ready, but the tall hitman is ready and waiting. The blonde was within arm's length... Castle primed his single fist, ready to fire it off like a shotgun.
"Now you're mine!"
Castle swung his fist in an arc, intending to end his opponent in a single blow or at least, cripple him.
BAM!
Castle's hit didn't connect. He missed the mark but his opponent did not. The blonde drove the hardest part of his knuckle right into the hitman's nose, disorienting him but hasn't done it yet. He lifted his left leg and...
WHAM!
The tip of his toes was sent right into Castle's liver via fouetté [roundhouse kick]. The Chicagoan gagged in pain immediately, cursing out the other for a cheap-
BAM!
Castle was shut up by a cross punch to the cheek, sending some teeth to fly as a bonus. The hitman was reeling from the blow... but his eyes grew with intensity. He managed to slur the following words, "I'll - fucking - rip - your - jaw - off!". The blonde ignored that little tirade by launching another volley of strikes into his body, intending to wear him down.
POW! POW! POW!
POW! POW!
POW! POW! POW!
POW! POW! POW!
The blonde wasn't letting up one bit. The hitman reacted quickly raising his left forearm in line with the blonde's fist, getting his intended outcome: blocking that strike and catching his opponent off-guard, albeit for a moment.
"Clever..."
The blonde didn't finish his sentence as Castle swiftly knocked the enemy's fist inward, not letting his opportunity slip by. He primed his right elbow, stepping in and swinging it overhead, cleaving it into the enemy's face.
Windy City Guillotine!
The blonde fighter was struck with enough force to send him tumbling to the ground, back-first.
KOFF! KOFF!
Castle came a little closer, intending to finish him off, but he had a particular method in mind. The same one when some of his targets became a bigger hassle than they should be. The hitman's feet by the blonde's head, he grabbed him by the neck with both hands, hoisting him up, and saying to him, "This is for becoming a pain in my ass for too long, Jean."
SQUEEZE!
Castle was compressing all 104kg of force into the named Jean's throat, causing his eyes to bulge in worry. He was flailing for a bit, trying to loosSQUEEZEelf from the giant hitman's grip.
SQUEEZEE!
"Remember what I promised. I'll rip your jaw off," calmly stated Castle. Jean barely responded. As he squeezed some more, he saw the life in Jean's eyes slowly fade, his arms dropping, his struggle coming to an end. The moment Castle relaxed his grip for a few seconds...
SHINK!
Castle's wrist felt numb in an instant but felt a warm but liquidy sensation. As he turned towards the source, it was his blood. Not just that but a fairly deep cut right into his wrist. Below the thumb. Jean's eyes were again full of life and mocking him so.
"You little-"
THUNK!
A knife-hand thrust to the throat caused Castle to release his grip and gag. Jean didn't let this opportunity slip by, he closed in on Castle who desperately stood up, intending to block whatever attack was coming.
SLICE!
The hitman felt numbness in his hand, wondering what Jean did to him. He noticed that his pinky finger was missing. He scanned the ground for it. His pinky was right by his feet, bloodied and immobile. In that moment of distraction, he felt a sharp pain in his side! He saw Jean's hand piercing his flesh like a knife through butter.
"You - fuck!"
Castle was cut off as Jean extracted his hand, covered in the hitman's blood. The Chicagoan ignored the pain, trying to grab the blonde bastard. Unfortunately, he back-stepped out of his reach and chambered his leg...
WHAM!
A quick but lethal roundhouse kick was sent straight into Castle's wound, aggravating it. The hitman coughed up some blood, instinctively covering his wound to stem the bleeding. In a second, he threw himself at Jean, intending to tackle him. Jean's eyes widened briefly, stepping back to avoid Castle's charge; he underestimated how fast Castle moved. Jean felt arms wrapped around his waist and his back making contact with the ground.
THUD!
Jean held his arms up immediately.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
Castle was wailing down on the blonde with his fists. Taking the pain into account, he hoped to finish the fight quickly.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
Jean's arms were looking more bruised by the minute; Castle focused on breaking through the smaller man's guard, even if it means passing out because of the wound.
BAM! BAM! BAM!
Jean was gritting his teeth, cursing himself at how much unnecessary damage he was taking. On the other hand, Castle knew he was planning something. He-
SQUELCH!
His volley immediately stopped, turning towards his wound. There it was, Jean gouging his wound with three fingers, driving them in deeper, and drawing further blood. Castle released Jean, keeping some distance between them, but he had more pressing matters: his worsening wound. The hitman didn't want to admit it... this Jean's far more skilled than he initially thought.
Castle was in a defensive stance as Jean rose. "I'm a little disappointed, Bête de Chicago. You're supposed to be the boogeyman from where you're from, but it seems it was all hype." Jean was walking as if he was taking a stroll, blood-covered hand notwithstanding. Castle didn't take the bait and he couldn't afford to take another injury like that. Jean was disappointed he didn't take the bait but shrugged it off. Castle put up a defensive stance as he walked towards him, protecting his upper frame.
"Prévisible..."
WHAM! WHAM!
Castle gritted his teeth as he felt his knee buckle. He lowered his guard to try grabbing Jean as he was-
KRIK-CRACK!
Jean used a snap kick, chambering it and firing it like a pistol, straight into the hitman's knee. Castle growled in pain as he heard a crack! Jean still had that smirk, Castle wanted to wring his neck and wipe that expression off his face. He didn't have a choice: he switched from defense to offense, his hands out, intending to grab him in a bear hug to keep him from-
Castle barely saw the kick coming. Jean back-stepped, raised his leg, and slammed the pointed toe of his foot right into the shoulder joint! The kick felt like a drill boring into his flesh, leaving a nasty indent. "The fuck was -" Castle said, noticing his left arm not moving, it was danging at his side. "The fuck did you do!" screamed Castle in vain as he tried moving his left arm.
"Oh, please... that was a love tap in comparison," replied Jean, still smirking. Castle had no choice but to use his right hand to attack, leaving himself open. The blonde swayed to the left, dodging the incoming blow.
BAM! BAM!
Castle doubled over because Jean struck the wounded spot with two blows. The hitman spat some blood in Jean's face, attempting to blind him. The attempt barely worked, it only landed on the ridge of his nose. Castle didn't care that he had a useless arm, he needed one good strike to land on-
"Il est temps de mettre fin à ce spectacle, non?"
SHINK!
The crowd was stunned by the elbow uppercut, slicing through Castle's nose like a hot knife through butter. The hitman had to forfeit. His left arm was useless. He was down a pinky finger. And now? His nose was gone.
"Forget it... I-"
Jean's hand was fast, enough for a blink-and-you'll-miss-it moment.
SQUELCH!
Castle's throat was punctured! Jean further drove in the spear hand, locking around the vocal cords. Castle was using his remaining hand to try removing Jean's hand but it was in vain. "Remember when I said it's time to end this show?" Jean asked. Castle could only gurgle in response, only mouthing fuck you. A sickening sound silenced Castle as Jean quickly retracted his hand, vocal cords included.
"It's time for your curtain call, Monsieur," Jean responded, dropping the torn-out vocal cords. Castle didn't have any moves left to make. He backed away knowing that death awaited him. In a desperate attempt to stave death off, he flailed his functioning arm, trying to land a single hit on Jean.
WHIFF!
Jean slipped by that clumsy cross.
WHISH!
Jean ducked that admittedly fast right hook, but Castle left himself open. Jean swayed to the left, clenching his left hand into a fist and...
BOOM!
Castle immediately bared that uppercut right into his ribcage, and he was sure nearly all of them were cracked. The pathetic hitman was on his literal last legs, going down to a knee. He couldn't even scream at this point, he-
"Now for the curtain call..." Jean said, raising his arms with two fingers on both hands pointed outwards, almost like spears. "Be grateful, you're one of the few that will witness this."
Jean threw his arms in a curved arc. Aiming at the hitman's neck, all accompanied by a smile on his face. The only hope Castle had? He hoped it would be quick.
SPLORCH!
Jean tore through the flesh of his neck, then made it to one of the spinal nerves, and slowly tore it out like a dentist removing a tough cavity. Castle's eyes widened for the last time before falling forwards as his eyes rolled back. Blood was seeping from the neck, forming a mini-puddle. Jean wiped the blood off by slicking his hair back with it. No call needed to be made.
"Au revoir," he said while walking away from his bloody work.
The whole crowd was murmuring amongst themselves, one even saying "I'm not surprised Jean won. The guy was ex-military, though he could have ended the fight sooner." Prisoners around him agreed. As Jean was getting out of the cage, he noticed that the crowd wasn't cheering for him, sighing was his only response.
'Can't be helped. Castle was a bit more popular than me.' Jean reflected. Dabi was speechless in the crowd after seeing how Jean operated in a fight. Bloodgash? He wasn't surprised at all. He expected him to win.
"... was he feared?" asked the merc. "I'm being serious. For such a feared hitman, he went down way too easy."
Jourdain shrugged in response. "I only know what the files tell me. Tyler Castle - Born in Cicero, IL. Showed signs of antisocial personality disorder. Ran away at 15. Joined the Chicago Outfit two years as a legbreaker and moved up to being a hitman for them. Captured in France after being given up by a federal informant. That's what I know."
"What about his Quirk?"
"Oh? Well... it's nothing special. It was called Bulletproof." Jourdain responded. "User's skin stands up to high-caliber bullets and at best, grenade fire. However, cutting attacks do affect him. It's just a minor inconvenience."
Bloodgash snorted. "Typical. Quirk-reliant. Jean, despite my distaste, is a skilled fighter without his Quirk. Guy's proficient in Savate and Shoot Boxing. Combine that with the bloodbath that occurred moments ago. it's pretty obvious."
"I'm not sure if I need the ex-oh, he's coming towards us now," Jourdain responded, taking notice. Bloodgash immediately turned his head and inwardly groaned, really not looking forward to meeting this guy again. Dabi got a better look at Jean now: Dark-blonde hair slicked back despite the blood, lean frame, and if he weren't a bloodthirsty fighter, he'd be on the cover of a fashion magazine.
"Bloodgash, mon ami, is that you?" asked Jean earnestly. "I thought you were dead somewhere."
"... Same to you, buddy." Bloodgash wasn't enjoying this. "How the hell did you get captured?"
"Honestly, I got sloppy." He said casually. Bloodgash wasn't buying this, prompting him to prod him for more. "Alright... I got a bit complacent, it's not my fault that France's finest were steps below the insurgents I fought with the legion."
"Let me guess, tear gas..." he drawled. Jean's silence confirmed it. "Complacent doesn't begin to cover your fuckup."
"Hey, hey. At least I didn't get sloppy in the ring," Jean replied. "Truth be told, it was good practice... but I'll be honest with you. Only a few of these guys are capable fighters. The rest are just brute force like Castle." He said, pointing out the deceased Castle. "Usually, they remove the loser's corpse and dump them in the ocean."
"Toss them out like yesterday's trash."
"Exactly!" Jean exclaimed, "First things first, who's the kid with the fancy burn work?"
"Dabi. That's all you need to know."
"Fine by me." Jean shrugged. "I'm guessing that CO gave you a rundown of some of the shit that goes down here?" Bloodgash nodded, confirming it. However, Jourdain spoke up.
"It's better if I go into a little more detail on the clear and present danger category. These prisoners are dangerous because they would cause quite a havoc on society. Not all of them are physically strong, some are just charismatic enough to influence a crowd to follow their whims, and others, well, let's say they'd make Hero Killer's so-called crusade seem like a child throwing a tantrum."
Bloodgash listened in, thinking to himself. 'Hopefully, they're not too psychotic. That's the last fucking thing I need.'
"Christ, they make me seem mild in comparison," snorted Jean.
"You shouldn't talk," Bloodgash said, turning his head towards him. "The last time I worked with you, you left a fucking trail of bodies! Do you have any idea how difficult it was to clean up your mess?!" His voice rising.
"It was one time in Madrid, that's all," Jean scoffed.
"You know, ever thought of just... intimidating them? They were street thugs, nothing more!" Bloodgash spat, not enjoying how Jean was responding to this. The blonde prisoner shrugged, not caring what he did in Spain.
Dabi was getting the gist of it. Jourdain too. Bloodgash and Jean had a sour working relationship. Jean was bloodthirsty, and while Bloodgash was ruthless, he maintained a sense of professionalism.
"What exactly happened in Madrid?" asked Dabi. Bloodgash sighed a bit, not wanting to tell the story, and it was a disaster in his eyes. On the other hand? This could be a lesson for Dabi.
"The summarized version? We were hired to take out a drug lord from Mexico. The fucker turned snitch. It was supposed to be simple. Infiltrate the boss's compound, kill him in his sleep, and be out before anyone knows it... but no..." he said, turning towards Jean. "Two wannabe thugs - either looking to make a name or dare I say, assigned the same job as us, decided to butt in."
Jean could only roll his eyes.
"... We were close. However, I was gonna intimidate them into leaving. You know what Jean did?" Bloodgash said in a knowing tone.
"What?" asked Dabi dryly.
"Oh, I just sliced one of their hands off. Then punched the other one hard enough to make a dent in a nearby wall." Jean interjected. "Oh... right. The guards came to check it out right away. It was a fun night anyway."
"We had to shoot our way in, all because of your - fuck-up!" Bloodgash exclaimed with extra emphasis.
"True... but you had fun, right...?" Jean asked in a knowing tone. Bloodgash grumbled in response, muttering that his only fun was being away from him. Jean scoffed in return. Dabi was taking this all in, wondering if the blonde merc's casual attitude is a cover. On the other hand, Jean would make a good recruit for the League.
"Gentlemen..." Jourdain spoke up, making the three focus on him. "I believe the next fight is about to start." As soon as he finished, two more prisoners were brought out. One was around 180 cm [5'10], defined but lean build, and from the looks of it, focused on speed. He had slicked back orange hair, looked a little older, and had a blank look on his face. He almost seemed too apathetic to be here. On top of that, he wore a pair of blue sweatpants and a black shirt.
The other prisoner was a different story: he was much larger, clocking in around 199 cm [6'5] and having a more muscular frame overall. He had a shaved head and a more focused demeanor. It seemed he was muttering a prayer to himself. The prisoner wore a simple green shirt with cut-off sleeves and loose, comfortable pants. The two fighters couldn't be any more different from each other.
"Oh, they're bringing out one of them, are they?" Jean said with a bit of surprise in his voice.
"You know one of them, do you?" Bloodgash asked.
"The kid's name is Chihiro Seimyaku AKA Lethal Silence. The other one on the right is one of the clear and present danger types, Genju Myotoji AKA The Monk of Brutality. The Monk is far more dangerous than you think." Jean says, seriousness evident in his tone. The two fighters were in their combat stances now, ready to explode at the very moment.
RING!
The bell rang with Chihiro charging forward, letting loose a strike into the Monk's frame. The Monk didn't move, except to quickly block with his forearm.
WHIFF!
The Monk blocked another two strikes from the young prisoner. He attempted a third strike but the Monk side-stepped and followed up with a roundhouse kick to the side. The youth grunted in discomfort, forcing him to back away. However, the Monk wouldn't let him go that easily, he struck forward with a straight punch dead-center.
BOOM!
Chihiro gagged instantly, almost as if a spear ran through him. Coughing a bit, he quickly put-
"Accept salvation..." the Monk said sternly, grabbing his arm in a tight hold and then pummeling him to bits with his free hand.
Absolution!
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
Chihiro's good looks were becoming less handsome by the second.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
"Accept absolution..."
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
"... for..."
BAM! BAM! BAM!
"Your..."
The Monk paused, briefly letting go of Chihiro who was plenty red in the face... only for the former to launch an uppercut! Straight into the ribs!
"...MISDEEDS!"
Chihiro was downed, and the Monk made his way, grabbing him by the hair, and barking at his face. "You're one of the worst, Seimyaku. I know of your crimes! The willing murder of your classmates."
"You... don't know... the whole fucking story... fuck..." he said, wheezing between words. He spat blood in the Monk's face, getting it in his eyes, blinding him briefly. Chihiro grabbed the Monk's wrist, bending it inwards, forcing him to release his grip. The youth kept some distance to throw a high roundhouse kick, right into the Monk's head.
WHAM!
The Monk didn't budge, tanking it, responding, "You are closer to salvation...". The Monk's response freaked out Chihiro, forcing him to wonder what this monk's made of? He didn't take any chances, he grabbed the monk's head and leaped quickly...
WHAM!
The Monk was on the receiving end of a flying knee but he barely budged. It seemed he was letting Chihiro strike him as much as he can. The youth was sending out punch after punch, kick after kick, and even the occasional elbow. The Monk barely flinched, only suffering a bloody nose. He cracked his neck in return, saying to Chihiro. "Salvation will be particularly helpful for a fallen person such as yourself."
Chihiro's answer was an annoyed grunt.
"... My only crime was surviving that death game, that's all," he said. The Monk only raised an eyebrow but in his eyes, it was just an excuse. The wounded youth went to the side, aiming for a hook punch outside his peripherals. However, the Monk was faster.
WHIFF!
Chihiro only hit the air. He tried again.
WHIFF!
The Monk slipped by his punch.
WHAM!
Chihiro's jaw clamped shut via the upper elbow, disorienting him again. The Monk lowered his stance, shooting off like a bullet, and tackling him to the ground. Chihiro was at a disadvantage against this bastard, he was desperate enough to try anything. Anything?
'Hope you don't mind this!'
THUD!
The Monk clenched his throat, letting down his guard, and worse of all, letting Chihiro free. The youth freed up one of his feet, using it to kick out the Monk's knee, making him flinch. He was almost free... he was wriggling himself out and punching the Monk several times. The crowd was getting antsy, this kid was putting more effort than they thought.
The kid wrenched himself free from the Monk's grip and kept some distance too. He had more injuries than his opponent, but he needed a way to turn things around. He has heard of the Monk by reputation only: rumors that he eliminated a group of corrupt cops with his bare hands or killed his superior after discovering his sick acts.
'Either way, he's more dangerous than any of my former classmates.'
Seimyaku was brainstorming a way to take apart the Monk piece by piece, even if it meant sacrificing a limb. It was his quick wits and mind that helped him survive the death game, it was gonna get him through this challenge too. However, the Monk recovered quicker than he expected.
"It seems you're particularly resistant to salvation..." muttered the combatant, walking towards Seimyaku. "No matter, they all beg for it at the end. You'll just last longer than most."
Seimyaku was getting nervous now, his enemy's pace was too calm for him, this lead to panic, and panic meant mistakes. The youth dashed towards the Monk, intending to take him down quickly.
WHAM!
"Is that it?" questioned the Monk who barely budged, tanking an overhand punch. He caught the other man by the wrist, slowly wrenching it away, and then smash his free elbow into Seimyaku's cheek. The Monk sent two more punches into Seimyaku's ribcage, then two more punches into the face breaking a few teeth, and finally a headbutt into his forehead.
Blood flew as he stumbled back, almost tripping over, but Seimyaku managed to catch himself. As soon as he focused... he saw the Monk raise his leg nice and high... then came down like an executioner's ax.
SLAM!
The amount of force behind that kick made a dent in the ring, Seimyaku being on the receiving end of it, and the Monk saw his bloody work: bleeding cheeks, shattered nose, and blood flowing from his forehead, cheeks, and mouth.
"P-P-Plehse... I... gihve..." he said, slurring his words. The Monk ignored his words as he knelt, past his knees, and straddled on top of Seimyaku. In a brief moment, the Monk had his hands clasped in prayer, muttering something to himself.
"I... didn't do it..." Seimyaku slurred, trying to explain himself before meeting his end.
"Do not fret... salvation is now at hand." The Monk said in a tone of finality, his hands closing into fists instead.
WHAM!
A fist landed on Seimyaku's injured cheek, silencing him. He retracted his fist and followed up with another punch, hearing a satisfying crack. Then another and another... and another.
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
"..sto-"
WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!
The Monk changed his fist into a hammerfist...
CRACK!
Sekimyaku's nose shattered like glass along with a few front teeth. The Monk briefly stopped, surveying the damage, and then closed his eyes. In a quick motion, he slammed his forehead into the heavily injured Sekimyaku. Twice.
"... salvation is now in your grasp..." he spoke. Sekimyaku wasn't moving. He knew his work was done, the poor soul below him was officially done for, and seeing the amount of blood he was losing. He'd be dead within an hour or two. The match was good as over. The Monk turned his back and walked away, hands in prayer and muttering one to himself about one reaching salvation.
Dabi could see why the Monk was dangerous. It wasn't his skills but his conviction to see things through, and it reminded him of Stain to a degree. Jean had an I told you so look on his face while Bloodgash remained unmoved. Jourdain spoke up, breaking the silence. "Chihiro Seimyaku. Knew he wouldn't last too long."
"What exactly did he do?" Bloodgash asked, a little curious.
"He was the only survivor of a supposed death game, it was some class trip, and according to the boy's words, he claims to have killed the mastermind behind it," Jourdain responded.
"...and who was it?"
"He claims it was a classmate of his. However, the jury's out on that one," Jourdain responded. "Seimyaku willingly killed a few of his classmates and the last one killed was the alleged mastermind."
Bloodgash snorted. "Since this so-called mastermind's dead, that kid's story can't be backed up. What about the Monk?"
Jourdain blanched a bit but relented. "A clear and present danger. The crimes he's committed, all for the sake of his self-styled crusade. It's ramblings about how salvation can be achieved through death and death only."
"... fucking great..." muttered Bloodgash, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Another fanatic. However, he's got the skill to back it up." Jean nodded in agreement, Dabi had no dispute against that and Jourdain was just waiting for this night to be over. The near-dead Seimyaku was carted off in a stretcher and as soon as the cage was cleared, the lights were dimmed, and the audience's noise went down to a whisper.
"Show's over," Jean responded. "Everyone's gonna be carted off back to their cells and things will be business as usual tomorrow morning."
"How are these fights organized usually?"
"Truth be told, I'm not 100% sure. I was picked randomly like it was some lottery. Other times, there were some fights that were set up on purpose: all to settle grudges between convicts. Last week, there was a conflict between a cartel sweeper and a clown very enthusiastic about knives. The one Friday? A match was set up between them, the sweeper ended up dying of blood loss."
Bloodgash wanted to ask more questions but it would have to wait. A heavyset CO barked, "Le spectacle est terminé, mettez-vous en ligne, et retournez dans vos cellules de prison."
Each prisoner rose up from their seats, organized into separate lines, and waited to be escorted by a CO back to their cells for the night. Jean had to separate because he belonged on the bottom floor. Dabi and Bloodgash both shrugged as they got onto their line.
'I'll have more time for questions and we still need info on the prisoners,' Bloodgash thought as the line was moving. 'My best hopes are with the gun-for-hires. Worst comes to worst, I'll bring in Jean... but I really hope it doesn't come to that. On top of that, I need to figure out an extraction plan.'
The whole trip back to their cells was uneventful. Occasionally, there was an order shouted out to either 'keep in line' or 'shut up.'
Dabi and Bloodgash lay in their respective beds, the former taking the top bunk while the latter took the bottom one. The merc was trying to get some sleep but Dabi interrupted it, asking "How exactly are we gonna recruit some of these guys?"
"You let me worry about that. The other issue is our extraction plan, let's say once we recruit enough, how exactly are we going to contact Kurogiri-wait, maybe Jourdain can get us to some communication post. The issue... how do we-"
"Maybe a riot," interjected Dabi.
Bloodgash's eyes narrowed at him, but he didn't scold him. Instead, he said, "Go on, you might have something."
With a smirk, he continued. "It has to be a big-scale riot, big enough to keep the guards occupied, and more importantly, give us enough cover to contact the League. Best of all, if what that CO said was true about few of the prisoners, that should be enough time to cover everything."
"And likely cover our tracks too," Bloodgash added. "Your plan has potential. The bigger question, when to execute it?"
Dabi had to stew on that one for a while, muttering he'll think more on it in the morning. As he stopped talking, he was out like a light. Bloodgash needed to do the same, needing to be aware of any potential reprisal due to his actions in the cafeteria. However, one last thought passed by before drifting off to sleep.
'This is a step closer to finally paying you back, Shichisei. With. Full. Fucking. Interest.'
AN: I have no excuse aside from writer's block and also getting back into shape from Muay Thai. However, also have other fic ideas in the making too.
The show's over, line up, and return to your prison cells. = Le spectacle est terminé, mettez-vous en ligne, et retournez dans vos cellules de prison