Leaving the other side of events aside for now—
The sun had set. Dusk thickened, and darkness began swallowing the city. Dou Tang sat on the back seat of the motorcycle like a king on his throne.
Around him, eight Oni Island riders—spiked hair, roaring mufflers, and cheap bravado—were now deathly silent.
They didn't dare make a sound.
Because the longer they rode, the clearer it became—Kiryu Dou Tang wasn't normal.
His composure.
His terrifying decisiveness. That indifferent cruelty.
All of it seeped from him like cold iron, numbing their spines. Especially the mohawked youth driving the bike beneath him.
The fear wasn't logical—it was instinctive. The kind that erupts deep in the food chain when prey realizes it's carrying a predator several tiers above its kind.
The man behind him didn't need to say a word. His presence alone made the air vibrate. The driver's back prickled, his hands trembled on the throttle.
"So far, huh?" Dou Tang muttered lazily. "Aren't we there yet?" The mohawked rider jolted like he'd been shocked.
"A-almost there!"
Ten minutes later, the convoy rolled into an industrial district, pulling into a wide, open warehouse lot.
By then, night had fallen completely. The lot itself was unlit— yet it blazed with light all the same.
Dozens upon dozens of motorcycle headlights flooded the darkness, their beams cutting through the air like blades—
all aimed at the newcomers.
The glare was so fierce that Dou Tang could barely make out the figures behind them.
The mohawked youth killed the engine.
Then a deep, gruff voice thundered from ahead: "Yohei, you idiot! Stand up straight!"
Yohei stiffened, jumped off the bike, and scrambled to attention. "You moron! Why are you alone?! Where are the other two?!"
The other two?
Dou Tang's eyes narrowed slightly.
"B-Boss, we only found one! It's him—Kiryu Dou Tang!"
Yohei pressed a hand over his still-bloodied face and stumbled back toward the sidelines.
Only then did Dou Tang climb off the bike—calm, unhurried, as if he were the one in charge here.
His eyes adjusted to the blinding glare, and he took in their faces. So young.
All of them—barely adults.
Street gangs. Bōsōzoku punks. A pitiful breed, really.
As someone who'd lived through darker worlds, all he could think was: Pathetic.
Crossing his arms, the man in black—half his face hidden by a mask—looked up and said clearly,
"I'm Kiryu Dou Tang, the one you've been looking for. Well, here I am. What now?" Such arrogance naturally sparked outrage.
"Bastard!" "Kill him!"
"Hang him off the back of a bike and drag him till dawn!"
Dou Tang grinned. His teeth gleamed under the lights. It wasn't polite—it was genuine, feral.
Perfect, he thought. You're making this easy. Now I can go all out without guilt.
Before their leader could respond, Dou Tang continued, voice calm and sharp as glass.
"Oni Island, huh? Let me ask—has anyone here ever actually killed before?"
"Bastard! I'll make you the first!" "The only one dying tonight is you!"
The crowd jeered, laughing, treating him like a clown in the center of their stage.
Behind him, the eight riders subtly repositioned, their bikes forming a line—blocking the warehouse exit.
Dou Tang didn't even glance back.
"So that's a no, then?" he said lightly. "None of you?"
From the middle of the mob, a short figure flinched ever so slightly.
There. Dou Tang's eyes narrowed. That one's the boss.
"You think we've never killed?!" someone shouted. "Tonight, we'll sink you in Tokyo Bay!"
The mob roared again, echoes bouncing off the concrete walls. But none of them dared move—not before their boss gave the signal.
Dou Tang chuckled softly, shrugging. "So I was right. You haven't."
The absurd image of Stephen Chow in Kung Fu Hustle flickered through his mind.
What's next—some guy two meters tall built like a tank? Hopefully not.
Then, finally, a sharp, high-pitched voice cut through the noise. "So what are you trying to say?"
Dou Tang placed one hand on his hip, the other raised, wagging a finger.
"I'm saying," he drawled, "you're just a bunch of kids. Not one of you has ever killed anyone—and yet here you are, a hundred strong, thinking you can gang up on one man? Shame on you."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes glinting.
"Honestly, it's better that none of you have blood on your hands. Because when you all lose to me tonight—including any murderers among you—well, that'd be pathetic, wouldn't it?"
"Bastard!" "You're dead!"
"You're not leaving alive!"
The shouts rose again—until the boss raised a hand, silencing them.
"You're just stalling for time, aren't you?" the voice sneered. "What—your little sister already called the cops? Or maybe you're counting on that classmate of yours, Kume Chinatsu?"
Dou Tang froze mid-smile. His lips twitched, teeth clenched. So that's it.
You're not just after me.
The smile vanished.
Silence fell—heavy, suffocating—broken only by the faint crackle of cooling engines.
The thugs mistook it for fear. They burst into laughter, smoke curling through the floodlights, looking like demons cavorting in the dark.
They didn't realize—
they'd just provoked something far worse than any demon.
"What's wrong?" one of them jeered. "Did we hit a nerve? Cat got your tongue?" More laughter erupted.
Dou Tang blinked slowly. Then, in a voice flat and quiet as steel, he said— "Run."
The word sliced through the noise. "…What?"
The laughter died instantly.
His tone wasn't angry. It wasn't a threat. It was pure indifference—the voice of someone who had already decided their fate.
The Oni Island boss frowned. That tone—
that calm—
It reminded him of her.
The mysterious Miss Lu.
That same serene arrogance. That same terrifying confidence. And now, Kiryu Dou Tang spoke exactly the same way.
Dou Tang glanced toward the exit, then started walking toward one of the bikes blocking the way.
"Hey! Bastard! You're not going anywhere!" "Yohei! Stop him!"
Yohei froze as Dou Tang approached.
One look into those eyes—cold, predatory, unreadable—and every nerve in his body screamed:
Don't move.
"Got a lighter on you?" Dou Tang asked quietly.
Yohei bit his lip, trembling, unable to answer.
"I said—do you have a lighter?!" Dou Tang roared suddenly, voice like thunder.
Yohei's pride screamed at him to fight—but his body wouldn't obey. Then, just as abruptly, Dou Tang smiled again—gentle as spring.
He patted the boy's shoulder.
"You're not bad," he said softly. "But stop running with gangs."
Before anyone could react, he grabbed Yohei's motorcycle by the front wheel—
—and lifted it.
Gasps exploded through the crowd.
A machine weighing several hundred kilos rose clean off the ground, front wheel hanging, back tire scraping the concrete.
Dou Tang dragged it to the center of the lot and dropped it with a thunderous THUD.
"I'll give you five minutes," he said, voice low and even. "Run. Run anywhere you like. Tokyo's a big city—take your pick."
He tore off the gaudy banners and charms hanging from the handlebars, then swung a leg over and straddled the bike.
His gaze swept across the crowd—fixing on the handful of leaders, the boss included. Then his smile returned. Cold. Perfect.
"Let's see," he murmured. "How many of you I can catch tonight."
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