I'm a hero after all (Alltake)
18
Before the chapter starts.
Can you all like forget the fact that Mikey had read takemichi's diary?
I'm too lazy to fix it, so just imagine that Mikey is still a bum bum and doesn't know about takemichi's time leaping.
Have we got ourselves a deal?
Now enjoy the chapter....
--------------------------------------------
The moment Kazutora knocked out the referee, Hansen, all pretense of a "gang match" evaporated. It became a riot.
The two tides slammed into each other with a sound like crashing waves—black uniforms against white, Toman against Valhalla. The junkyard, already a graveyard of rusted metal, became a battlefield of flesh and bone.
Toman was immediately pushed back by the sheer weight of Valhalla's numbers. For every one Toman member, two white-jacketed thugs were swinging. The front line buckled. Young recruits who had never seen real combat found themselves staring down hardened fighters from Moebius's remnants, their eyes wide with terror.
"Don't falter!" Draken's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. "We're Toman! Don't let these headless bastards push you around!"
But even as he shouted, Draken was forced to play defense. Valhalla had targeted the weakest members first—a classic tactic. Surround the fresh recruits, overwhelm them with numbers, and let the chaos spread. Draken found himself spinning in circles, knocking down one attacker only to see two more take his place.
"Ken-chin!" A young Toman member stumbled backward, blood streaming from a cut above his eye. Three Valhalla thugs were on him in an instant.
Draken was there before they could land another blow. His fist connected with the first attacker's jaw—a sickening crack that sent the man flying. His elbow caught the second in the temple. His knee drove into the third's stomach.
But even as they fell, more were coming.
"Stay together!" Draken roared, pulling the young member to his feet. "If you scatter, you die!"
High atop the stacks of crushed sedans, the Haitani brothers observed the carnage below with professional interest.
Ran lounged against a rusted doorframe, his violet eyes half-lidded. His shoulder-length hair—black at the roots and ends, blonde in the middle—spilled around his shoulders, unbraided for once. He looked relaxed. Completely at ease.
But his eyes missed nothing.
Beside him, Rindou sat stiffly, his purple eyes scanning the chaos below. Searching. Always searching.
Ran smirked. "Toman's getting crushed. Three hundred against one-fifty. Those are bad odds even for the invincibles."
Rindou didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on a specific spot in the crowd—a flash of blond hair, a familiar hoodie.
Ran followed his gaze. "Ah. There's your hamster. Still alive. Still moving. Still being an idiot."
"He's not an idiot."
"He ran into a gang war with stitches in his stomach. That's either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid." Ran paused. "Given that you like him, I'm going with brave."
Rindou's jaw tightened. "He shouldn't be here."
"No. He shouldn't." Ran's smirk faded slightly. "But he is. And if he gets hurt—if anyone touches him—"
Rindou's hands clenched into fists.
Ran grinned. "Then we'll have a reason to get involved, won't we? Rescue the damsel in distress. Very romantic."
"He's not a damsel."
"He's your hamster. Same thing."
Takemichi pushed through the chaos, his heart hammering against his ribs. Blood roared in his ears. His side screamed with every movement—the stitches from his latest surgery pulling taut, threatening to tear.
I have to find Baji. I have to stop him from dying. I have to—
A Valhalla member lunged at him from the left. Takemichi saw the movement too late—a pipe swinging toward his head.
This is it, he thought. This is how I—
THWACK.
The Valhalla member crumpled. Behind him stood Mitsuya, his expression a mixture of exasperation and concern.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Mitsuya demanded, grabbing Takemichi by the collar. "You're supposed to be in the hospital!"
"I have to find Baji!"
"Baji?" Mitsuya's eyes narrowed. "You can't even defend yourself! Look at you—you're bleeding through your bandages!"
Takemichi looked down. A dark stain was spreading across his hoodie, right where his stitches were. The wound from Kazutora's knife—still healing, still fragile—had torn open.
"I don't care," Takemichi said. "I have to—"
"You have to stay alive!" Mitsuya shook him once, hard. "What good are you to anyone dead?"
A Valhalla member charged at them. Mitsuya released Takemichi and met the attack head-on—a perfect counter that sent the man flying.
"Stay close to me," Mitsuya ordered. "If you're going to be an idiot, at least let me keep you from getting killed."
Takemichi nodded, too breathless to argue.
While the brawl raged below, Kazutora lured Mikey to the very top of a mountain of stacked cars. It was a trap, and Mikey knew it. But he followed anyway.
The footing was treacherous—rusted hoods and twisted frames that shifted with every step. Mikey moved carefully, his obsidian eyes fixed on the figure above him.
Kazutora stood at the peak, his tiger-striped hair wild in the wind. Behind him, two massive figures emerged from the shadows.
Chonbo and Chome.
Valhalla's strongest. Men Kazutora had met in juvie—killers with reputations that preceded them. They moved to flank Mikey, cutting off any escape.
Kazutora pulled out a heavy lead pipe. "Hey, Mikey. Do you know how it feels? To have your life ruined because of a 'friend'?"
Mikey didn't respond. He was calculating—angles, distances, possibilities.
"I'm going to kill the invincible Mikey," Kazutora continued, his voice cracking with manic energy. "And finally be at peace."
Chonbo and Chome lunged.
Mikey moved—a blur of motion that should have evaded them. But the unstable surface betrayed him. His foot slipped on a rusted hood, and Chome's massive hand closed around his arm.
Chonbo grabbed the other.
They held him there, pinned between them, as Kazutora approached with the pipe.
"Look at you," Kazutora whispered. "The invincible Mikey. Brought down by a bad surface and two real fighters."
He swung.
The pipe connected with Mikey's head—a sickening crack that echoed across the junkyard. Blood sprayed across the white jackets of Valhalla.
Below, Takemichi heard the sound and looked up. His heart stopped.
Mikey was on his knees, blood streaming down his face. But he wasn't looking at his attackers. He was staring at the sky.
"Kazutora," Mikey said quietly. "Am I your enemy?"
Kazutora froze. For just a moment, something flickered in his eyes—pain, memory, loss.
Then his expression hardened.
"YOU'RE THE REASON I WENT TO JAIL!" He raised the pipe again. "DIE!"
Below, Draken heard Mikey's voice and turned. What he saw made his blood run cold—his best friend, on his knees, about to be executed.
"MIKEY!"
He tried to move, but Hanma was there, grinning that manic grin, blocking his path.
"Where do you think you're going, Draken-chan?" Hanma's tattoos seemed to gleam in the twilight—"Sin" on his right hand, "Punishment" on his left. "The show's just getting interesting."
"Get out of my way!"
"Make me."
Draken swung. Hanma dodged—barely—and countered with a kick that sent Draken staggering. Valhalla members swarmed around them, preventing anyone from reaching the car pile.
Takemichi saw it all. Mikey, bleeding. Kazutora, raising the pipe. The crowd of Valhalla members blocking any rescue.
No. No no no no.
He started running.
"Takemichi!" Mitsuya's voice behind him. "Takemichi, wait!"
He didn't wait. He couldn't wait. He ran toward the car pile, toward Mikey, toward the moment that would determine everything.
Kazutora brought the pipe down—
And Mikey moved.
Despite having his arms pinned by two grown men, he performed an impossible feat of strength. He lifted his entire body, men and all, using his core to generate momentum that shouldn't have been possible. His legs swung up in a perfect arc, and his foot connected with Kazutora's head.
CRACK.
The sound was like a gunshot.
Kazutora flew backward, his body ragdolling across the rusted cars. Chonbo and Chome, still holding Mikey's arms, were lifted off their feet by the momentum and sent tumbling down the pile.
Mikey stood alone at the peak, blood dripping into his eyes, swaying slightly. For one moment, he looked like a god—a broken, bleeding god who had just defied physics and death.
Then his knees buckled.
He didn't fall. He caught himself, hands on his knees, breathing hard. But he was fading. Anyone could see it.
Takemichi reached the base of the car pile just as Mikey collapsed to his knees. His side was on fire. His vision was blurry. But he kept moving.
I have to reach him. I have to—
A Valhalla member grabbed him from behind. Another punched him in the stomach. Takemichi doubled over, gasping, and felt something warm and wet spread across his abdomen.
His stitches had torn completely.
He looked down. Blood was soaking through his hoodie, dripping onto the dirt.
No. Not now. Not yet.
He pushed forward anyway.
Takemichi crawled over a crushed Toyota, his vision swimming. Above him, on the mountain of cars, the tragedy was peaking. Mikey was on his knees, exhausted after his dark impulse explosion against Kazutora. Chonbo and Chome were recovering, preparing to finish what they'd started.
Toman members tried to reach their leader, but Valhalla's numbers were too great. Draken was still pinned by Hanma and a dozen thugs. Mitsuya was fighting his way through, but it was too slow. Too damn slow.
Then a new force entered the battlefield.
From the shadows of the scrap heap, a group of fighters in black uniforms emerged—the Third Division, led by a figure Takemichi recognized with cold horror.
Kisaki Tetta.
He stood at the front of his division, his gold-rimmed glasses gleaming, his expression calm and calculating. Behind him, dozens of fresh fighters spread out, cutting through the Valhalla ranks with practiced efficiency.
"Third Division!" Kisaki's voice carried across the junkyard. "Protect Mikey! No one touches our commander!"
The Valhalla members around the car pile turned to face this new threat—and found themselves outmatched. Kisaki's division was fresh, well-trained, and ruthless. They cut through the exhausted Valhalla fighters like a scythe through wheat.
Takemichi watched, horror dawning.
Kisaki. He's using this. He's—
"He's brilliant," Draken said, appearing beside Takemichi. His face was bruised, his lip split, but his eyes were fixed on Kisaki with something like admiration. "He saved Mikey. He's proving his loyalty in front of everyone."
Takemichi wanted to scream. Wanted to warn them. But he couldn't. Not without revealing everything.
And then—
"KISAKIIII!"
The roar came from behind them. Baji Keisuke erupted from the crowd like a force of nature, a broken pipe clutched in his hand. His black hair flew like a demon's mane. His eyes were fixed on Kisaki with murderous intent.
He was ten feet away from ending Kisaki's reign before it even began.
Kisaki turned at the last moment—too slow to dodge, but fast enough to see death coming. Baji's pipe swung toward his head—
And stopped.
Not because Baji pulled the blow. Because from the shadows of the scrap heap, a fractured soul moved.
Kazutora Hanemiya lunged forward.
He wasn't looking at the fight. He wasn't looking at Kisaki. He was looking at Baji's back—at the man who had been his best friend, his partner, his brother in everything but blood. In his hand, a switchblade glinted under the twilight.
Chifuyu saw it first.
"BAJI-SAN! BEHIND YOU!"
Baji was too focused on Kisaki. He didn't hear. Didn't see the death coming for him.
Takemichi saw it all in slow motion. Kazutora's arm extending. The blade arcing toward Baji's back. The moment of impact that would change everything.
He moved without thinking.
His body launched itself off the hood of a car, propelled by desperation and love and a stubborn refusal to let the future repeat itself. He flew through the air like a ragdoll, arms outstretched, and crashed into Kazutora's side just as the knife descended.
SHLIK.
The sound was sickeningly wet.
For a moment, everything froze.
Baji stood inches away from Kisaki's throat, his pipe raised, frozen by the sound behind him. He turned his head slowly, expecting to feel the cold bite of steel in his own kidney.
Instead, he saw a pair of trembling hands clutching Kazutora's wrists.
Takemichi stood between them, the blade buried deep in his abdomen—right next to the surgical scars from the Moebius fight. Blood poured down his front, soaking his hoodie, dripping onto the dirt.
Baji's eyes went wide. "Takemichi...? What the hell are you... You're supposed to be in the hospital!"
Kazutora's grip on the knife was shaking. His eyes, already fractured, were now completely unmoored. "Why... why did you... get in the way? It was Mikey's fault... Baji has to... I had to..."
Takemichi coughed, a spray of crimson hitting the dirt. He didn't let go of Kazutora's arms. He looked past the knife, staring directly into Kazutora's shattered eyes.
"Stop it," he whispered, blood bubbling at his lips. "Kazutora. Baji-kun... loves you. Mikey... loves you. Don't... don't let Kisaki win..."
Takemichi's knees finally gave out. He slid off the blade, collapsing into Baji's arms.
The silence that followed was deafening.
The 450 delinquents below stopped fighting. Fists hung in mid-air. Bodies froze mid-swing. Every eye in the junkyard turned to the tableau on the car pile—the bleeding boy, the broken killer, the frozen moment of violence.
Even Hanma stopped grinning.
The crybaby hero, who wasn't even supposed to be there, had just shed his blood for a second time to keep Toman's founding members from killing each other.
The silence that followed Takemichi's collapse was more deafening than the riot that had preceded it. The crybaby hero lay in the dirt, his hospital gown stained a deep, spreading crimson.
Manjiro "Mikey" Sano didn't scream. He didn't cry. Something inside him simply... snapped. The light in his eyes, usually so bright and piercing, vanished entirely, replaced by a hollow, obsidian void.
This was the dark impulse.
He stood slowly, his body moving like a puppet with cut strings. Blood still dripped from the wound on his head, but he didn't seem to notice. His eyes were fixed on one thing only.
Kazutora.
Mikey stepped off the pile of rusted cars. He didn't climb down; he descended like a god returning to a ruined earth. Each step was measured, deliberate, inevitable.
Valhalla members who stood in his way froze. They didn't move to attack; they scrambled to get out of his path, sensing an aura that felt like the cold breath of a grave. This wasn't a fighter they were facing. This was something else entirely.
Kazutora stood over Takemichi's body, the bloody knife still shaking in his hand. He looked up as Mikey approached, his mind a fractured mosaic of guilt and delusion.
"It's... it's your fault, Mikey," he stammered. "If you hadn't... if Takemichi hadn't... I had to kill the enemy. That's how I become a hero..."
Mikey didn't respond. He reached the bottom of the scrap heap and walked directly up to Kazutora. He didn't use his signature kick. He didn't use any technique. He simply reached out, grabbed Kazutora by the throat, and slammed him into the side of a crushed van.
CRACK.
The metal dented inward. The sound of Kazutora's breath leaving his lungs was a sickening wheeze.
Mikey began to swing.
These weren't gang-fight punches meant to knock someone out. These were heavy, rhythmic strikes meant to destroy. Each fist landed with a wet, thudding sound—the sound of leather meeting bone and tearing skin.
"You stabbed my brother," Mikey said, his voice a flat, terrifying monotone. "You tried to kill my friend. And now... you've broken the one person who tried to save you."
THUD.
His right hook shattered Kazutora's jaw. Kazutora's head whipped to the side, blood and a broken tooth spraying onto the white Valhalla jacket.
THUD.
A left cross caught him in the temple. Kazutora's eyes rolled back, but Mikey didn't let him fall. He held him up by his collar, using him as a punching bag.
"Mi... key..." Kazutora gurgled, blood pouring from his mouth.
Mikey's face was a mask of stone. He wasn't angry anymore; he was a machine. He brought his knee up into Kazutora's ribs—the sound of three distinct snaps echoed through the junkyard.
Mikey dropped Kazutora into the dirt. The headless angel was now a broken bird, coughing up blood and shivering in the oil-slicked mud. Mikey straddled him, sitting on his chest, and raised both fists.
The spectators on the car piles—the Haitani brothers, Leanman, Hansen—all watched in morbid fascination. They were witnessing the birth of a monster.
"I've tried to forgive you," Mikey whispered. "I've tried to understand. But as long as you breathe, people I love suffer."
He began to rain down ground and pound strikes. Left, right, left, right. Kazutora's face was no longer recognizable. His eyes were swollen shut, his nose was flattened, and his consciousness was flickering like a dying candle.
"MIKEY! STOP!" Draken's voice cut through the chaos. "YOU'LL KILL HIM!"
But Mikey didn't hear. He was in a world of shadows where the only sound was the rhythm of his own fists hitting flesh.
Mikey pulled his hand back for one final, lunging strike—a blow that would have undoubtedly ended Kazutora's life right there on the asphalt.
"Mikey... kun..."
The voice was faint, barely a whisper over the sound of the wind.
Mikey's fist stopped inches from Kazutora's forehead. He turned his head slowly.
A few feet away, Baji was holding Takemichi's unconscious body, his own hands covered in the boy's blood. But it wasn't Baji who had spoken.
Takemichi's eyes were open.
Just barely. Just a slit. But open.
He looked at Mikey—at the blood on his hands, the darkness in his eyes, the fist raised to kill—and his lips moved.
"Don't," he breathed. "Please... don't..."
His eyes closed again.
Baji looked at Mikey, his own expression raw with emotion. "Look at him, Mikey. He didn't take that knife so you could become a murderer. If you kill him now... Takemichi died for nothing."
The darkness in Mikey's eyes flickered.
He looked down at his own hands—bruised, torn, and dripping with his childhood friend's blood. He looked at Kazutora's broken body beneath him. He looked at Takemichi, pale and still in Baji's arms.
Slowly, the tension left Mikey's shoulders.
He stood up, leaving Kazutora in the mud. He didn't say a word. He walked over to where Takemichi lay, knelt down, and placed a hand on the boy's cold forehead.
"The fight is over," he said quietly. "Someone call an ambulance... for both of them."
Kisaki stood in the shadows, his glasses reflecting the flashing lights of police cars approaching in the distance. For the first time, he looked frustrated.
He had accounted for every variable. The numbers. The terrain. The players. He had calculated Mikey's dark impulse, Kazutora's instability, Baji's rage. He had planned for every outcome.
Except for the suicidal loyalty of a boy who refused to let his friends die.
Kisaki's jaw tightened. "Hanagaki Takemichi," he murmured. "You're becoming a problem."
Hanma appeared beside him, his expression unusually subdued. "He's still alive, you know. Barely. But alive."
"I know."
"What now?"
Kisaki was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, a cold smile crossed his face.
"Now? Now we adapt." He turned away from the scene. "This changes nothing. The game continues."
Hanma watched him go, then looked back at the carnage. At the broken bodies. At the boy being loaded onto a stretcher, his face pale as death.
"Interesting," Hanma whispered. "Very interesting."
Ran stretched lazily, his expression one of mild disappointment. "Well. That was anticlimactic."
Rindou didn't respond. His eyes were fixed on the stretcher carrying Takemichi away, on the blood pooling beneath him, on the way his hand dangled limply over the edge.
"He's alive," Ran said, noting his brother's expression. "Barely, but alive."
"He took a knife for someone else." Rindou's voice was hollow. "Again."
"Yes. He seems to have a habit of that."
Rindou stood abruptly. "We're leaving."
Ran raised an eyebrow. "Not going to stay for the aftermath?"
"There's nothing here for us."
Ran smiled knowingly but said nothing. He followed his brother off the car pile, pausing only to glance back at the scene below.
"That hamster of yours," he said quietly. "He's either the stupidest person in Tokyo or the bravest."
Rindou didn't respond.
But as they walked away, he made a silent vow.
If you survive this, Takemichi... I'm not letting you out of my sight again.
The Hospital ( AKA Takemichi's second home 😒)
The emergency room doors slammed shut behind Takemichi's gurney.
Mikey sat in the waiting room, still wearing his bloodstained clothes. He hadn't spoken since the ambulance arrived. He just sat there, staring at his hands.
Draken sat beside him, equally silent.
Baji stood by the window, his arms crossed, his expression unreadable. He had refused treatment for his own injuries, insisting on waiting for news about Takemichi.
Chifuyu sat in the corner, his head in his hands. He kept replaying the moment—the knife, the blood, Takemichi's pale face. If only he had been faster. If only he had seen Kazutora sooner.
The Mizo Five arrived in a panic, having heard the news from someone. Makoto was crying. Yamagishi was pale. Akkun grabbed the nearest nurse and demanded information. Takuya just stood there, staring at the doors, unable to process.
Hina arrived last.
She walked into the waiting room like a ghost—pale, silent, her coral pink eyes fixed on nothing. She didn't ask questions. Didn't demand answers. She just sat down next to Mikey and waited.
For three hours, no one spoke.
Finally, the doctor emerged.
She was the same woman from before—the tired-looking one with kind eyes. She looked even more tired now.
"Family of Hanagaki Takemichi?"
Everyone surged forward.
"He's alive," the doctor said, and a collective sob of relief echoed through the room. "Barely, but alive. The knife missed his major organs again—by even less margin than last time. He lost a massive amount of blood. His heart stopped once on the operating table."
Hina's knees buckled. Emma, who had arrived at some point, caught her.
"We've stabilized him. He's in the ICU. The next 48 hours will be critical." The doctor paused. "I have to be honest with you. His body has been through tremendous trauma in a very short period. Three major incidents in less than two months. At some point, even the strongest will isn't enough."
Mikey's voice was quiet. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying... prepare for the possibility that he might not wake up."
They took turns sitting with him.
Hina went first, holding his hand, whispering words he couldn't hear. She told him about their future—the wedding they would have, the children they would raise, the life they would build together. She promised him she would wait. Always.
Mikey went next. He didn't speak. He just sat there, holding Takemichi's hand, staring at his pale face. When he finally left, his eyes were red.
Draken sat in silence for an hour, then leaned forward and said, "You're the bravest person I know. Don't you dare die."
Baji came, looked at Takemichi for a long moment, and said, "Thank you. For saving me. For saving all of us." Then he left quickly, his jaw tight.
Kazutora wasn't there. He was in a different hospital, in a different room, under police guard. His injuries were severe—broken jaw, broken ribs, internal bleeding. He would survive, but he would never be the same.
The Mizo Five crowded around the bed, holding each other, holding him, holding onto hope.
And through it all, Takemichi slept.
Dreaming of blue skies and happy futures.
Dreaming of a world where everyone survived.
Dreaming of a tomorrow he might not have.
Kisaki sat in the darkness of his apartment, staring at his phone.
Messages scrolled across the screen—reports from the hospital, updates on Takemichi's condition, analyses of the battle's aftermath.
He read each one carefully.
Then he typed a response.
Kisaki: The hero lives. Good.
Hanma: Good? I thought you wanted him dead.
Kisaki: I want him out of the way. There's a difference, and didn't we agree to keep him?
Hanma: Right....
Kisaki: If we can't get rid of him, just destroy him either mentally or physically, then mould him into a perfect pet that obeys us.
Hanma: You're scary sometimes, you know that?
Kisaki: I'm practical. There's a difference.
He set down his phone and looked out the window at the city lights.
Hanagaki Takemichi. You've interfered twice now. You've saved Draken. You've saved Baji. You've changed the future I worked so hard to create.
But the game isn't over.
It's just beginning.
Takemichi opened his eyes.
The ceiling was white. The light was too bright. The smell was antiseptic and familiar.
He was alive.
He turned his head slowly—agony, everything agony—and saw Hina asleep in the chair beside him. Her hand was wrapped around his, even in sleep.
He squeezed gently.
Her eyes snapped open. "Takemichi-kun?"
"Hey," he rasped.
She burst into tears.
"You IDIOT! You absolute IDIOT! Three times! THREE TIMES, TAKEMICHI-KUN!"
He smiled weakly. "I know. I'm sorry."
"Don't apologise! Just—just stop almost dying!"
"I'll try."
She leaned forward and pressed her forehead to his, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I love you. I love you so much it hurts. Please don't leave me."
"I won't," he whispered. "I promise."
Later that night, when the visitors had gone and the room was quiet, Takemichi wrote.
October 31, 2005
I did it.
Baji is alive. Kazutora didn't kill him. Mikey didn't kill Kazutora. The future is changed.
I took a knife for Baji. It hurt. It hurts still. But he's alive. That's what matters.
Mikey almost killed Kazutora. I saw the darkness in his eyes—the same darkness that will consume him in another timeline. But I stopped him. I stopped him with three words.
"Please don't."
Three words. That's all it took.
I'm in the hospital again. Fourth time? Fifth? I've lost count. The doctor says my body is breaking down. She says at some point, even the strongest will isn't enough.
She's wrong.
My will is infinite. As long as there are people to save, as long as there are futures to change, I will keep fighting.
I will keep living.
For Hina. For Mikey. For Draken. For Kazutora. For Baji. For all of them.
I will not give up.
— Takemichi
Is it just me, or is it getting weirder and weirder?
Please do tell me your opinion or suggestion!
Bạn đang đọc truyện trên: Truyen3h.Co