Chapter Thirty: Clash of Shadows

The moon hung heavy over the shipping port, casting a pale glow over the rows of stacked cargo containers. The air was thick with the smell of salt, metal, and tension. Somewhere in the distance, the echo of waves crashed against the docks — but here, in the heart of the port, the world was silent.

Ryuji Tatsugami stood still, his shadow stretched long across the cracked concrete. His fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles had gone pale. Across the open clearing, surrounded by grim-faced Araragi men, stood Genzou Araragi.

The cold patriarch exuded a quiet menace, towering in his long black coat — a coat that hung off his shoulders, draped like a mantle of death. His eyes, sharp and pale like a serpent's, were locked onto Ryuji.

Without a word, Genzou's fingers moved. He pulled the coat from his shoulders and let it slide down his arms. It hit the ground with a heavy rustle. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

There, in the moonlight, Genzou stood — his body a canvas of inked fury. An oni snarled across his back, fangs bared. A coiled dragon wrapped around his left arm, its scales glinting under the pale light. A snake, poised to strike, wound up his right. Across his chest, lotus flowers bloomed, delicate but unwavering.

Ryuji's heart slammed once against his ribs. The sight was familiar — too familiar. For a heartbeat, the port melted away, and he was a child again, staring up at a man he once called uncle, watching him laugh with his father under falling cherry blossoms.

The memory snapped like a dry twig under his fury.

Ryuji's eyes sharpened. His stance lowered.

Genzou tilted his chin, just slightly. "Come."

The first movement was a blur.

Ryuji lunged, foot cracking the ground, a right hook slicing through the air. Genzou shifted — not dodging, but absorbing. His arm swept up, catching Ryuji's strike on his forearm, the impact thundering like a gunshot. Without hesitation, Genzou drove his shoulder into Ryuji's chest, sending him skidding back across the concrete.

Ryuji grinned. Blood welled in his mouth. He spat it out, wiped his lip, and dashed forward again.

This time their fists met in the air — bone to bone, muscle to muscle. Shockwaves rippled outward, rattling the nearby crates. Men stumbled back, wide-eyed, unable to process the sheer force before them.

Ryuji ducked low, spinning into a sweeping kick aimed at Genzou's legs, but the old veteran was already a step ahead. His knee shot upward, cracking against Ryuji's forearm, forcing the younger fighter to roll away and reset.

No words. No taunts.

Only violence.

The sound of fists against flesh echoed through the port as they clashed again, Ryuji chaining together a brutal combination of hooks, elbows, and knees. Genzou met him head-on, each strike deflected, absorbed, or returned with bone-breaking precision. His style was a perfect balance of offense and defense — rooted like an old oak, unshaken by the storm.

Nearby, Kaito crouched in the shadows, eyes wide, hands trembling. "He's not… holding back…"

Ryuji feinted left, then drove a knee into Genzou's ribs. The older man grunted, barely, and answered with a crushing backfist across Ryuji's jaw. Ryuji's head snapped to the side, but his feet stayed planted.

Then, without warning, Ryuji surged forward and slammed his forehead into Genzou's face.

The crack of bone was sharp and final.

Genzou stepped back, one hand lifting to his lip. Blood painted his knuckles. For the first time that night, his mouth curved — not in anger, but in something like… respect.

"You've grown, boy."

Ryuji's breath came hard and fast. His chest burned. His arms trembled with the rush of adrenaline. But in his eyes, there was no hesitation. Only fury.

Images flickered at the edge of his mind — his father's laughter, his mother's voice, the cold smiles of the Kurohane and their vassals as they watched his clan fall.

The bloodline they tried to erase was standing in front of them now, fists raised, unyielding.

Genzou flexed his fingers, rolling his shoulders. "Show me," he murmured. "Show me what survived the purge."

Around them, the port seemed to hold its breath.

Their men took cautious steps back, as if the air itself had turned poisonous. Even the most hardened Yakuza could feel it — the moment before lightning strikes, the instant before a storm tears the sky apart.

Ryuji's foot slid back. His muscles coiled.

Genzou's stance lowered, his eyes gleaming under the moon.

The world narrowed to the space between them.

A seagull cried overhead, cutting through the silence.

Then—

They launched.

Two meteors colliding, fists drawn back, eyes locked, the sound of their war cries tearing through the night—