She stepped forward, raised the steel pipe in her right hand, and aimed its tip at the unconscious man’s brow bone, just above the eye socket—the position of the eyeball—then thrust down hard.
The edge of the pipe was rough with rust, blunt yet forceful as it breached the eye socket’s fascia, compressed the cornea, destroyed the vitreous body, severed the optic nerve endings, and finally crashed into the bony wall of the orbit.
Then the other eye.
Both movements were clean and decisive, without a single unnecessary pause.
Even if he survived, he would never see again—permanently blind.
Finally, as a precaution, she lowered the end of the pipe toward his femur, raised it, and struck.
The femur, the thickest and strongest bone in the human body, let out one last dull snapping sound under the gravitational acceleration of the steel pipe.
She crouched, pinched his chin between her thumb and index finger, turned his face, confirmed the blood seeping around his eyes and the swollen bluish bruising, then tapped his shinbone with two fingers to assess the location and condition of the fracture.
From beginning to end, her expression remained steady—almost cruel.
The man who had been leading the group and those behind him watched Hisaki’s bloody, violent, brutal actions—so far beyond what a human could endure—and couldn’t believe this was something a high school girl could do.
They had just witnessed a living person reduced to a blinded, broken body lying in a pool of blood within three seconds.
The blood dripping from the rusty pipe fell in the silent corner, landing on every heartbeat of each man present.
Moments ago, they had been consumed by greed and lust over a “huge ransom” and a “beautiful young lady.” Now, they faced a more realistic question… Who’s next?
The outermost ring of the crowd was always the first to break.
A few people wearing light brown sun hats at the back of the human wall quietly retreated two steps, then three, before breaking into a run along the corridor that hadn’t been sealed off yet.
The tops of their sun hats flashed in the reflection of a second-floor security mirror, swelling from one or two individuals to dozens in an instant—far faster than they had arrived.
They weren’t a proper yakuza organization. They had relatives, families, friends.
They had joined this underground network and registered in this anonymous group chat solely to satisfy their twisted desires that couldn’t be exposed to sunlight—not to have their lives destroyed by a high school girl wielding a steel pipe on a Friday afternoon.
They were cowards who feared death.
Between their greed and fear, there had always been only a thin sheet of paper, and Hisaki had pierced it in three seconds.
And now… only twenty or thirty people remained who hadn’t yet taken the step to flee.
These men weren’t unafraid of death. They were afraid—more afraid than those who had just run away.
But the source of their courage was bizarre—not loyalty, not brotherhood, but a subconscious whisper still telling them, “We’re numerous,” “So many of us against one,” “We don’t need to be afraid.”
Even though their groaning comrade lay twitching in the blood pool, even though the pungent smell of blood had already overpowered the cement dust and the sour rust from the corner, their brains still generated a false sense of security from their numerical advantage.
This was the most easily exploited fallacy in human group psychology—the dark side of the law of large numbers.
Still, even if no one dared to strike first, the very presence of these men—their weapons raised, their footsteps blocking the exits—posed a threat to Rinna.
Hisaki didn’t hold to a “if the enemy doesn’t move, I won’t move” stance.
She knew well: battlefield initiative isn’t gained by waiting—it’s gained by depriving.
If she stopped to confront them for even twenty seconds, those brains still harboring twisted desires would snap out of their paralyzing fear and start thinking of real tactics.
Circle around, flank, pincer attack—take Rinna first.
If they took Rinna, she would fall apart.
She absolutely could not allow the enemy even a sliver of thinking space.
Hisaki began adjusting her stance.
Her long black hair fell over her shoulders, the tips gently rising and falling in the air current.
Both hands gripped the steel pipe firmly—right hand at the base, left hand about two palm-widths in front for support, wrists slightly bent, fingers locked.
The pipe’s tip pointed straight ahead, its surface a dull iron-gray under the diffused light.
She raised the middle of the pipe to chest height, close to the position of a kendo chest protector, bent her knees slightly, stepped forward half a foot with her right foot, and followed with her left—her center of gravity settled solidly between her feet, very stable.
Come.
Readiness.
Her shoulders and back were straight, her chin slightly tucked, and her long straight black hair swayed once at the side of her neck, then stilled.
This posture—the pipe’s tip aimed at the throat, hands separated, weight back, ready to slide forward—anyone who had practiced kendo would recognize it.
Chudan-no-kamae.
But not the chudan of a bamboo sword—a real combat chudan, adapted for practical fighting with a rusty steel pipe instead of a bamboo sword.
The little finger and ring finger of her left hand held the base close to her abdominal midline, her right hand held the front, and the tiger’s mouth of both hands aligned with the pipe’s central axis. Power came mainly from the left hand, with the right handling control.
It was exactly the posture she used every morning at 5:30 in the dojo, swinging that bamboo sword alone against the air.
Basic sword swing—empty practice, five hundred times a day, regardless of heat or cold, rain or shine.
Every swing, every lift, every step in those early mornings had condensed into this iron-like standing stance and settled battle intent.
Hisaki moved.
Not a charge—a kendo sliding step. Her right foot advanced with almost zero ground clearance, her body remained upright and steady, and her left foot quickly followed after landing.
Her figure cut a short arc in the dim light, so fast that the men in the front row only saw her shadow flicker.
Then she gripped the pipe tightly, drove her wrist and shoulder rotation with her core strength, and swung the pipe sideways in a horizontal arc, striking the first man precisely on his wrist joint.
The sound of bone cracking mixed with a scream. The short stick in his hand fell to the ground with a clatter, his arm hung limp like a stringless puppet, and he stumbled backward into his companion’s arms.
A gap.
They realized they couldn’t hesitate any longer.
If they didn’t counterattack now, they’d just have to wait for this high school girl to break them one by one.
But what they didn’t know was that the moment fear made them hesitate, the scales of victory in this one-woman battle had already tipped toward Hisaki.
Fear breeds hesitation. Hesitation breeds slowness. Slowness renders any numerical advantage useless.
And those fists, kicks, weapons, and shouts coming at her from all directions—in Hisaki’s eyes, they had long since become the empty space she faced in her daily dawn sword swings.
You cannot be hit.
You must strike.
Use power.
Use speed.
Be beautiful.
At that moment, these fifteen characters of the Kendo principles commanded every muscle in her body in the most instinctive way.