Hiroshi Vs Riyaku, the tyrant of Blood!

The arena was alive.

The floor wasn’t stone — it was flesh, slick and warm, pulsing under every step. Veins glowed faintly beneath the surface, and the air smelled like rust and smoke. A low heartbeat echoed through the walls.

Riyaku stood across the trembling ground, his skin crawling with red energy, his eyes bright and cruel.

Hiroshi gripped his twin daggers tighter. Their steel shimmered with reflected crimson light.

“Let's see what you've got.”

Riyaku grinned and thrust his arm forward.

“BLOOD SPLATTER!”

His veins burst open — and a storm of blood droplets shot through the air. They weren’t liquid anymore, but hardened red bullets, rushing towards Hiroshi.

Hiroshi’s body moved on instinct. His Fast Reflexes Power surged; he leaned, spun, and slid across the quivering ground. The droplets missed by inches and splattered against the flesh floor.

Hsssshhh!

Each impact of the droplets burned a hole straight through the living surface, leaving smoking pits.

"His blood’s acid… one touch and I’m done." Hiroshi thought.

Riyaku laughed, his grin stretching wider.

“Scared already, are we?”

Hiroshi stayed silent, eyes locked.

"BLOOD SPLATTER!"

Another volley.

Hiroshi jumped, twisting mid-air as the crimson spray tore past beneath him.

“HUNTER RUSH!”

He shot forward, blades drawn back. In one clean motion he slashed Riyaku’s arm.

Blood sprayed — fresh, bright, steaming.

Riyaku chuckled. “Aww, someone made me bleed. Don’t worry, I won’t die unless every drop of my blood is gone. And thanks to your blood we Tyrants took long ago… I can heal.”

Before Hiroshi’s eyes, the wound closed. Flesh and bone re-knit in a heartbeat.

“BLOOD CLOT PRISON!”

The ground convulsed. A surge of thick, dark blood rose around Hiroshi, swallowing him whole. It hardened instantly, turning into a pulsating sphere — a prison of coagulated gore. The air inside was heavy and hot; acid hissed as it seeped through his clothes.

“RAPID DRILL!”

Both daggers spun like turbines.

Vrrrrrmmm!

The clot shattered, bursting apart in a spray of red mist. Hiroshi landed hard, panting, blood droplets sizzling where they hit the ground.

Riyaku snarled.

“BLOOD TSUNAMI!”

The living arena split open. A massive wave of blood roared toward Hiroshi, swallowing bones and flesh of the arena alike.

He leaped high, slicing through the air.

“HUNTER RUSH!”

But Riyaku raised his palm.

“PLATELET CHAINS!”

From the floor shot white, sinewy chains made of hardened platelets. They coiled around Hiroshi mid-air, locking his arms and legs.

“What the—? Chains? Made of platelets!?”

He pulled with all his strength. The chains cracked — then shattered, raining fragments of white dust.

“RAPID CLAW STRIKES!”

Hiroshi blurred forward, cutting through the haze. His daggers slashed across Riyaku’s chest again and again — precise, relentless, like a wolf tearing through prey.

Riyaku staggered back, breathing heavy.

"His attacks are similar to a wolf's…" He thought.

“PLASMA TRAP!”

A glowing translucent, jelly-like orb fired from Riyaku’s palm, latching onto Hiroshi’s hands. Sticky blood plasma spread instantly, freezing his arms in place.

“Damn it! It’s too sticky!”

He struggled, trying to twist free.

“RAPID DRILL!”

The blades barely moved. His muscles tensed in frustration.

"It’s no use… I can only move my legs." He though while struggling.

“FIBRIN WEB!”

Riyaku launched a spray of sharp threads. The fibrin cut through the air with a metallic hiss, slicing open the fleshy floor wherever it landed.

Hiroshi jumped — the strands grazed beneath him. By sheer luck, they cut through the plasma, freeing his arms.

He flipped mid-air, eyes blazing.

“PREDATOR POUNCE!”

Both daggers came down in one clean strike, plunging deep into Riyaku’s shoulders.

A roar tore from the Tyrant’s throat, echoing across the living arena. The floor pulsed violently beneath them — like a heart skipping a beat.

Riyaku’s blood spilled freely now, hissing where it hit the ground. His face twisted with rage and pain.

“Why… you…!”

The two locked eyes — predator and monster — surrounded by the heartbeat of the living battlefield. Neither spoke. Only the sound of dripping blood filled the silence between them.

The living arena trembled — its veins pulsing faster with every heartbeat of the battle. The fleshy walls seemed to lean inward, watching. The floor quivered under the pressure of two powers locked in a deadly rhythm.

Hiroshi jumped back, boots squelching against the slick ground. His breathing was sharp, controlled — but his arms ached, his muscles screaming. Blood trickled down his jaw, but his eyes still burned with that untamed fire.

Riyaku’s snarl echoed across the chamber. “Why won’t you just die!? WHY DON’T YOU DIE!!!”

His voice cracked into madness. Veins bulged across his body as his blood surged outward, gathering into his palm. The thick crimson liquid spiraled upward, solidifying into a massive blade of blood—jagged and alive, pulsing with each beat of his heart. Every pulse sent small ripples through the weapon, as if it breathed with him.

Hiroshi straightened, twirling his daggers. His lips curved into a faint smirk.

“A sword, huh?” His tone sharpened with excitement. “Let’s do some old-school combat.”

Then they charged.

The sound was deafening—metal against blood-forged steel, the clash bursting through the living arena like thunder. Sparks scattered into the dark, each flash reflecting off their determined eyes.

The two warriors became blurs—daggers versus blood blade—each strike faster than the last. Every impact cracked the air. Hiroshi parried with split-second precision, arms crossing and deflecting Riyaku’s heavy swings. The blood sword howled as it cut through the air, its edge constantly reshaping, dripping with liquid rage.

Clang!

Clash!

Shhhk!

Their feet carved trenches into the fleshy ground, spraying droplets of living tissue into the air. Hiroshi ducked low, blocked a horizontal slash, then pivoted upward, daggers spinning in a storm of silver. Riyaku countered, swinging in an arc that sliced through a bone spike pillar behind him, shattering it into pieces.

They moved like predators—every blow, every breath measured to kill. The arena’s heartbeat quickened, echoing their movements. The walls quivered, tendrils twitching like veins feeding on the violence.

Hiroshi lunged. Sparks flared as his twin blades locked against Riyaku’s sword, both pushing with raw strength. Veins strained. Sweat mixed with blood.

Riyaku roared, forcing him back, then followed with a downward slash that gouged a crater into the ground. The shockwave rippled through the flesh beneath, tossing debris and tissue into the air. Hiroshi somersaulted over it, daggers flashing; one blade grazed Riyaku’s shoulder, leaving a burning cut that hissed like steam against blood.

Riyaku didn’t flinch. His grin widened, manic and wild. “You call that a wound?”

He swung again—horizontal, then vertical—each strike heavier, faster, the blood sword lengthening with his rage. Hiroshi barely slipped past, his movements fluid but strained. One missed parry, and the blade nicked his cheek, drawing a thin red line. Blood trickled down his jaw.

“Finally,” Riyaku snarled, “you bleed.”

Hiroshi blurred forward—daggers igniting with sparks as they spun. Metal screamed; sparks rained like fireflies. Their weapons clashed again and again, every impact feeding the arena’s pulse.

The floor pulsed beneath them, veins bursting open, releasing a red mist that coated their skin.

They circled.

Breathing ragged.

Eyes locked.

Riyaku’s chest heaved, the blood sword trembling like a living thing barely leashed. Hiroshi’s daggers glowed faintly orange from friction, becoming hot.

Then—silence.

Only the arena’s breathing.

One heartbeat… two…

They charged again.

Riyaku unleashed a flurry of slashes, a red storm cutting through the air. Hiroshi deflected the first, sidestepped the next, spun under the third, and countered with twin upward arcs that traced fire through the mist. Their blades met mid-swing—an explosion of heat and blood burst outward, flinging them apart.

Riyaku slid back, digging his heels into the pulsing floor. Hiroshi skidded across, daggers dragging fiery trails. Both stood panting, both bleeding, both alive only because the other hadn’t yet found the final opening. Hiroshi's jaw regenerated the cut slowly.

The air itself trembled under their fury.

This was no fight.

This was a war contained in two bodies—fire and blood, colliding until one of them stopped moving.

For an instant, they were face-to-face — eyes locked, blades grinding.

Riyaku’s smirk widened. “Now’s my chance.”

“BLOOD DECAY, TYPE: ANEMIA!”

His sword liquefied and pierced Hiroshi’s chest, driving through flesh and muscle in one clean motion.

“ARGHHH!” Hiroshi screamed, staggering back, his daggers falling briefly to his sides. Pain spread like fire through his body, burning from within. His vision blurred. His heartbeat slowed.

Riyaku’s eyes shone with sadistic glee. “Your blood will now decay. Your red blood cells will die. Slowly. Beautifully.”

He stepped forward, voice deepening with hunger.

“BLOOD DECAY, TYPE: ERYTHROBLASTOSIS!”

The sword struck again — another stab, this time lower, the tip twisting.

Hiroshi groaned, dropping to his knees as blood dripped down his chest, his breathing shallow and ragged. The arena pulsed beneath him as if feeding on his pain.

Riyaku towered over him, satisfied. “Now you die in an even more beautiful way.”

He turned and began to walk away, his weapon dissolving into mist.

Hiroshi’s voice came weakly, barely a whisper.

“…You… didn’t win yet…”

Riyaku froze. Slowly, he turned back, disbelief twisting his face.

“What…!?”

Hiroshi was standing. Barely — but standing. His chest still bled, but his eyes glowed faintly with something fierce and alive. His voice, though weak, carried an unbroken will.

“I said… you didn’t win yet…” He raised his head, staring straight into Riyaku’s eyes. “I still have to kill you… and the others… to free humanity.”

Riyaku snarled. “You brat! Poisoned twice and still talking!?”

He thrust his hand forward again.

“BLOOD SPLATTER!”

The droplets shot like bullets — but this time Hiroshi wasn’t the same. His movements were sharper, cleaner, faster. He ducked, spun, and dashed through them with near-invisible speed. The red projectiles hissed past harmlessly.

Then his voice cut through the crimson haze.

“ILLUSION!”

A sudden burst of energy shook the air — and ten clones of Hiroshi appeared, circling Riyaku in perfect synchronization. They moved as one, silent and fluid, reflections of the real hero.

Riyaku’s eyes darted between them. “Clones!? Which one’s real!?”

He swung wildly, his sword slicing through illusions that shattered into mist. One, two, five — gone. But every miss made him slower, angrier, less focused.

And in that split second of confusion—

Hiroshi appeared behind him.

“FANG STAB!”

Both daggers drove deep into Riyaku’s back, piercing straight into his heart.

Riyaku’s eyes widened in horror. The blood sword vanished from his hand as he gasped.

Hiroshi leaned in close, his voice low, breath trembling but certain.

“You can heal limbs… but not your heart.”

He pulled the blades free and spun.

“FLESH SLASH!”

The twin daggers carved through Riyaku in perfect rhythm — one vertical, one horizontal — slicing him into four clean pieces.

The sound was wet and final. Blood erupted upward, raining across the pulsating floor.

Riyaku’s body fell apart, collapsing into steaming puddles of red. The arena’s heartbeat slowed, then fell silent.

Hiroshi stood over the remains, his chest still bleeding, his breath shallow but steady.

He stared at the dissolving body of the Tyrant — not with victory, but with resolve.

The ground trembled beneath Hiroshi’s boots as a faint rumble echoed through the fleshy arena.

A glowing pedestal rose slowly from the center, casting crimson light across the scarlet walls.

Atop it lay a burning item — the Red Blaze Ember — pulsing like a living heart.

Riyaku, blood dripping from the corners of his torn mouth, began to laugh hysterically.

“Take it…! Take that ember, and this whole place will collapse! It’ll destroy the manor! Kill EVERYONE!”

His laughter twisted into a mad cackle, echoing through the arena.

Hiroshi didn’t even flinch.

He stepped forward, eyes cold, voice calm.

“Shut up.”

In a single motion, his dagger flashed — slicing Riyaku’s tongue in half. The Tyrant’s words ended in a choking gurgle.

Hiroshi reached out and grasped the ember.

The Red Blaze Ember dissolved instantly into light, flowing into his body. His veins ignited — glowing red like molten lines spreading through his flesh.

A burning pain shot through his hand as a symbol formed there: a red mark, shaped like an S-shaped flame wave, two tiny dots pulsing along each curve.

Hiroshi looked down, bewildered.

“Huh? What’s this mark…?”

But before he could process it, the entire arena began to quake violently. The walls of flesh convulsed, bones cracking beneath the trembling floor. The air was thick with energy.

Hiroshi clenched his fists. “I need to destroy this place before it crashes into the Ring!”

He drew in all the fire building within him — every ember, every spark — condensing it into a massive, swirling sphere of flame that hovered before him.

“FLAME COMET!”

The roaring sphere shot forward, engulfing the entire arena in a blinding inferno.

A split second later...

BOOM!

the structure exploded into fiery dust, disintegrating completely.

Hiroshi fell through the smoke and debris, his body spinning amid the heat and ashes.

“I need to land safely…”

He spread both arms, daggers glowing.

“BLAZING TORNADO!”

He twisted mid-air, his body rotating like a fiery cyclone. The spinning flames formed a vortex, slowing his descent. He crashed through the manor’s roof, flames scattering around him before fading.

Panting lightly, Hiroshi stood amid the wreckage. “I need to check on the Blood Guards…”

He rushed through the broken halls and soon found them — the men he had once tied up — now lying unconscious, human once again. The grotesque blood corruption that had twisted their forms was gone.

“Hey! Help us!” one of them shouted weakly.

Hiroshi hurried over, cutting their restraints with his daggers.

They coughed, slowly sitting up.

“Thank you…” said one man, his voice trembling.

Another blinked in confusion. “Weren’t we… in the prison?”

A third frowned. “I only remember being covered in blood… then waking up here.”

Hiroshi exhaled softly. “Riyaku controlled you with his blood. But now that he’s dead… you’re free.”

The men froze. Then, one by one, realization struck them.

Their expressions shifted from confusion to awe.

“Lord Hiroshi…” murmured the first man, bowing low. The others followed.

Hiroshi blinked, caught off guard. “Huh? How do you know me?”

The man smiled faintly. “Only you could defeat a Tyrant.”

Another added, “We’re from the H.R.A. — the Hiroshi Rebel Army. Before we were captured, we heard you escaped jail.”

Hiroshi scratched the back of his head. “Oh… maybe the ones who attacked me thought I was a new guard…”

“What?” one of the men asked, confused.

“Shinzo and the others attacked me when I first arrived,” Hiroshi replied with a tired smile. “But don’t worry, they’re safe.”

The men nodded slowly.

“Let’s head back to HQ,” said one.

Just then, a loud growl echoed through the silent hall. Everyone turned.

One of the men stood awkwardly, clutching his stomach.

Hiroshi stared at him for a moment — then chuckled. “Heh… alright, let’s eat first.”

The manor’s heavy doors creaked open, smoke still drifting from the cracks. Hiroshi and the freed rebels stepped out — only to freeze.

Outside, the courtyard was crawling with hundreds of new guards, armored and armed. Their weapons were pressed against the heads of dozens of hostages — civilians, rebels, even children.

The lead guard shouted, voice trembling with both fear and duty.

“FREEZE, HIROSHI! Move an inch, and we kill them all!”

Hiroshi’s eyes darkened. The daggers in his hands shimmered faintly with embers.

He glanced toward the man beside him — one of the rebels he had freed. His voice dropped to a whisper, calm but firm.

“When I attack,” Hiroshi said, “tell everyone to duck.”

The man nodded, tightening his grip on a broken spear. “Got it.”

Hiroshi stepped forward slowly, exhaling once. His stance shifted. His feet dug into the blood-stained earth. Flames flickered around him — faint, controlled, waiting to erupt.

The guards grew tense. Fingers hovered over triggers.

A single moment of silence stretched into eternity.

Then Hiroshi’s eyes snapped open.

“INFERNAL SLASHES!”

Flames burst from his blades, roaring across the field in a blinding storm.

“EVERYONE DUCK!” shouted the rebel.

The hostages dropped instantly — just as waves of fire slashed through the air, carving burning arcs across the battlefield. Every guard was engulfed, their weapons melting into liquid metal before they could even scream.

Silence followed — a heavy, awed silence.

Then, slowly, it broke into thunderous cheers.

“LONG LIVE HIROSHI! LONG LIVE HIROSHI!”

Voices rose in unison — hundreds of them, echoing through the smoky sky.

Hiroshi stood still, daggers lowered, the last embers fading from his hands. He turned, confusion flickering in his eyes.

“How… do you all know me?” he asked softly.

An old man stepped forward from the crowd, his wrinkled face lit by the glow of the remaining fires.

“Your flames,” he said with trembling reverence. “They match the legends. It could only be you.”

He bowed deeply. “Welcome… Lord Hiroshi.”

The crowd erupted again — cheering, crying, calling his name with pride and relief.

Hiroshi looked at them — the freed, the grateful, the saved. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“But…” he said quietly, “I have to leave. There are other Tyrants waiting out there.”

He looked over his shoulder at the weary men beside him. “But someone… please feed these men first.”

Immediately, three chefs rushed forward from the crowd.

“I will!” shouted the first.

“No, me!” the second protested.

The third puffed his chest. “I make the best food in the Ring!”

They started arguing right there in front of everyone.

Hiroshi sighed, chuckling softly. “Relax. All of you feed them — serve your best.”

The three finally nodded, smiling.

“The bill’s on me,” Hiroshi added.

The third chef shook his head with a grin. “We can’t charge you, Lord Hiroshi. You already paid us… by defeating Riyaku.”

Hiroshi smiled slightly.

He sheathed his daggers, stepping past the group. “Then I’ll take my leave,” he said quietly. “I’ll drop by again… if I ever pass through.”

He walked down the path, through the parted crowd.

Every step echoed softly against the broken stone.

Behind him, the voices rose again — louder than before, unified and proud.

“LONG LIVE HIROSHI! LONG LIVE HIROSHI!”

The chant followed him as he disappeared into the crimson horizon — the flame of rebellion burning ever brighter.

To Be Continued…