CHAPTER 55: SCUFFLE PART 1

"Where are the other survivors located?" Suzune asked.

"They’re in the basement, but they might’ve come up to the supermarket floor," Riku said. "We cleared it. They’re probably organizing supplies. Stay sharp. They might not be allies anymore."

"All right," the girls nodded.

They moved in a single file behind him—Miko, then Suzune with Hana tucked close, Ichika watching their rear. Riku advanced through the service corridor, heels soft, muzzle down but ready, every doorway checked with a quick slice of the beam before he passed it. He reached the swinging access door that opened onto the market floor, shoulder to the jamb, ear angled for sound.

Nothing but the faint hum of wind through broken glass.

He pushed the door.

The world split. A blur cut across his peripheral from the right—wood, tape around the grip, nails jutting from the far end. Baseball bat.

Time stretched thin, the System sharpening edges. Riku dropped his weight and slipped inside the arc, the bat whispering over his hair. He snapped an arm-drag on the attacker’s wrist—thumb to tendon, fold and pull—then stepped through and dumped the man face-first into the tile with a short, efficient osoto-otoshi. The bat clanged away.

"Riku!" Miko’s warning hit a half-beat before the second swing.

Left side, high line—another bat, overhead chop.

Riku pivoted out, raised forearm to meet forearm, catching the downswing on the meat of his triceps. He slid in close, chest to the attacker’s shoulder, and wrapped the wrist: kote gaeshi—wrench and spiral. The man’s structure broke; Riku guided him to the ground and let momentum do the rest. A short stomp to the bat sent it skittering.

"Stay there!" Riku barked over his shoulder. "Hold the line. Nobody fires unless I call it!"

The corridor behind him went still. He heard the soft scrape of Miko shifting to shield Suzune and Hana, Ichika’s breath catching as she raised her Glock but kept it low.

Two more figures lunged out from behind a toppled end-cap, one with a length of pipe, the other with a box-cutter flashing in the dim. Civilians. Wild eyes. Desperate.

Riku stepped inside the pipe’s swing and slammed an elbow into the attacker’s biceps—charley horse, dead arm—then hooked the neck and snapped a quick koshi-guruma hip toss. The man hit the floor with a grunt, air gone. Riku pivoted, caught the box-cutter wrist mid-stab, pressed the blade away from his body and folded the arm against the joint: ude-garami. A twist, a short pop of tendons—not a break, just compliance—and the knife clattered.

"Stop!" Riku’s voice cut like metal. "I don’t want to hurt anyone. Back off!"

They didn’t. More feet slapped tile, more shapes edging from behind shelves—five, then eight, then eleven. Makeshift weapons everywhere: bats, a cooking pot on a length of cord, a crowbar, even a chair leg with screws shoved through the end like teeth. One young man—sweat-streaked, lip split—jabbed a finger at Riku’s chest.

"He’s the one. Grab the rifle!"

They surged.

Riku slid his left forearm through his sling and cinched it tight, locking the M4 to his torso where no one could wrench it free. The first man grabbed for the handguard; Riku rotated with the force, pinning the hand between barrel and his own hip, then drove the buttstock forward in a short buttstroke to the sternum. The man folded.

Second attacker tried to collar him; Riku ducked and exploded upward with a rising head-and-shoulder bump—tai sabaki through the angle—then seized a wrist, rolled it into a figure-four: nikyō. The man yowled, dropped to a knee. Riku pushed him away rather than finish the lock.

"Riku!" Miko again, tight. "Three on your nine!"

He didn’t look—just stepped right to bleed the angle and used a shelving end cap as a shield. The first on that flank over-committed; Riku snagged the bat with a two-on-one, yanked it past him and planted a heel behind the attacker’s ankle—de ashi barai. The kid’s feet went out; Riku guided him down and stripped the bat.

Another came high, crowbar slicing the air. Riku blocked with the stolen bat, slid to clinch, and threw with a tight uchi mata—knee to thigh, hips through. The body hit hard. The crowbar clanged away.

"Stand down!" Riku snarled, eyes cut to steel. "We cleared this place! We came back like we said!"

"Murata said you’d bring trouble!" someone shouted from the back. "Said if you left, you don’t come back!"

Riku’s lip curled. "Murata can explain that in a minute."

A hand snagged his sling from behind and yanked. Weapon retention drilled deep—Riku dropped weight, spread his base, and rotated counter to the pull, dragging the idiot forward into a short rear elbow to the cheekbone. The grip loosened. Riku rolled out, counted distances again. Keep them in a funnel. Don’t let them surround.

He slid a half-step left, putting a pillar at his back and the girls behind it. "Miko," he said without turning, "if someone breaks this line, fire two at the floor in front of them. Warning only."

"Copy," she said, voice steady.

Suzune pulled Hana fully behind her and braced, jaw set. Ichika’s hands trembled but she mirrored Miko, sight picture low, breath controlled.

Riku faced the mob. "Last warning. Drop the weapons."

They didn’t. The young man with the split lip spat blood, eyes burning. "Take him!"

Three came together, trying to bull-rush him. Riku stepped into them, not away—kuzushi through shock. He drove a palm into the lead man’s chin, snapped his head back, then slid past, caught the second’s elbow and shoulder, and dumped him with tai otoshi across the aisle. The third met a simple foot sweep and a shove that sent him rolling into a display of plastic plates.

They re-formed, slower now. He had hurt some, humiliated others. No deaths. He kept it that way.

Another pair tried a pincer. Riku baited the left, feinted opening, then spun to his right, catching the outside line. He parried a knife with his forearm guard, slid to the man’s back, hooked the waist and dumped him with suplex-lite—just enough to rattle, not break. The second, in the gap, took a heel stomp to the instep and a forearm to the throat—not a crush, a check. He gagged and retreated, clutching.

"Enough!" Riku roared, the sound cracking through the aisle. "You want food? Organization? A future? Then drop the bats and stop acting like biters with pulses."