Tokyo: My Superpower Refreshes Every Week

At the milk tea shop entrance, the girls' gazes were drawn to the man who was speaking. Unlike the fierce-looking Hojo Tetsuji, this man had short, blond, choppy hair.

Judging by his Western features, his blond hair was clearly natural, not dyed at a salon.

He was tall, standing at 1.96 meters, yet his physique wasn't overly muscular in a way that would intimidate other men. Instead, he possessed the lean, attractive musculature that appealed to the opposite sex.

He neither appeared too thin nor were his muscles bulging to the point of resembling an intimidating brute.

The man was dressed simply in a white short-sleeved T-shirt, white casual pants, and white shoes, exuding the aura of a sunny youth.

Hojo Tetsuji could faintly smell a light, refreshing fragrance emanating from him.

"Er..."

The woman, whose shoulder the blond man had just grasped, blushed deeply. Her heart pounded, unsure how to respond to this English gentleman.

The blond man looked up and said, "Hey, shouldn't you apologize to this lady?"

"I didn't do anything. There's no reason for me to apologize."

Hojo Tetsuji didn't understand why he should apologize; he was just standing there, waiting in line.

The woman had turned her head, snapped a photo of his face without permission, and then let out a piercing shriek.

She was the one being rude.

Although Hojo Tetsuji was used to people being frightened by his intensely masculine aura, being used to it didn't make it right.

"Honestly! Do Japanese men have no sense of chivalry at all?"

The blond man shook his head, a look of exasperation on his face.

Hojo Tetsuji's brows furrowed. The man's condescending tone and expression made him want to land a punch squarely on that face. "Are you looking for a fight?" he growled.

"Hmph, with a simpleton like you, it seems that's the only way to make you admit your mistake."

The man sighed, patted the woman's shoulder, and said, "Sweetheart, please step aside. I'll resolve this quickly."

A worried look crossed the woman's face. "It's alright, you don't have to fight for me."

"Fighting for a lady is a gentleman's honor," the blond man replied. His code of chivalry wouldn't permit any man who had frightened a lady to act so indifferently.

A man must maintain basic courtesy towards women; that was a lesson his mother had taught him.

"My name is Mark Zalo. What's your name, Easterner?"

"Hojo Tetsuji," he answered truthfully.

Mark pointed to the barbecue restaurant next door. "When that group of black-haired men goes in, our duel begins."

"You're so damn long-winded. If you want to fight, let's get to it. I still need to buy my milk tea," Hojo Tetsuji said, clearly impatient with Mark's stalling. He glanced at the Arab's shop.

Aozawa had already secured a spot in line and was buying a wrap.

Not wanting to wait any longer, Hojo Tetsuji strode forward.

These Easterners just don't understand romance at all, Mark sighed inwardly. Whether it's fighting or wooing a woman, everything needs a sense of ceremony to enhance the romantic atmosphere. A fight without ceremony is utterly unromantic.

Nevertheless, with Hojo Tetsuji taking the offensive, Mark wasn't about to passively wait for the agreed-upon time.

The moment he saw Hojo Tetsuji step into his attack range, Mark displayed his agility, circling to his left and swiftly throwing a right hook.

Mark was skilled in boxing.

As an elite member of MI6, combat arts were a mandatory course, and he had chosen to specialize in boxing and Thai Boxing.

In a ring, restricted by rules, he might not be able to defeat a world boxing champion.

But outside the ring, in a one-on-one deathmatch, he was absolutely confident he could kill a boxing champion barehanded in under a minute.

Such was Mark's combat prowess.

Considering their conflict wasn't serious, Mark hadn't used his full strength in the punch; it was intended merely to give the other party a mild concussion, a small lesson.

「...」

BANG!

The moment Mark's fist connected with Hojo Tetsuji's chin, he sensed something was terribly wrong. As agile as a startled cat, he fluidly retreated three steps to a safe distance.

What was going on? Surprise flashed in his eyes. When my fist struck Hojo Tetsuji's chin, it completely lacked the sensation of hitting human flesh. It was like punching a sheet of tempered steel! This man, who looks like some low-level thug, actually possesses a physique and muscular strength far beyond that of an ordinary person. Hojo Tetsuji is no ordinary man. Is this guy also after Dio's bounty?

Mark's eyes flickered thoughtfully. He even began to suspect this encounter was a deliberate setup. He wasn't being paranoid; MI6 excelled at orchestrating series of 'coincidences.' They could make a target believe, right up to their dying breath, that their death was accidental, never suspecting that someone had manipulated everything from the shadows. Chance encounters, a falling vase, swerving to avoid water splashed by a shopkeeper only to be hit by a car—things like that. Mark himself had meticulously planned numerous such 'accidents,' which was why he never believed in coincidences. Was this encounter also deliberately engineered? Could it be someone from another intelligence agency? Who is lurking in the shadows?

Mark quickly scanned the crowded street, his heart sinking. His arrival was supposed to be top secret. Could it be the CIA, displeased with MI6's involvement? One couldn't entirely blame them. Though part of the Five Eyes alliance, the CIA often showed MI6 no courtesy whatsoever in certain matters. Those profane rebels who defied the King must be brought to justice. They had to die, even if they were with the CIA!

"You bastard!"

Hojo Tetsuji was growing annoyed. He was irritated by Mark's clearly restrained attack and his subsequent distraction. It made him feel underestimated.

"Tetsuji, what are you doing here?"

"Aozawa, go buy two milk teas. I'm not particularly interested in this guy, but he came looking for trouble. As a man, I can't just walk away from a fight."

Hojo Tetsuji's words snapped Mark back to reality. He opened his mouth, wanting to explain that it was all a misunderstanding.

For an MI6 agent like him, pride was like a paving stone—easily stepped on.

But Hojo Tetsuji gave him no chance to explain. Kicking off the ground, he lunged like a fierce tiger emerging from the shadows.

The ferocious pressure of the attack alerted Mark. As someone skilled in various fighting styles, he could tell this man hadn't learned any formal techniques; he was a pure street fighter.

However, even among street fighters, this man was undoubtedly top-tier, as if a lion's hunting instincts were etched into his very being. His body was imprinted with a primal instinct for combat—a natural-born fighter.

Mark abandoned any attempt to explain. With so little time and distance, focusing on explanations instead of defense would get him knocked out instantly.

After creating some distance with his agile footwork, he pivoted on his left foot and lashed out with a powerful right kick aimed at Hojo Tetsuji's waist.

It was common knowledge that kicks were more powerful than punches.

But by how much? Most people couldn't say.

Mark, however, knew the exact difference in power between his fists and feet.

His full-force punch could generate 2,400 pounds of force.

His kicks were three times as powerful.

He also possessed incredible control over his kicks. He could shatter a stack of thirty ceramic tiles with a single blow—not merely shattering them, but cleaving through them cleanly as if with a knife, each tile cracking in the exact same place.

Realizing Hojo Tetsuji was no ordinary person, Mark had instantly become serious.

His precise kick struck Hojo Tetsuji squarely in the side.

Did I win?!

That fleeting thought in Mark's mind was instantly shattered by an overwhelming rebound force that surged up his leg, numbing his entire right side.

"Not bad," Hojo Tetsuji remarked. He hadn't budged an inch. Without any fancy moves, he delivered a straight right punch to Mark's chest.

BOOM!

Mark flew backward as if struck by a large truck, tumbling several times through the air before crashing into a shop sign six meters away.

CRASH! CRACKLE! The decorative lights wrapped around the sign were torn down. Mark's eyes rolled back, his body almost embedded in the signboard.

"Hey, did you see that?"

"That guy actually punched someone several meters! Are they filming a movie or something?"

Everyone present was stunned.

They had only ever seen people sent flying by a punch in movies.

The patrol officer, who had initially been called over by the woman, quietly turned and walked away, pretending he hadn't seen a thing.

Ordinary people might not realize how chaotic Tokyo could be, but patrol officers like him knew all too well.

Just yesterday, one of their colleagues had gotten involved in a fight with 'those types' and ended up in the ICU.

And the culprits? They faced no consequences.

"Tetsuji, is that guy dead?" Aozawa asked.

"No, I held back. He'll just be in the hospital for a few months."

"Oh. What kind of milk tea do you want?"

"Bubble milk tea."

Listening to their nonchalant conversation, the surrounding women and the shop assistants felt a profound sense of unreality.

So, putting someone in the hospital for months is such a trivial matter to them?

「...」

After his outing with Hojo Tetsuji, Aozawa returned to Ayase Apartment. Opening the door, he called out, "Chitose, I'm back."

Dinner was already laid out on the kitchen counter: stir-fried bamboo shoots with pork, chicken stewed with mushrooms, scrambled eggs with chives, and stir-fried cabbage with chili peppers.

Morimoto Chiyoda untied her white apron. "Perfect timing. Go wash your hands, dinner's ready."

Aozawa glanced at her, a hint of curiosity in his voice. "Chitose, you seem to be in a particularly good mood today."

"Can you tell?" she replied.

Aozawa nodded. "Of course. You're deliberately showing it so I'd notice."

"Clever boy. You get a chicken drumstick as a reward." Morimoto Chiyoda picked up a drumstick with her chopsticks and placed it in Aozawa's bowl.

Sometimes, she wouldn't conceal her feelings, instead letting a little show, just to see if Aozawa would pick up on it. If he didn't, she'd find a way to subtly tease him.

"You always like playing these little games," Aozawa remarked.

"Perhaps, but my praise makes you happy, doesn't it? It's a clever way to add some spice to life."

Morimoto Chiyoda smiled. She believed that to keep life full of surprises, continuous interaction was necessary—on all levels, physical and mental. The notion that one could keep a man solely through physical intimacy was very shallow. Men are inherently greedy; they always crave more. If a woman couldn't keep pace, their life together could easily become monotonous.

"Did something good happen today?" Aozawa asked.

"I met a group of very cute girls."

"Is that something to be happy about?"

Morimoto Chiyoda shot him a look, then smiled. "Of course. It adds a little more interest to life. But enough about that, let's eat."