Tokyo: My Superpower Refreshes Every Week

The leader of the Matsumoto Group could afford to buy a house in Setagaya District, an area universally acknowledged as wealthy, only through the ceaseless exploitation of others over three generations.

The mansion stood on a large property, built in the traditional Japanese style, complete with a courtyard and a pond featuring a *shishi-odoshi* (bamboo deer-scarer).

Normally, as night fell, the leader of the Matsumoto Group would begin his envy-inducing, lavish nightlife.

However, he was in no mood for that today.

Matsumoku Kinjiro knelt in the hall, a cup of plain water placed on the low table before him.

There was no one around.

He heard the noise from outside, his right hand trembling slightly as he poured himself a glass of water, trying to maintain the last shred of dignity befitting a group leader.

Although he had inherited the president's position from his father, he had been deeply involved in the organization's violent conflicts in his youth, a ruthless life where he had tasted blood.

After becoming president, he gradually grew pampered and lost his youthful sharpness, becoming more gloomy and prone to cunning calculations.

He thought that was growth.

Looking back, that was just degeneration. His youthful vigor gone, he could only resort to arming himself with schemes.

If it were the old days, he would have never sat here, motionless like a mouse under the gaze of a cat.

Matsumoku Kinjiro mused.

The wooden sliding door suddenly burst open with a BANG. Half of the door splintered, splashing fresh blood onto the tatami mats.

A man, his body torn apart, wailed on the tatami. He crawled forward, crying, "Boss, save me!"

Tears streamed down his face as he left several vivid red handprints on the tatami before breathing his last.

"How strange."

Fluent English words followed, and the thudding of footsteps echoed from the corridor into the room, as if a ferocious beast were approaching.

Matsumoku Kinjiro turned his head to see a giant over two meters tall kicking down what remained of the sliding door and stepping into the living room.

His thick neck, corded with muscles like twisted steel cables, displayed terrifying contours.

Stein looked at the Japanese man kneeling in the living room, scratched his head, and asked, "Where's Mohammed?"

His Japanese was halting.

Stein didn't understand much Japanese. He had only managed to learn this one sentence and couldn't comprehend the language otherwise.

But he wasn't worried about communication. A special service-customized earpiece would transmit sounds to his companion, who was fluent in Japanese and could provide a simultaneous translation of whatever the Japanese man in the house said.

Matsumoku Kinjiro shook his head. "I don't know. That strange man just told me to stay here and not move. He even killed my family. In front of me, he slowly tore apart my mother, my wife, and my daughter as if he were ripping up paper. He even tore off my thumb!"

As he finished speaking, the fear Matsumoku Kinjiro had suppressed overwhelmed him. He screamed, raising his right hand. His thumb was gone, only a white, oval bandage wrapped around the stump.

"AAAH!"

Stein ignored his hysterical screams, scanned the room, then looked up. "Mohammed, I know you're in this mansion. Stop hiding. What's the point?"

As he spoke, he bent down, snapped a toe off the nearby corpse, and flicked it at the screaming Matsumoku Kinjiro.

In his hands, a man's toe became a deadly projectile.

SLAP! A spray of blood blossomed from Matsumoku Kinjiro's chest as he fell backward, silenced.

The explosion Stein expected never came. He frowned slightly; he had thought Mohammed would have already turned the man into a bomb.

SIZZLE! A harsh, grating noise erupted. Stein's expression changed instantly; he guessed his companion was in trouble and swiftly turned to run outside.

Stein rushed out of the mansion and stopped in the corridor.

The moonlight was bright. Suddenly, a head flew over the wall, golden hair fanning out in the air. Its cheeks were pale, and blood gushed from the severed neck.

Stein stood there, fists clenched, veins bulging on his arms and neck.

He had worked with Kano for some years. They were not only colleagues and friends but also shared a deep and intimate emotional bond.

However, Kano was committed to remaining unmarried and was also bisexual, which was why he had never accepted Stein's advances.

"Mohammed!"

With a low roar, he stomped, shattering the wooden boards of the corridor. He dropped through the hole, landing on the ground below.

A tall figure flipped over the wall and into the courtyard.

The man had a crew cut and deeply tanned skin, though not black. His face was clean-shaven.

"No more words. Let's fight," Mohammed said emotionlessly, flicking the blood from his hands. "After I deal with you, I have other guests to welcome."

"You truly are arrogant!" Stein laughed, a harsh sound full of anger. He climbed out of the hole and walked out of the corridor, his eyes fixed on Mohammed. "It seems you've forgotten how I chased you around before. Has the death of your subordinate addled your brain?"

Mohammed didn't speak; he only extended his right hand, poised for a test of strength.

Stein smiled; he was quite confident in his grip. With an unopened pack of playing cards, for instance, he only needed to pinch it with his thumb and index finger to break off a piece, leaving the deck incomplete.

Any flesh and blood caught in his two-fingered pinch would become as soft as mud after heavy rain, the bones inside as brittle as Lay's potato chips.

He could even boast that he was the man with the strongest grip in America.

Against Mohammed, he might have a chance in other areas, but not if they were purely comparing grip strength.

That was simply courting death.

Stein strode toward Mohammed, not foolishly trusting that his opponent only wanted to compare grip strength.

He remained on guard against any potential trick, his large, heavy body now moving with the agility of a great cat.

His gait seemed leisurely, yet he was poised to launch a thunderous pounce at any moment.

Mohammed made no move, one hand still in his pocket, his right hand extended forward.

He didn't worry about Stein attempting a surprise attack.

Such men had their pride. For Mohammed, it was pride in his strength, as unshakeable as his faith in Allah.

Stein's faith lay in his armor-like muscles, a conviction that made it impossible for him to resist any test of grip strength.

The distance between the two men rapidly closed.

Once in range, Stein seized Mohammed's right hand with his own and sneered, "You're finished!"

As he spoke, his fingers unleashed tremendous gripping power.

He was confident that, at this moment, he could squeeze even steel flat, like a playing card.

Despite the furious force Stein exerted with his right hand, Mohammed's face remained expressionless.

Veins bulged on Stein's palm and arm. He gritted his teeth, a tiger-like growl rumbling from his clenched jaws.

Even so, Mohammed's expression didn't change as he tightened his own grip and shouted, "Your brute strength is nothing to me!"

As Mohammed finished speaking, Stein felt his own right hand begin to issue a miserable whine; his muscles, bones, and even nerves screamed a warning: his strength was far inferior to the man before him.

Upon this realization, Stein felt no fear.

As a martial artist, he stood on a mere patch of ground, yet a vast world resided within his heart.

Once a conflict began, life and death were decided within that tiny space.

Rather than waste precious time on fear, it was better to fight with all his might until the very end.

Stein twisted his waist, pivoted on his left foot, and clenched his left hand into a fist, swinging it like a sledgehammer at Mohammed's face.

Mohammed flicked his right hand. Stein, weighing around 330 pounds, was tossed into the air like a child's toy. His left fist naturally missed its mark. Then, a right foot suddenly loomed large in his vision, giving him no chance to dodge.

BANG!

A muffled sound erupted.

At the brink of life and death, Stein chose to meet Mohammed's foot with his hard forehead.

He avoided having his eyes smashed, but the impact still gave him a slight concussion.

Mohammed didn't waste this brief opportunity. He grabbed Stein's right arm and hauled him up.

His left hand, shaped like an eagle's claw, shot forward.

With a soft tearing sound, Mohammed's left hand closed around the pale throat bones, a gruesome mixture of blood and skin that held a grotesque beauty.

"GURGLE."

Blood surged in Stein's throat, his eyes wide.

As his reeling brain calmed, he finally realized: Mohammed hadn't been using his full strength all along.

Why?

Stein could no longer ask this question.

Though his throat was torn open and wind whistled into the wound, he felt an overwhelming sense of suffocation, unable to breathe.

His massive body swayed, as if he'd drunk far too much Baijiu.

Mohammed let go.

Stein could no longer stand. He fell backward with a heavy THUMP. Blood spilled from his throat, flowing across his neck and quickly forming a pool on the ground.

Occasional bubbles in the blood proved Stein still clung to a breath.

"Such tenacious vitality, so disproportionate to your strength. What a pity. This, too, is the punishment Allah has ordained for you."

Mohammed watched this unfold, then turned to welcome his next guests.

According to his calculations, the CIA group that had targeted him at noon would not miss this opportunity.

Stein was merely an unexpected visitor.

Dealing with him had allowed Mohammed to vent some of his anger; the main target was still that group.

Mohammed walked toward the courtyard entrance.

Under the moonlight, the air seemed to vibrate invisibly. A tall, blond figure suddenly materialized, standing on the ground.

The air around the newcomer instantly grew scorching.

Mohammed froze. The man's pale skin, robust physique, and extraordinary appearance were stunning. Then, an intense excitement surged across Mohammed's face as he roared, "Dio, I have finally met you!"