The sight of Komatsu—his kind, brilliant, fragile partner—falling, pierced and bleeding, snapped sothing primal and sacred within Toriko. Grief, rage, and a protective fury hotter than a star's core fused into a single, annihilating purpose.
"YOU… WILL ALL BURN!"
rcy was a mory. Hesitation, ash. The crimson light erupting from his Demon Arm wasn't just energy; it was condensed wrath. It ca down on the puppeted forms of Matsu and Uman not as a technique, but as a judgnt.
Nail Punch: Infinite Carnage!!!
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM…!
The air itself scread under the barrage. Matsu and Uman didn't have ti to register the attack, let alone scream. Their bodies—once comrades, now hollow vessels—were erased in twin detonations of crimson mist and violet crystal shards.
Toriko didn't spare the dissipating haze a glance. He was already a scarlet cot, hurtling towards Teppei, the one who had delivered the blow. His eyes were tunnels of pure, bloody rage. "TEPPEI! YOU DIE NOW!"
Jet Nail Punch!!!
His Demon Arm distorted space as it swelled, a piston of absolute destruction aid to obliterate the traitor before him.
Teppei t him, his own arm sheathed in rapidly regenerating Iron Vines, a mockery of Toriko's organic power. "Hah! Toriko! Let's see your progress!"
Their collision was a storm of impacts.
ORA ORA ORA ORA—!!!
OKI OKI OKI OKI—!!!
But the contest was brutally one-sided. Teppei's regenerating vines were paper before the typhoon of Toriko's grief-powered fury. They splintered, shredded, and finally—
CRUNCH-SHATTER!
—Teppei's entire constructed arm exploded into fibrous pulp. He stumbled back, blood trickling from his lips, yet a bizarre, tranquil smile touched them.
"Strong… so strong," he rasped. "I'd love to continue… but…"
In a move faster than his shattered state should allow, his remaining hand shot out—not at Toriko, but to the side, snatching the platter holding the precious AIR pulp from beside Komatsu's fallen form!
"NO!" Toriko's bellow was one of utter despair. He lunged, but Teppei's body was already wavering, dissolving into aqueous transparency, preparing to slip back into the unseen pathways of the world.
Priority ripped through Toriko's rage. He dropped to his knees beside Komatsu, fumbling for the legendary "Life Elixir" given by the Gourt Hermit. "Hold on! Just hold—"
His hands froze. The vial slipped from numb fingers.
The "Komatsu" in his arms wasn't cooling flesh. It was… dissipating light. Golden motes of energy rose from the illusion, leaving nothing but empty air and the scent of ozone.
From behind him, a small, trembling, very real voice spoke. "T-Toriko-san… I'm… I'm here…"
Toriko whirled.
There stood the real Komatsu, wide-eyed and tearful, safely tucked beside King. The "fatal wound," the blood, the fallen chef—all a masterful, agonizingly convincing illusion woven from King's transcendent aura and psychic might.
Teppei, for all his ability to navigate the Hidden World and evade the senses of enraged kings and beasts, was a firefly before the sun to the perceptions of King, Saitama, and Garou. The mont the puppet had peeked into their reality, King had seen the gambit. The "stabbing" was theater. The "stolen" AIR platter was a decoy, laced with a psychic tracer for good asure.
Why? For the simplest, most devilish of reasons: amusent. King wanted to see the smirk of triumph on a puppet-master's face turn to ashes. He reveled in the exquisite control of letting the enemy think they'd won, only to have the rug—and the prize—yanked into nothingness.
Toriko's fists clenched so tight the bones creaked. A torrent of emotions—relief so profound it was dizzying, anger at the cruel trick, sheer exhaustion—washed over him. But the dominant one, swelling until it choked him, was gratitude.
He stumbled forward and swept Komatsu into a crushing embrace, his broad shoulders shaking. "Idiot… you… you utter idiot…" he managed, his voice thick.
Coco, Sunny, and Zebra, having finally quelled the last of the beast tide, gathered around. Sunny discreetly dabbed at his eyes with a silk handkerchief. Zebra glared fiercely at the sky, gruffly muttering, "Do that again, pipsqueak, and I'll wring your neck myself before the bad guys get a chance."
Komatsu, overwheld by the fierce, clumsy love of his friends, burst into fresh tears. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! Thank you… thank you all!"
NEO Headquarters. The Chef's Atelier.
Joa reclined on a throne carved from the heartwood of a millennia-old Flavor-Sap Tree. One elegant leg was crossed over the other, a slender hand propping up her chin. She was the picture of regal, detached boredom, a gourt queen awaiting a report on a minor ingredient acquisition.
Tap… tap… tap…
Slow, dragging footsteps echoed in the sterile hall.
Teppei entered. His right arm ended in a ragged, still-dripping stump. His movents were jerky, the light in his crystal eyes flickering erratically.
Joa did not look up. The silent severing of her links to Matsu and Uman had already registered in her mind—discarded tools, their purpose served. Teppei's return, empty-handed and broken, was rely the expected outco of using inferior materials.
She exhaled a soft, disappointed sigh, her gaze drifting to a holographic map of the Gourt World, already calculating her next move. The ga, after all, had many pieces, and the loss of a few pawns ant nothing to the feast to co.
If a tool broke, one simply reforged a new one. The grand design—the resurrection of the Gourt God, Acacia—was all that mattered. Pawns were expendable, their loss a trivial footnote in the epic recipe.
"The result?" Joa's voice was the crack of ice in a silent tundra.
Teppei knelt stiffly, presenting a plate with his remaining hand. Upon it rested several slices of AIR, pulsing with a soft, rainbow luminescence.
"Only this amount?" Joa's flawless brow furrowed a milliter. For an offering to a god, it seed… ager. But then again, AIR was the salad—its virtue was in its quintessential nature, not its mass. As long as it carried the pinnacle of flavor, perfected by the God's Tongue, it would suffice.
"You are dismissed."
She took the plate, her elegant fingers reaching to trace the jewel-like flesh. Her touch halted mid-air.
The texture… it was wrong. Not the resilient, life-dense feel of a Food King, but sothing… hollow.
"This is—!"
Her warning died as the AIR slices on the plate dissolved. They didn't spoil or wilt; they unraveled into a million points of golden light that swirled upwards.
The lights danced, coalesced, and rewove themselves in the air, forming the translucent, smirking image of King.
"Ta-daa~" the phantom announced with a theatrical flourish.
Joa was on her feet in an instant, her luxurious coat flaring. The serene mask of the gourt queen shattered, replaced by a visage of thunderous, icy fury. "Who. Are. You."
King's apparition ignored her, floating around her sanctum like a disapproving health inspector. "Tsk, tsk, tsk. The ambiance… trying for 'dystopian cafeteria chic'? Did Acacia's resurrection fund run dry?" He drifted past a cultivation pod, peering at its twitching contents. "And the staff morale… abysmal. No wonder they keep defecting."
"YOU DARE?!" Joa's shriek was pure, undiluted venom. 'Cinderella' flashed, a streak of violet malice that sliced through the space King's image occupied—and through the reinforced wall behind it.
The phantom simply re-materialized a few feet away, chuckling and patting its illusory chest. "Whoa! Hostile work environnt much?" The chuckle faded, the phantom's gaze hardening into sothing that felt unnervingly real despite its immaterial form. "But here's the thing… I get very protective of my chefs."
The image began to fade, pixels of light peeling away. But as it dissolved, King's phantom perford a slow, deliberate gesture. Index and middle fingers pointed to its own eyes, then swung to point directly at Joa's furious face.
"Mark my words—though I'll save you the trouble. The na's Garou. Rember it. I'll be dropping by for dinner. I do hope the main course is more… substantial than your theatrics."
BOOM!
Joa's knife-arm slamd down where the phantom had been, the shockwave splitting the floor this ti. The air in the room trembled with her rage.
"Garou…" she hissed, the na a curse between her clenched teeth. Her chest rose and fell with furious breaths. "Perfect. I will prepare a dish just for you. A symphony of agony that never ends. You will be my masterpiece."
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