I was Thrown into an Unfamiliar Manga

Among those who followed the Destruction God Ivan, the highest honor was to become one of the “Twelve Imperial Guards.”
Captain Boris Makarov, one of those twelve, looked down at the East Asian man standing before him and thought:
‘Unexpected.’

To think a fighter of this caliber still existed in this island nation of the Far East—he was genuinely surprised.
He couldn’t guess the man’s exact age just from appearance, but even from the perspective of someone like him, who had honed his body over decades, the physique in front of him was remarkably complete.
Were it not for the current situation, he might have liked to share a shot of vodka and exchange stories.

But for now, they were “enemies.”
It looked like the runaway young lady had hired him as a bodyguard for the day, but that was irrelevant. Not after what his subordinates had suffered.
‘I’ll face you seriously.’

Boris spread his legs shoulder-width apart and lowered his torso as he stretched his arms forward. His trapezius and latissimus dorsi muscles swelled upward.
The sight resembled a massive tank aiming its cannon at an enemy.
Now in a stance unique to Sambo—the Russian martial art—Heavy Tank Boris had finished preparing to attack, yet still remained wary of the East Asian man, who stood calmly without adjusting his posture.

Among real masters, a fight could be decided in a mere moment of carelessness.
And in a no-rules street fight, where even strikes to vital points were fair game, the margin for error was even thinner.
‘Is it a feint? Why isn’t he moving?’

A fight always begins when someone makes the first move.
But no matter how long Boris waited, the man didn’t budge. Eventually, Boris decided to initiate.
“Hrrmph!”

With a deep stomp, he launched forward, throwing his enormous body into a shoulder tackle like a charging bear.
Most people who assumed he was slow because of his bulk couldn’t even react. They’d get plowed down like ragdolls.
Just before impact—just as Boris came within striking distance—the East Asian man finally moved, pulling his hand out from his pocket.
KWAANG!

A punch—slammed directly into Boris’s face.
His neck snapped to the side from the force of the blow.
‘W-What!’

His eyes couldn’t keep up.
No—it was faster than that.
The attack speed was like a flash of light!

Boris had heard of a similar technique before.

Japanese samurai, in order to counter sudden attacks, had trained to draw and strike with their swords in a single motion.

And the man before him had replicated that—with just his bare hand, from a pants pocket!
‘But it’s not over yet!’
Though he’d lost the initiative, a single blow wasn’t enough to take him down.

Captain Boris Makarov, who had led countless special missions and infiltration ops since the Afghan war, knew pain was proof of life.
“URAAAAAAAH!”
Letting out a roar from deep in his lungs, he forced his body—thrown back by inertia—back onto the ground!

Managing to regain his footing, Boris wrapped his arms around the man’s log-like torso and legs.
‘If I can just bring him down!’
THUD.

‘What the—’
It felt like trying to tackle a boulder the size of a house.
Even with all his strength, the East Asian man hadn’t moved a single step.

‘Where the hell is he getting this strength from?’
Size class played a big role in fighting.
And Boris, who had traveled the world following Lord Ivan, had rarely met someone of a similar weight class.

Yet the man before him possessed incomprehensible, overwhelming power—as if this level of size difference meant nothing to him!
Then the man grabbed Boris’s belt.
Now locked in a head-to-head struggle, veins bulged at Boris’s temple.

“URAAAAAAAH!”
At this point, if brute strength didn’t work—he’d use technique!
“Kh!”

SLAM!!
He shifted his center of gravity back in an instant, breaking the man’s posture—then hooked his leg around the calf, taking him down in a split-second sweep.
The East Asian man hit the asphalt hard on his back, his expression finally cracking—but there was no time to celebrate.

Boris flowed straight into the flower of Sambo: the submission hold.
Grabbing the man’s arm, pinning his body with both legs, he yanked with all his might.
‘Huh?’

But suddenly, a strange sensation—Boris widened his eyes without meaning to.
The man he thought he’d completely subdued was lifting Boris—and his 150 kg frame—into the air with one hand, through sheer force.
‘Impossible!’

He hurried to break the armbar and escape, but his body, now in motion, refused to obey.
His enormous mass flipped upside down.
The cold asphalt approached fast from below.

Sensing his fate—head about to crash into concrete—Boris quietly closed his eyes.
‘Forgive me, Tsar.’
KWAHHHHH!!

***
Having finally brought down the furious leader of the kidnappers, I let out a dry cough.
‘Thought I was f**ked for real.’

I usually try to avoid swearing, but today was an exception.
Because I was, quite literally, almost f**ked.
‘He definitely tried to lock in an armbar at the end.’

Just imagining the pain that would’ve followed had the move landed sent chills down my spine.
Ever since I realized I was attending the same school as Sakamoto Ryuji, I’d trained my body seriously—and no one called me small anymore.
But this bear of a man was still on another level.

Since we didn’t speak the same language, the fight had begun without even a formal exchange of names.
He waited for me to make a move, then got impatient and charged first.
Thankfully, I’d learned how to defend against single-leg takedowns from Nakayama-sensei, so I didn’t fall over right away—but the guy hooked my leg and slammed me into the asphalt without hesitation.

Honestly, I hadn’t felt pain like that in the past three years.
Maybe that’s what flipped the switch in my head.
Terrified of getting caught in the armbar, I fought back like my life depended on it—lifted him with one arm and slammed him into the ground.

“Huff… huff… huff… huff…”
Catching my breath alone in the now-empty street, I heard the phone booth creak open behind me.
Sasha, who’d been hiding inside all along, stepped out cautiously.

And in a dazed voice, she muttered:
“…You beat Boris?”
“Boris? That his name?”

“Yeah… He’s super famous in the Russian underworld.”
Brushing dust off my ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) hoodie, I asked:
“He seemed like their boss. So are you done being chased now?”

Sasha answered with a weirdly unreadable expression.
“Probably…?”
“Well, that’s good.”

At least the pain and effort hadn’t gone to waste.
“Wait, you’re bleeding—are you okay?”
“Oh, that’s not my blood.”

As I replied, I glanced around at the Russians lying unconscious nearby. Sasha let out a small gasp of realization.
It was Golden Week, in busy Akihabara. In broad daylight. And we’d caused this much of a scene.
Honestly, it wouldn’t be surprising if someone had recorded it and posted it online by now.

I… I’ll just have to put my faith in the kindness of manga logic.
“Let’s get out of here. We’ve drawn too much attention.”
As I pulled my hoodie’s hood up over my head, Sasha nodded and tugged her baseball cap low.

People who’d been watching the fight from afar were now creeping toward us, so we slipped away before it was too late.
***
Drrrrrrrrr!

“Yes, it’s me.”
[Tsar, Captain Boris has been taken down.]
“…Boris? There’s no martial artist in Japan capable of defeating him.”

[It was an East Asian man. About 190 cm tall. Black hair—wild, like a beast.]
“Don’t tell me it’s him.”
[Tsar, do you have someone in mind?]

“There’s only one Japanese man I know who matches that description. He vanished ten years ago.”
[You don’t mean… the Black Yasha?]
“Yes. If it’s Fuma Kotaro, it wouldn’t be strange if he took down Boris. He’s one of the Seven Fists, like me.”

[If the man the young lady hired really is Fuma Kotaro, then we alone can’t retrieve her!]
“I’m aware. That’s why I’m going personally.”
[What? But Tsar, you were supposed to be handling the remnants of Shichieizan in Hokkaido…]

“That job just finished.”
BOOOOOOM!!
[…Understood. We’ll dispatch your private jet immediately.]

“Yes, do that. In the meantime, I’ll be playing hide and seek with these cockroach bastards.”
[Good luck.]
CRACK!

The muscle-bound man—who had crushed the radio communicator in his hand with nothing but grip strength—smiled cruelly in front of a burning factory.
“At last, some real fun.”