Frieren: Himmel — Chapter 184 - The King of the White Glove. Mahoraga
The showdown between Hakari and Mahoraga is sealed inside the domain, swallowed by the black sphere.
Outside, things are no less heated.
Miguel and Mahoraga are going at it hard.
Worth reiterating: Miguel's Cursed Technique is [Prayer Song], a technique that amplifies physical ability through rhythm and groove.
That technique is what let him go toe-to-toe with Gojo Satoru.
The principle is straightforward. To keep Mahoraga occupied, he has exactly one option: stay in close and grind.
Miguel isn't trying to attack. He's using his technique to dodge and absorb, nothing more.
PAK! BOOM!
In the tight space between them, Miguel keeps his breathing steady and works the trapping game.
When Mahoraga's arm sweeps in, heavier than a steel beam, Miguel catches the wrist, lets his hand ride the force, and twists it down.
A small shift in angle. The whole thing goes nowhere.
Mahoraga presses like a mountain. The assault never stops.
Cross, elbow, sweep.
Mahoraga never studied any of it. He picked these up on the fly during his fight with Sukuna.
But shallow mimicry is shallow mimicry. Miguel can handle it. If he wanted to, he could counter. Cleanly.
(We're good~)
Miguel grins.
(Hakari's buying time with his technique over there, and I can hold my own against Mahoraga in my lane.)
(Ten minutes? Half an hour! No, a full hour!)
Still grinning, he shoots his left hand out and snags Mahoraga's straight punch in a capture grip.
He cranks the elbow inward, reverses it, then wrenches up on the shoulder joint.
Mahoraga's enormous body folds backward against him, struggling with his back to Miguel, feet clawing trenches into the ground. Even Mahoraga, apparently, cannot argue with leverage.
He doesn't seem to feel pain, though. The moment he's controlled, he roars, deliberately snaps his own arm loose, and spins into a horizontal punch.
Miguel steps back half a beat.
PAK! PAK!
He parries and counters in one motion. Right arm deflects the punch. Left hand forms a knife-hand and drives into Mahoraga's chest, pushing him back two steps. The whole sequence happens so fast it looks like Miguel predicted every move before it started.
Miguel uses the opening to jump back, and breaks into a tap dance where he stands.
He hums to himself. He even has time to run his mouth.
"Bad and Boujee — you know it?"
Bad and Boujee. The Trap classic. Migos out of Atlanta, featuring Lil Uzi Vert. One of the biggest tracks in Black music in recent years, by any measure.
Miguel's technique needs rhythm as its foundation. Most of the time, he borrows other people's songs.
The 808 kick lands. Hi-hats sizzle in tight little rolls.
Miguel's body goes loose. His hips drift left and right with the kick pattern, shoulders sinking and bouncing.
The heavy beat drops in his head. Miguel moves at the exact same moment.
He rides the beat to generate force, and a short, sharp straight punch snaps out, a clean black line through the air, landing dead center on Mahoraga as he charges in.
PAK!
Air bursts outward. Mahoraga reacts exactly like a normal person: rocks back slightly, a flicker of pain crossing those features, stumbles two heavy steps back.
Rain drop, drop top,
Miguel hums and fires another jab. As the hi-hats roll faster, the jabs come in chains.
One punch, then another, then another. Short, precise, linear. The punch-shadows stack on top of each other in front of his eyes.
Footwork lands on every beat. His frame sways lightly with the melody.
Every time Mahoraga tries to hit back, he's a half-second slow. A step behind. Just heavy, no matter what he does.
The song keeps going. The jabs keep coming, wave after wave on the Trap rhythm, pressing forward like the tide.
(I can win.)
Miguel gets more confident with every exchange.
(I can win!)
Twist the waist, drive the hips!
(Gojo Satoru, Himmel, you two, be ready to cut my sentence after this!)
That thought alone floods him with pure elation.
Beat switch!
Miguel's fist goes muffled and heavy, cannon-shot force behind it. The kind of punch that'd get a full close-up in a manga panel.
He's not actually going to hit Mahoraga, though.
He was throwing jabs this whole time for the footwork, and to slow Mahoraga's adaptation. Why would he change the plan now?
At the very last instant, he'll open the fist to a palm, latch on, and launch Mahoraga across the field.
Nobody understands stalling better than me.
"Got him! — Huh?"
But.
This time, Miguel gets it wrong.
The punch-arm blurs with afterimages. The instant before it reaches Mahoraga,
Mahoraga steps aside.
One simple sidestep. For a body that massive, it looks a little odd.
This guy...
[THUD]
A heavy impact sound.
Something cold climbs up Miguel's spine.
His whole expression goes flat. He immediately breaks contact and backs off.
Mahoraga doesn't follow.
Just the opposite.
He, he!
He suddenly starts,
Dum-dum-dum-dum...
Rapid shuffles on the spot.
Mahoraga is doing a tap dance. Like Miguel's.
The image is... genuinely a lot to take in.
Under Miguel's stunned stare, Mahoraga crosses his arms over his chest, kicks both legs forward, those enormous feet hammering the ground over and over. His four wings, which somehow look almost elastic, start swinging up and down. The tail behind his head bobs along with them.
Miguel finally gets it.
He's...
(Adapting... to my technique?)
The frame holds on Mahoraga's two rows of white teeth. On those features that radiate pressure just by existing.
[Upon realizing he couldn't land a clean hit on Miguel, Mahoraga quickly began analyzing the Cursed Technique.]
[The principle was too simple. It took less than a minute to understand it in full.]
[The time after that, he spent understanding something else.]
[, Understanding the concept of [Music]]
Groove.
Notes.
Rhythm.
[Just as defeating Higurama required mastering [Modern Law], and defeating Hakari required understanding [Pachinko].]
[Mahoraga knew it clearly: once he cracked [Music], he could neutralize the fighter in front of him. Surpass him.]
[And right now,]
[Adaptation is in its early stages. But it's there.]
Tap, tap-tap.
Footfalls land.
Steps shift, shadows move.
Rapid beats in quick succession.
Wings shiver. The Wheel turns.
The rhythm of those feet, carried through the trembling ground, reaches Miguel's ears.
"Music?! And Black music at that?!"
Miguel's face darkens another full shade.
"Shit!"
He doesn't care about comparing raw combat ability. That's not the point.
But you dare bring a challenge into the territory we know best?! And you're clearly white-skinned*!
"Fine," Miguel says, voice dropping. "Let's dance."
He kicks his body into gear and makes himself a metronome.
Street dance battles are the foundational, primal form of Black hip-hop culture.
They started in the early 1970s, South Bronx, New York. Not as entertainment. As a peace treaty, a way for the community to replace gang wars and shootouts with something else.
The structure has been refined across generations.
Step one: claim the floor. The crowd forms a circle on its own. Once the domain opens, only the two fighters remain inside.
Step two: the opener enters. Light shoulder pops, syncopated footwork, feeling out the beat. Small movements that show you own the rhythm while you read your opponent.
Just now...
Mahoraga's movements were completing that exact step.
(His sense of groove is already fully taking shape.)
(But, I'm not losing.)
Miguel answers with everything he has. His body contracts and releases. No music playing, none at all, but he manufactures groove and collision through pure body language alone.
Shoulders, arms, legs, striking the air itself. Every movement charged.
The silver vase shatters. Water bursts free.
Every punch, every kick, Flowing Water Crushing Rock.
"Show me what you've got, Mahoraga!"
Step three,
Alternating solo!
Miguel spins, drives his hips forward, and points ahead. The signal: your turn.
A Shikigami. What do you know about music? What do you know about dance?
[Black music]
[Is generally considered to have originated during the American Civil War era, when enslaved Black people laboring on plantations used chanting and drumbeats to coordinate their movements and endure the suffering. That was where the genre was born.]
[Its history runs approximately...]
[400 years.]
Mahoraga catches Miguel's seriousness without missing a beat.
400 years of history.
And the burning intensity in the eyes that accompany it.
.
[Give everything you have.]
Maybe it was an illusion.
But in that moment... the corner of Mahoraga's mouth...
lifted. A domineering smile.
Then.
His body answers Miguel's signal. It begins to groove.
Step. Neck isolation.
Then, his arm shoots out to the side and locks there. Instant freeze.
(Textbook funk freeze.)
Miguel covers his face. His expression is serious.
(Perfect power, perfect timing on the pause... but that's still just the basics. Not enough. Not yet.)
It's not over.
No words between them, but both feel what the other is thinking.
Mahoraga releases his neck, twists his waist, rolls through his hips, and executes a full fluid sequence. Subtle angle adjustments, but you can see the energy travel: from the crown of the head, down the spine, through the core, out to the legs and feet. A liquid wave.
Miguel:!
[Body Wave]
That's a move he demonstrated himself, earlier.
Mahoraga is copying him. But doing it... better.
Before he can figure out why, Mahoraga's exposed torso begins to expand slightly.
Those perfect muscles snap tight.
The contraction is visible to the naked eye.
Downbeat. Release!
That's,
POP!
Miguel covers his mouth. His eyes go wide.
Body control that freezes the frame on the exact beat, using the snap of arrested inertia to produce a visual shockwave.
And Mahoraga does it everywhere.
Arm Pop. Chest Pop. Leg Pop.
Fluid. Instant. Zero lag.
Still basics, technically. But when the execution is that clean, you can feel the difference in level even at a street dance competition. The gap is obvious.
And more importantly...
[Music]
A great street dancer doesn't need to hum. Doesn't need sound.
Just the body.
Skin.
Muscle.
Bone.
Physique, movement, rhythm.
That alone makes the audience hear music that isn't there.
Miguel didn't reach that level until past twenty. But right now...
[He hears it.]
Mahoraga's groove.
That is.!,,! ——! —,
Miguel's expression breaks open.
"That's actually Billie Jean, da-doh?!?!"
The groove of Black music traces back to the polyrhythmic structures, syncopation, and improvisational spirit of traditional African music. A century of evolution absorbed the swing of jazz, the snap of funk, the wordplay of hip-hop, the electronic pulse of Trap.
Not just music. Instructions for the body.
Don't think.
Stop thinking.
Follow instinct. Let the rhythm through the bones. Let it move every inch of muscle. That is the deepest power of Black music.
Ask professional fans to name the pinnacle, and you'll get an argument that never ends.
But if you just ask,
[Who is the greatest of all time?]
Then,
Everyone gives the same answer.
"You — you! That's impossible! Impossible!" Miguel can't accept what he's seeing.
[Mahoraga has never heard [that person's] work.]
[He simply adapted to Miguel's dance through instinct, understood music on a fundamental level, and has been executing the 'optimal solution' ever since.]
[And the endpoint of always pursuing the optimal...]
[Is where the divine lives.]
4/4. 116 BPM.
In a daze, Miguel actually hears it from Mahoraga's moving body, the synthesizer.
She was more like a beauty queen from a movie scene~
The intro rises, slow and steady. That iconic funk bass.
Mahoraga doesn't open his mouth. He keeps the beat with the tail behind his head.
I said don't mind, but what do you mean I am the one
His body rides the music. Waist settling low, shoulders catching the hi-hat and bouncing, hips dropping clean, every freeze and rest landing with complete precision.
Relaxed. Elastic.
People always told me be careful of what you do
Light tap of the toe. Weight shifts. The whole frame pivots sideways, smooth as water.
And then Miguel sees it.
Behind Mahoraga, the air bends slightly.
A silhouette takes shape.
That's, that's,!
And be careful of what you do 'cause the lie becomes the truth
Classic black sequin suit over a white shirt. Vintage black fedora.
Single white glove on the left hand. Black leather shoes.
(There's no way... I can win this.)
The beat builds. The rhythm tightens.
The climax arrives. The phantom and Mahoraga perform in perfect sync.
Feet glide. Small steps switch the weight: light, seamless, effortless. Walking forward. Body moving back.
Miguel watches.
Then closes his eyes.
Billie Jean is not my lover~
The last lyric lands. The phantom eases to a stop.
Pak.
A clean, dry freeze.
The iconic final pose.
That was...
[Too... beautiful.]
The frame holds on Miguel's face. Worn thin. Exhausted.
And deeply, quietly satisfied.
"I lost."
The perspective returns to reality.
It looked like they'd both drifted into some mental space to battle through dance. But in the real world, the two of them had been moving at the edge of their limits the entire time, using the groove to fuel the highest-level close-quarters fight either of them could produce.
Straight punches, palm pins, rising elbows, finger locks.
Parry, block, chop, intercept, check, seal, deflect, lead, redirect.
Dance.
Music.
Carried on the backs of each other's fists.
The background fades to the white of a clean cream cake. In that mental space, their spirits met, danced, traded strikes and footwork in the same breath.
After that communion, only the echo remains.
THUD!
Miguel drops flat on his back, arms and legs spread wide, staring up at a sky without limits. In the last moment before the dark takes him, he thinks he can see Mahoraga in the white space, turning to look at him.
Like he's saying,
[Be proud,]
[You are strong]
"...Heh."
His eyes go white.
Miguel goes under.
Almost at the same moment.
Nearby, Hakari's domain collapses.
Hakari tears himself out of it by the narrowest possible margin, one arm gone where Mahoraga cut it.
Hakari and Miguel.
The two best stall-fighters at Jujutsu High,
brought down by Mahoraga.
"Senpai!"
Itadori shouts from the edge of the crater.
But what can he actually do right now?
Is it,
My turn?
Cold sweat runs down Itadori's face.
He's not a coward. The opposite, if anything. Itadori Yuji has always fought hardest when he's fighting for someone else.
But...
[?]
[?]
Both Mahoragas, who had just been finishing off Hakari and Miguel, snap their gaze toward him at the shout.
Those massive faces turn his way. The pressure alone makes it hard to breathe.
Do I go?
Me, against Mahoraga?
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