Garp called his punches the Fist of Love, and he really wasn't just saying that.
The Fist of Love had one defining feature: it hurt like hell, but inflicted very little actual damage.
During his earlier fight with Randall, Garp had used this technique, whether deliberately or otherwise.
Having experienced the Fist of Love firsthand, Randall had naturally picked it up.
And now, the Fist of Love came in handy.
"Call me a damn heretic, will you!"
Bam—
"Go on, call me a heretic!"
Bam—bam—
"Let's see if you still think I'm a heretic!"
Bam—bam—bam—
Punch after punch rained down on God's body and face.
God grimaced in agony, screaming again and again, yet somehow never passed out.
The attendants who had been waiting on God stood nearby, dumbfounded.
When had they ever seen God in such a sorry state?
Randall's abuse continued.
"Am I still a heretic?! Am I?! Am I?!"
Bam—bam—
With a whoosh, God's front tooth snapped and flew out of his mouth.
Propelled by Randall's strength, the broken tooth shot like an arrow, grazing a dancing girl's hair before embedding itself in the hall's wall.
When the dancing girl realized what had happened, her face instantly drained of color, and her legs gave out as she sank to the floor.
It wasn't that God hadn't tried to fight back.
He wasn't a masochist. These punches hurt like hell!
But Randall's other hand held him firmly in place like an iron clamp.
He couldn't move so much as a fraction of an inch.
That feeling of losing all control filled him with fear.
"Am I a heretic?"
The rain of punches suddenly stopped, and Randall enunciated each word of his question.
Amid God's dizziness, his vision cleared.
Randall's horrible, hateful face came into view again.
"H-heretic! What