We walked a long way, weaving through alleys and backstreets until the neon lights got louder and the crowds thicker. Eventually, we reached a run-down bar with flickering signage and music blaring from inside. He held the door open.
I hesitated. "Uhm... you aren't going to make me drink alcohol, are you? 'Cause I don't drink. And it's illegal for a minor to—"
"Shut it," he bit out, not even bothering to look back. "Just follow me."
"...Okay."
Inside, the bar had an oppressive, suffocating smell of sweat and alcohol. The old man made a subtle hand gesture to one of the barmen, who immediately rushed towards a back door marked Staff Only. He swung it open.
We made our way through a cramped hall, lit by flickering, crimson light bulbs. We reached a steep stairwell, and even from the top, I could hear the roar. It was a bestial, insane noise, a cacophony of sound in which I could make out nothing except for shouting and cheering. I could feel the ground shaking under my feet from the intensity of the noise.
We reached the bottom of the long stairwell, and a vast, caged arena now lay in front of me. Men clad in business suits and casualwear alike filled the seats, their faces twisted in violent fervor, shouting and clamoring for violence.
I had no idea what this place was... but I was certain that I wouldn't ever forget the sight before me.
In the middle of the large, caged arena, a single jail cell was situated, and within its confines, two men were locked in a brutal brawl.
"GRAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!!" they shouted out, their fists flying wildly and with abandon.
The sight before me was shockingly violent. The two men had no technique, no style, just pure, primal rage. Blood spattered everywhere, and the audience just cheered, egging them on to violence. I could hardly even watch as these two men attacked each other mercilessly.
"W-what is this place...?" I muttered, my voice dry. "What's that cage for?"
The old man took another drag of his thick cigar and let the smoke leak through his nose. "This? Hah... this is your new home, kid," he said, voice slick with sarcasm. "Whaddya think? Cozy enough for ya?"
I didn't answer right away. My eyes were fixed on the cage. I blinked once. Then again. "I see," I said, flatly. No fear, no disgust, no excitement. Just observation.
The old man looked sidelong at me, his interest piqued, as if he was noticing something interesting. My lack of fear or shock was unusual, even for someone witnessing this level of brutality. Perhaps he'd only ever seen such cold detachment in soldiers or creatures of war. His face cracked into a sly smile.
"Heh... You really are something," the old man muttered under his breath. Then louder, he said, "Come closer. Don't be shy."
I stepped forward. Inside the cage, one of the fighters collapsed with a brutal thud. The other—barely standing, bleeding from the mouth—lifted his arms high in the air.
"WHOOOOOOOOOO!!!!"
The arena was filled with a deafening chorus of wild cheers and applause as the audience roared their approval.
The winner stepped out of the cage victoriously as the crowd shouted and whistled. He was panting heavily, chest heaving, and his bloody face was a mess. However, there was a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
Meanwhile, the other fighter was being carried out of the cage. He was unconscious, his breathing labored, and blood staining his clothes. A group of medics hurriedly placed him on a emergency bed, carefully wheeling him away to treat his injuries.
"And now...!" the announcer bellowed. "Begins the second match of the day!"
A scrawny boy stepped into the arena as the announcer's thunderous voice echoed through the room. He looked frail, his bruised ribs visible under a shirt that looked far too big for him. But there was a dull, almost lifeless look in his eyes. Something that went beyond mere hunger.
I stared. No emotion showed on my face, but inside, my stomach churned.
The old man placed a firm hand on my shoulder and led me closer to the cage, pointing at the boy with a mocking expression. "Take a good look at that brat, would ya? Skin'n bones, barely standin'. World chewed him up and spat him out. Same way it did with you. Ain't that a shame? But hey, that's life. Now, let's see what kind of guts you've got."
"What?"
The announcer stepped forward again, preparing to introduce the next fighter. But before he could speak, I felt a hard shove.
"Huh?! W-wait!" I stumbled, but it was too late. The cage door slammed behind me. "Hey! Let me out! What the hell are you doing?!" I turned, pounding my fists against the bars.
The old man just stood there, laughing cruelly. "Change of plans, boys!" he called out.
The announcer blinked, then looked toward the old man, confused and irritated. "What are you doing?! That kid isn't scheduled! The other one's ready to go!"
The old man raised his hand dismissively. "Save that scrap of bones for later. I'm using the one I found just now."
The announcer hesitated. His eyes flicked to me, then to the kid already in the cage. "You can't just—"
"Yer tryin' to order me around?"
A shadow passed over the old man's face. He didn't yell. Didn't threaten. He just gave the announcer a look.
That was all it took.
The announcer swallowed, his voice quieter now. "R-right... got it. Your call, boss."
He turned to the crowd and lifted the mic. "New change of match! We've got a new challenger—fresh meat! Let's see what he's made of!"
The crowd erupted once again. I just stood there, fists clenched, jaw tight.
"Damn old bastard," I muttered under my breath, my eyes darting around the cage, trying to assess my surroundings.
"Bet money on the other kid, easy win."
"This dude's more lost than a color-blind guy trying to crack a Rubik's cube; I bet he doesn't even know how to throw a punch."
"Hahaha!"
The old man murmured under his breath, a sly smile playing on his lips. "Now we'll see exactly how useful you can be."
I ignored the jeers and the laughter. They also called me rat, runt, scrap meat. Maybe I was. But my body moved anyway, instinct taking the lead where logic gave up. I stepped forward, dirt crunching beneath my bare feet, until I stood face-to-face with the boy on the other end of the cage.
Taking a closer look I could confirm that he was thinner than me. Still dirty and half-starved. But there was something feral in his eyes, like a dog that had bitten too many hands to ever be petted again.
The announcer stood on a crate just outside the metal bars, his voice loud and clear. "Alright you two, you know the drill. No rules, no time limit. Just keep the crowd excited. Fight until one of you can't stand."
I blinked. My mouth parted slightly. No rules?
"Wait," I said, taking a small step back. "This must be a mistake. I didn't sign up for this. And I have no reason to fight him. Let me out."
My voice didn't waver, but I knew my eyes gave me away. They always did. The announcer only grinned like I was the punchline of a joke he'd told a hundred times before.
He raised his arm and brought it down sharply.
"Ready? Go!!"
The bell rang.
Right at the moment, the kid launched at me like a starving wolf. His eyes weren't just empty—they were wild, savage, like nothing human remained inside them. I barely had time to register the movement before his fist cut the air right in front of my nose.
I dodged instinctively, pivoting on the ball of my foot. His knuckles scraped past my cheek.
"Stop!" I shouted, raising my hands, palms out. "I'm not here to hurt you! Calm down!"
But he wasn't listening. Maybe he couldn't. Whatever drove this kid had overridden reason. He kept coming, fists swinging, teeth gritted so tight it looked like his jaw might snap.
He wasn't fighting for sport. He was fighting for survival.
My body reacted with mechanical precision. Slipping left, ducking right, angling my shoulder—I could avoid him all night. But I didn't. I let one of his punches land. My head snapped sideways.
If I take a hit, maybe he'll see I'm not trying to hurt him?
A major mistake.
I stumbled, and before I could react, he tackled me to the ground with a haymaker punch. My back hit the dirty cage floor with a loud thud. Cheers erupted from the audience like a wave of boiling oil.
"KILL HIM!"
"TEAR HIM APART!"
"BREAK HIS FACE!"
The boy climbed on top of me, straddling my chest, and then the punches came. One. Two. Three. Four. My vision blurred. Blood sprayed from my lip. My skull cracked against the metal below me.
"S-Stop!" I gasped. "Please, I don't want to—"
But he didn't stop.
Then his hands shifted. One wrapped around my throat.
The other clamped down, squeezing with the strength of desperation and madness.
For the first time, the kid spoke. "Shut up. I wont die. Not here. I... I will survive!"
Survive? What is he talking about?
My mind was spinning, my lungs burning with the need for air. But his grip squeezed harder and my eyes widened. I clawed at his wrists. The world started to twist and tilt. The cheers grew distant, warped and drowned, like echoes underwater.
I was going to die in a cage like an animal.
Meanwhile, up in the VIP stands, the old man sat with a pensive look carved deep into his wrinkled face. The cheers and bloodthirsty shouts from the lower levels seemed to pass right through him, as if he were caught in some far-off place inside his mind.
A woman approached from behind, her heels clicking against the floor. Elegant, well-dressed, eyes like razors behind her glasses. "Takayama-san."
Secretary of "The red dragon organization.": Ayame Watanabe.
The old man turned slowly, the spell of silence breaking. Upon seeing her, a sly smile crept across his face. "Ahh~ my beautiful assistant," he purred, his gaze dropping shamelessly. "With legs like yours, I'm amazed I still remember why I called you. Come closer, won't you? I could use a little warmth in this cold room."
His hand moved subtly, fingers twitching like he was tempted to reach for her behind.
She didn't flinch. Used to his filth by now. She exhaled slowly through her nose. "Stop messing around. You said you had something important to ask me." she asked flatly, ignoring the advance like she was swatting a fly that didn't even deserve acknowledgment.
The old man chuckled, not the least bit embarrassed. "Tsk tsk. Such a shame. Always so serious. That's no way to live, sweetheart." He waved the smoke away half-heartedly and tilted his head toward the cage below. "Still... I did want your opinion."
She raised an eyebrow. "About what?"
"That brat I just threw into the cage. What do you think?"
The woman paused. "That kid...?"
A moment of silence stretched as her mind rewound to just earlier—when the narrator had protested the switch and the old man's cold, low voice had silenced him. Her eyes narrowed.
"If you want my honest opinion," she said, adjusting her glasses, "I'm against it. Pulling some stray off the street and tossing him into a live match is reckless. We vet our recruits for a reason. We can't predict how—"
"Bah!" he scoffed, cutting her off with a dismissive wave. "And what's the problem? Huh? Isn't that what we do anyway? Those orphans we get from back-alley institutions, the ones without families or records—tell me, who cries when they don't make it out alive?"
He took another long drag from his cigar, smoke curling around his cracked lips. "This ain't charity work, princess. It's survival. A test. The strong climb out. The rest stay in the dirt. Simple as that."
He pointed down with the lit end of his cigar. "But there's something wild in that kid. Watch closely. Watch the moment he stops holding back. I bet you've never seen such a monster like that before."
The woman said nothing, her eyes drifting back down to the cage where the crowd howled for violence.
"If you don't believe me, then let's see if I'm wrong," the old man whispered through a grin, smoke curling past his teeth.
Back at the fight, my eyes were fluttering. I couldn't breathe. My throat was clamped shut by the bony hands of that feral kid, his face wild and ferocious like an animal fighting for scraps. His knees pinned my chest, and the crowd keep roaring.
I clawed at his wrists, weakly. I tried to speak.
"I... I to...ld... y—" (I told you to stop!)
My voice choked, nothing but a gasp.
Then, something shifted. His head leaned too far forward, instinctively or by mistake, bringing his jaw right into the line.
CRACK.
My fist, driven by reflex and desperation, smashed into his lower jaw. The kid's body jolted upward and backward like a broken puppet. He flew nearly a meter and a half, landing flat on the cage floor with a sickening thud.
My lungs sucked in air like a newborn, my hands shaking.
The crowd that moments ago howled for my death... fell silent.
The old man, high in the VIP stands, grinned ear to ear, his cigar glowing faintly.
"Yes. That's what I wanted see."
Even the narrator stood frozen, mouth slightly ajar. Then, in a shaky voice, he muttered into the mic:
"The... the fight's over... the kid's unconscious... and..."
He swallowed, wide-eyed.
"It's... it's over."
I sat up slowly, my hand still clenched from the punch.
A few in the crowd began to whisper, confusion and surprise slowly breaking the silence.
"Did you see that?" one asked incredulously. "That kid just... he just knocked the other guy out with one punch. Like... that easily."
The narrator rushed to the kid's side. I followed, my legs moving before my thoughts could catch up.
"Hey, he's okay, right?" I asked, breathless.
The narrator didn't answer right away.
He knelt over the boy, touched his neck, lifted one of his limp arms and let it drop. His eyes narrowed, then widened.
But that was not everything.
The boy—that frail, angry boy who had been choking the life out of me just seconds ago—was now sprawled across the ground, his jaw bent at an angle no human body should ever know.
Horrified, the narrator flinched back.
I knew.
I knew before he said anything.
My stomach dropped into ice water.
"No... no no no no no no no..." I shook my head, my arms flailing helplessly like I could wave the truth away. "I didn't mean to! I-I was just trying to get him off me! I didn't want to—I didn't mean to kill him!"
My knees buckled and I dropped next to the boy, trembling. I reached out but stopped short, afraid to touch him, afraid of what I'd feel. My hands hovered uselessly in the air.
Tears blurred my vision. They fell hot and fast, streaking down my dirt-covered cheeks.
The crowd, meanwhile, exploded.
"STREET GUY! STREET GUY! STREET GUY!"
Their chants were thunderous, fevered with bloodlust and awe.
"That was INSANE!"
"Did you see that punch?! Like a bullet!"
"He ain't normal, that one! This kid's a monster!"
"STREET GUY!"
The cheers felt like nails hammered into my ears.
I was shaking. Sobbing.
But all they saw was power.
All they saw was entertainment.
Not being able to withstand this situation, I burst out of the cage, gasping for breath as the cold air hit my face. My chest heaved with each sob. I didn't care that they were still cheering. I didn't care about anything.
I had killed someone.
I didn't mean to. I didn't want to... But I did.
Back in the VIP booth, the woman stood frozen. Her eyes were still wide, trying to comprehend the force that child had unleashed. "That... that punch," she muttered. "That wasn't normal. That kid... he doesn't even seem human."
The old man grinned, puffing on his thick cigar. "Hah! Now you see what I meant."
He continued. "But it wasn't just the physical strength. Did you notice?"
"What do you mean?"
"His instincts. How he approached the fight. He knew he couldn't out-muscle the other boy immediately. So he let him think he had the upper hand. But the moment that kid's posture shifted—just a fraction too far forward—bam! A perfectly placed uppercut. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Like he'd done it a thousand times."
She was silent, processing. "So... what, you think he's a once-in-a-generation prodigy?"
The old man leaned back, resting his hands behind his head. "A prodigy?" the old man scoffed. "No. I've seen prodigies. But this boy? He's not just talented. He's trained. Conditioned. There's no way a ten-year-old learns that kind of killer instinct on the streets."
He turned to her, eyes narrowing. "Which brings us back to the real issue. Find out everything about him. His name. His family if he has. Where he went to school. Everything. I want a full report."
"And if he has no family? If he's some street kid who's been fighting in underground rings for years?"
The old man chuckled again, the sound rough and dry. "Street kid or not, everyone has a past. People they cared about. Places they came from. Someone's gotta know something."
He took a long drag on his cigar, the smoke curling around him. "Dig deep enough, and you'll find something worth knowing."
"...Understood."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I curled myself into the corner of a damp, dark hallway somewhere behind the fight club's maze of service tunnels. The muffled roars of the crowd felt far away now. I buried my face in my knees, tears falling silently, carving trails through the grime on my cheeks.
Then, I heard footsteps. Slow, steady, deliberate.
"Ah," came that gravelly voice, too smooth to be friendly, too amused to be comforting. "Finally found ya. That was a hell of a punch, kid. Really, hats off to ya."
He clapped his hands slowly, the applause sounding more like mockery than praise. I didn't even look up.
"...Yer cryin'?"
As he noticed my state, his tone shifted after cleaning his throat. He probably knew he had to handle this carefully.
"Is something the matter?"
I didn't respond at first. I lifted my head just enough to show my eyes. "What's it to you?"
He crouched down in front of me. Not close. Just near enough to see me properly, the thick cigar still burning between his fingers. His eyes narrowed, but his voice came calm and gentle.
"When someone does something for the first time, especially something hard, something painful... it's important that they don't go through it alone."
I blinked. The sincerity in his voice made me pause. He sounded almost gentle but I didn't trust it. This was the same person who ran this whole operation.
"What would you know about it?"
"More than you think, kid," he replied, his voice taking on a gentler tone.
"I've seen many things in my life, and I've been through my share of hard moments. But the first is always the hardest. So, tell me, what's weighing you down?"
I hesitated for a moment, the tears still rolling down my cheeks. Part of me still wanted to hold onto my secrets, to keep my emotions hidden. But his gentle insistence, started to chip away at my defenses.
"I...." I sniffed, wiping at my face with the back of my arm.
He just waited for me to speak, remaining silent.
"I didn't want to kill him," I murmured. My voice cracked. "I just... I wanted him to stop. I told him to stop."
The old man keep saying nothing. He just watched me, letting my words come.
"And now he's dead. Because of me... I feel like a monster."
The silence lingered.
"Sometimes," I continued, voice low, "I think... what's the point of trying so hard to live? I run, I steal, I hide. And for what? I think about things like comfort, like family... and then I remember I don't have any. And then I wonder... why me? Why can't I just be a normal kid? Why does life treat me like this?"
The old man finally moved, flicking the ash from his cigar. He took a slow drag, his eyes still locked onto mine, though his expression remained unreadable.
And then, he exhaled a slow cloud of smoke.
"That's a good question, kid," he said.
I hugged my knees tighter, tears still sliding down my cheeks. My body trembled, but not from cold. The weight of it all just pressed down on me until I felt like I could collapse into the concrete and disappear forever.
"And sometimes..." I whispered, not even sure if he was still listening, "I wonder... why was I born at all? Every day I wake up, and it's just the same thing... Hunger. Dirt. People hating me. Nothing ever changes."
The silence from the old man was heavy as he narrowed his eyes, but I kept going. I had to get it out.
My fists clenched against my thighs.
"I feel empty. All the time. I don't have dreams like other kids. No future. No goals. Nothing. Just surviving... and even that feels like a mistake. I... I don't understand what's the point of a person like me existing."
He paused for a moment, observing. Then he approached more carefully, his heavy shoes dragging slightly across the floor.
"So... that's how you feel, huh?" he said, voice low, almost understanding. The cigar in his fingers smoldered softly. He took a slow drag, then exhaled through his nose like a tired bull. "Tell me something, boy."
A pause. A beat. Then:
"Do you think you're a good person?"
"A...good person?" I echoed, confusion lacing my voice.
Then, I looked up, red-eyed and confused. "W-What? What's that got to do with anything?"
"Just answer."
I sniffled. My voice was hoarse. "I don't... I don't think I am."
"Why not?"
I gave him a flat, incredulous look. Was he serious? Hadn't he seen what I just did?
"The other kid was a lot like me. And I ended up killing him. Does that sound like something a good person would do?"
"And yet here you are, crying your eyes out about it," he said. "You feel guilt. Remorse. That already puts you leagues above most people in this world. You didn't kill him because you wanted to. You did it because you had to. Because it was you or him."
I stared at him, unsure what to think.
He tapped the ash off his cigar. "You think a real monster cries after taking a life? Nah. A monster would laugh without giving a damn. You're not one. You're just... a kid."
I didn't respond. My brain was a whirlpool of regret, confusion, and something else I didn't have a name for.
He stood up again and adjusted his coat. "And you know what? You fought back even when you didn't want to. You held back. You even begged him to stop. That guilt you're feeling? It's proof there's still a kind-heart inside you."
I swallowed hard. My voice cracked. "Then... why does it feel like I don't deserve to exist?"
The old man tilted his head, letting out a low chuckle. "Do you think being a 'good person' keeps you safe? That it's some kind of armor against the cruelty of the world?" He shook his head slowly, the glow of his cigar flaring in the dim light. "Kid, let me tell you something. That naive little belief is the first thing that gets crushed when you step into reality. Bad things happen to good people all the time. This world ain't fair."
"That's...not true," I said, trying to sound defiant but still sounding pathetic. "Being good should make a dif—"
He cut me off with a scoff. "That's some fairytale bullshit. This is real life. Being good just means you have an unfair disadvantage. It makes you naive and easy to take advantage of."
He exhaled smoke through his nose, then looked at me with calm, calculating eyes. "You asked what the point of living is, right? Heh. That question's been around longer than you, me, or this entire rotten city. Everyone's got their own answer. Some devote themselves to gods. Others to dreams or vices like booze and flesh. And some? They just want to keep a roof over their family's head."
He took a step closer, placing a hand on my shoulder. It wasn't warm, but it wasn't cold either. It was firm. "But here's the truth: no one lives without being drunk on something. Everyone's a slave to something. And those who aren't? They either go mad... or end it themselves. But that won't be the case for ya. Now take this."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a thick roll of yen bills, pressing it into my trembling hands.
"You say life is meaningless... so why not make your own meaning?"
I stared at the bills. My eyes widened. I'd never seen so much money in one place, let alone held it.
"That's your cut for the fight. And here's another twenty thousand... for the kill."
Is this what that child meant by "Survive?"
"Why... why are you giving me all this money?"
He grinned as my fingers twitched over the crisp paper.
"Do you feel that rush? It feels good, doesn't it? That's what life should be for you. A talent is worth its weight in gold, more than anything else. Polish that, polish yourself. Don't let the world trample you. Get rid of all that useless morality and don't just fight to win—"
He leaned in closer, voice dropping to a whisper.
"Enjoy it. Until you get high. That will be your new purpose in life."
"My... purpose?" My eyes lifted slowly, finally meeting the old man's face.
"And there's one more thing, kid. You won't just be paid. You'll be praised. Cheered for. Admired. These people out there? They're your family now. The crowd loves a monster. So become one. Embrace it. Make your own meaning through power. Through chaos."
He extended his hand.
"C'mon... just say yes."
For a moment, the world stood still. The ache in my chest dulled, replaced by something colder. Numb.
And then, slowly but without hesitation, I reached out. And shaking the old man's hand.
The man grinned, all teeth and shadow. Victory gleamed in his eyes.
The definite deal was sealed.
They say your first kill changes you. I guess that explains why I never really hesitated anymore.
The smell of sweat and blood became part of my routine. The more I fought, the more the world made sense. Fear faded. Pain dulled. And something else woke up in me.
A joy.
At first, I told myself I was surviving. But lies are for the weak. Deep down, I knew what it was: the high. The euphoria of flesh meeting flesh, of risking it all for a single moment where only instinct speaks. It got to the point where I needed it. Like an addict.
Every punch I threw, every scream from the crowd, was fuel. Fuel that intoxicated and killed that boy who didn't want to hurt anyone.
My body changed, my skin thickened, and my bones toughened. I didn't walk into fights hoping to just win. I walked in hoping to feel. Hoping to find anyone who could give me the thrill of standing on the brink of death.
Soon, word got out. The underground didn't whisper my name anymore. They screamed it.
"The Chaotic Ray", they called me. A storm in human form. Flashing violence and thunderous wrath. They came in droves just to witness the spectacle.
72 fights. 69 wins, one kill. 3 draws. 0 losses.
I remember every single one of them. The way they looked at me before crumbling. The way they tried and failed to keep standing.
But I wanted more. A stronger opponent. A tougher challenge. A deeper abyss. Someone who could break me and show me that my vision of life is wrong.
Because I am not a hero. I am not a victim. I am a beast born of fists and fury.
Yes. That's the only thing someone like me can be.
This school was very lenient in accepting a scumbag like me, the outcome was all too obvious. But now that they've let me in, there's no turning back. I'm going to do the only things I know how to do: provoke people, fight and do whatever I want.