The stench of spilled beer and cigarette smoke lingered in the fight bar. Neon lights flickered above the ring, casting sickly red and green glows onto cracked pavement. Seventeen-year-old Taiga Sakamoto stood shirtless under the flickering light, taping his knuckles with trembling fingers. Blood—his or someone else's—streaked his forearm.
A ring of drunken gamblers and gangsters surrounded the ring, just four stacked crates marking its edges. His opponent, a much older man with cauliflower ears and tattoos crawling up his neck, paced like a caged animal.
The bets were placed. The fight began.
The first punch hit Taiga in the ribs like a hammer. Pain lanced through his side, but he didn't flinch. He'd taken worse. He bit down, shuffled forward, and retaliated with a wild hook. It hits the air. The older man laughed, dodged, and countered with a brutal uppercut that clipped Taiga's chin.
Taiga's staggering. The crowd roared.
"Get up, brat!"
"Hit him back!"
Taiga's vision blurred, but something deep inside him ignited. A fire born of hunger, fury, and the desperate will to survive. He surged forward, slipped under a right swing, and drove his fist into the man's gut. Once. Twice. Then an uppercut to the jaw. The older man reeled, mouth open in shock. Taiga's final blow—a left cross—snapped the man's head sideways. He crashed to the ground, out cold.
Silence.
Then, thunderous cheers.
Taiga didn't smile. He just turned, spat blood onto the pavement, and collected his cash from the nearest bookie. Dirty bills. Barely enough for a week's worth of meals. He didn't care. It was more than nothing.
He walked off into the night with his hoodie slung over one shoulder, ribs screaming in protest. He'd won. Again. And yet, the ache in his chest wasn't just physical. There was something hollow about these victories. No name. No glory. Just survival.
The gang members he'd won against didn't appreciate being embarrassed. Taiga knew that. When three of them followed him into an empty parking lot near the train station, he was ready.
Or so he thought.
He dodged the first thug's swing, landed a jab on another, but the third came from behind and slammed a pipe into his back. Taiga dropped to his knees, coughing.
"Thought you were tough, huh?" one of them sneered.
"Teach this punk a lesson."
They circled him like hyenas.
That's when a shadow moved.
A tall figure stepped out from the darkness. Older. Calm. His hands in his coat pockets, eyes sharp like he'd seen a thousand fights and grown bored of all of them.
"Three-on-one?" the man said, voice dry. "That's not a fight. That's cowardice."
"Back off, old man. This ain't your business."
In the next moment, the stranger was inside the circle. His hands snapped out in smooth, brutal arcs. A knee to the gut. A slap to the temple. A sweep that dropped the last thug hard onto the asphalt. It was over in seconds.
The man turned to Taiga.
"You've got something," he said. "But that was a stupid way to show it."
Taiga blinked, dazed. "Who the hell are you?"
"Kanzaki Genji. Used to be a boxer. Now I run a gym. Glory Gym."
Taiga scoffed. "I don't do gloves and rules."
Genji stared for a moment, then tossed a card at him.
"When you're tired of wasting your fists on the street, come find me. If you really want to fight—fight for something."
He walked away without waiting for a reply.
Taiga sat there for a long time, staring at the card mysterious looking man gave in his hand.
"Glory Gym. Osaka. For Fighters Who Refuse to Fall."
He didn't know it yet—but that night would be the last time he fought for scraps.
It was time to fight for something more.