Crestfall City did not sleep it snarled.
It was a sprawl of steel and shadows, neon halos glowing above shattered sidewalks and rain-soaked alleys. Sirens wailed like sick animals in the distance, and on each corner, you could taste ambition. That bitter mixture of sweat, blood, and smoldering desperation.
The city survived on strife. And so had Kai Takeda, at least for a while.
Now, he was standing alone inside the body of his past Dragon Crest Dojo.
The once-fabled academy had become a shadow of its former self. Its wide wooden doors creaked on rusty hinges, scraping ominously against the warped frame. Shattered glass from a skylight above littered the tatami mats, and a mosaic of grime and water stains obscured the once-fresh floors.
Still clinging to the back wall, yet cracked and worn, was the old crest: a red dragon encircling a gold flame. Even under the grime, the painted eyes of the dragon still seemed to glint with defiance.
Kai froze there for an instant, staring at it.
Then he lit a cigarette with trembling fingers that quivered only so minutely.
The flame flickered, went out. Smoke curled up as he puffed on it dry, bitter, unsatisfying. He coughed harshly.
"Should've quit years ago," he rasped, the voice like gravel underfoot.
Behind him, the door of the dojo swung open. Softly, but enough.
Kai did not turn. His shoulders tensed, eyes narrowing.
"I said to stop following me," he said flatly.
Footsteps arrived, soft but not uncertain. A voice followed a young, clear, cocky voice.
"Yeah, well… I'm not great at taking orders."
Kai exhaled. He knew that voice.
Noa Park. Fourteen. Maybe fifteen. Korean-American. Smart mouth, fast fists, and more bruises than common sense. The kid had been trailing him for five days now.
They'd first met in a dark alleyway behind a 24/7 convenience store, where three big boys had been working Noa's face onto the sidewalk with a phone and a pack of cigarettes. Kai had intervened, put a stop to it in less than thirty seconds.
Noa'd been following him ever since.
The boy now stood in the dojo, hoodie soaked from summer rain, arms folded tightly. His gaze roved over the ruin, cautious wonder on his face.
"Is this it?" he asked. "Dragon Crest? The real one?"
Kai remained silent.
Noa moved forward another few steps, crunching glass beneath his sneakers. "You used to own this place, didn't you? Kai Takeda. The Kai Takeda."
Kai rolled his eyes. "You see that on YouTube?
"I've seen the vids," Noa whispered, stepping closer. "The Osaka tournament. The Manila street battles. You beat Steel Fang's champion who is it? Daigo the one with the iron shoulder while fighting one-handed. You didn't even flinch."
Kai finally stood before him. His expression was hard, hollow, inscrutable like staring into the coals of a fire that had burned out for a long time.
"Steel Fang," Kai repeated, voice flat. "That name still get tossed around?"
Noa's expression turned somber. "They run my school. Principal's terrified of them. Cops don't show. Broke a sophomore's arm last month. Told the school it was a 'sparring match.' No one did anything."
Kai allowed the silence to hang, allowed it to seep like tar between them.
Noa gulped hard and prepared himself. "I want you to train me."
"No."
The negation was blunt. Chilling. Non-negotiable.
Noa frowned. "Why not?"
Kai turned aside. "Because I don't teach any more."
"You did," she said.
"Used to. That's the word."
"I need this," said Noa. "I need to learn."
Kai didn't reply. The wind sighed between the broken windows, tossing dry leaves around the floor. The dojo groaned beneath the burden of memory.
But Noa didn't leave.
He came back the next day. And the next. Sometimes he brought instant noodles. Sometimes nothing. Sometimes he'd stand under the awning as the rain sheeted down, his hoodie plastered against his skin, waiting.
He didn't say a word. He asked for no more.
Kai shunned him at first.
But on the fourth morning, as dawn broke over the skyline and painted the dojo in gold and ash, Kai opened the door and muttered, "If you're gonna stand there like a ghost, at least bring a broom."
Noa blinked. Then grinned.
That day, they didn't speak much.
Noa swabbed glass and dust off the training floor and Kai cleaned moldy back rooms, crumpling gear and torn belts into a dumpster. Dusting turned into patterns on their skin, and for the first time in years, the walls echoed with movement.
Kai spotted Noa standing there frozen once standing in front of the dragon crest, eyes on the symbol as if it might speak to him.
"Why's the flame golden?" Noa inquired.
Kai did not look up from the bags he was stowing. "Because fire does not ask permission to burn. And the dragon guards it."
"Is that what Dragon Crest is?"
Kai hesitated. "Used to be."
By dusk, the dojo looked a little less dead.
Kai lit a cigarette and stood in the doorframe, watching the city come alight around him. Sirens in the distance. Thunder on the rail tracks. The acrid scent of soy oil and exhaust from street vendors.
Noa stood beside him, bruised, dirty, subdued.
Kai exhaled smoke into the evening. "You still want to learn?"
Noa half-turned towards him. His eyes weren't just determined hot.
"Yes."
Kai stomped the cigarette out under his boot, slowly.
"Then listen close," he said to him. "This is not a game. You go into fire, you get burned. You want to fight thugs? Gain pride? Gain a reputation? Go seek another master. This house is not for egos."
"I'm not looking for pride," Noa said quietly. "I'm looking for power. The kind that doesn't depend upon numbers or knives or fear."
Kai glared at him for what seemed an eternity.
Then, finally, he looked back at the crest cracked, faded, but still clinging to the wall.
"You want real power?" Kai murmured. "It doesn't come from your fists. It comes from what you're willing to sacrifice."
He turned and began walking inside.
Noa followed.
They passed by the faded sparring mats, the broken weapons rack, the moldy locker doors that hung askew. In a corner, an old photograph still clung to the wall: four young warriors in Dragon Crest gear, grinning. One of them was Kai far younger, standing upright in the middle.
Noa pointed. "You?"
Kai didn't respond. He took down the photograph.
In the rear room, he tossed it into a crate of splintered wood.
Noa didn't inquire.
Later that night, Kai vacuumed space on the training floor and rolled out one practice mat.
"Tomorrow," he announced. "5 AM. You don't appear, you're gone."
Noa nodded. "I'll be there."
Kai's gaze narrowed. "You don't comprehend yet. This isn't karate class. No belts. No sparring awards. What I teach isn't for display.".
"I'm not here for show," Noa replied. "I'm here to fight."
Kai didn't smile.
He simply turned away and began sweeping again.
Somewhere Else in Crestfall…
In a high-rise downtown, fluorescent lights buzzed over a steel table. A group of teenagers in matching jackets circled around it, laughing over a recording on someone's phone. A boy screamed in the video bones cracking, begging.
The biggest of them, a tattooed, portly teenager with a wolf tooth on his neck, hit replay.
"That was Park, wasn't it?" he goaded.
"Yeah," another shot back. "Dummy kid thought he could lip off."
The biggest of them snapped his knuckles. "Let's remind him what happens when you don't remain broken."
Back at Dragon Crest
Night fell hard on the dojo. Out there, lights and violence seethed through the city. But in here, for the first time in years, something old stirred.
Not fire. Not yet.
But the first ember had ignited.
And dragons are born in fire.