The city had a pulse of its own—a rhythm of neon and steel, where the weak were devoured and the strong carved their place. Among its countless alleys and towers, one name had yet to be whispered, yet it would soon echo through every corner.
Waxwell moved like a shadow through the slums, his boots silent on cracked concrete. Hunger, sweat, and the sting of yesterday's beatings fueled him. He was not a hero. Not yet. But the fire inside refused to be extinguished.
At nineteen, he had already tasted betrayal, humiliation, and the bitter truth of powerlessness. Each scar on his hands, each bruise on his ribs, told the story: survive, adapt, and rise—or disappear into obscurity.
Tonight, Waxwell faced a trial unlike any before. The alley ahead was a gauntlet, controlled by three seasoned fighters from the Hound Faction. Their reputation alone made others turn back. Most nights, Waxwell would have fled. But tonight, something inside him snapped.
He tightened his fists, feeling the weight of his past, the sting of countless failures. Martial skills honed in secret—years of practice in abandoned gyms, rooftops, and alleyways—were all he had. But raw skill without resolve was meaningless. Tonight, he would test himself.
The first fighter lunged. Waxwell sidestepped, his movements fluid, almost predatory. A quick strike, precise and brutal, sent the man sprawling. The second came from behind—a spinning kick, a block, a counterstrike. Pain shot through his arm, but he didn't falter. The streets had taught him endurance; the world demanded survival.
By the time the last fighter fell, Waxwell was breathing heavily, sweat mixing with the grime of the alley. But victory was only the beginning. A shadow observed from above, unseen, calculating. Someone had noticed. Someone powerful. And in that city, being noticed was both a curse and an opportunity.
Waxwell didn't know it yet, but this night marked the first step of a long climb. Each struggle, each battle, would shape him—molding ambition, honing skill, awakening potential. Power was not given. It was seized, clawed from the jaws of those too weak to fight for it. And Waxwell… was just beginning to fight.