Every man needs at least one lifelong rival.At least, that's what my fourteen-year-old self firmly believed.
And my rival? A neighborhood kid everyone used to call the "Little Tyrant."
Honestly, even saying it out loud makes me feel a bit ashamed. He'd been bullying me since we were about six.We were the same age, but somehow he was always taller—at one point, an entire head taller.
Here's a partial list of the treasures he stole from me over the years: snacks, balloons, manga, water guns, a toy police cap, and exactly twenty-five Transformer figures.
And that wasn't even the worst of it.His "bullying methods" included: kicking me into the river while I was fishing, pulling the chair out from under me at the perfect moment, spitting on me after pushing me into a ditch, forcing me to eat bread covered in chili powder, and dropping a live crab down the back of my shirt.
In short, it's impossible to describe how much I suffered under his rule. In my tiny kid-brain, he was scarier than Godzilla.
Now that I'm in my second year of middle school—almost third—I've decided that before I get to high school, this feud must be settled.If I don't end things with the Little Tyrant now, I'll carry the trauma forever.
That's why, three days ago, I sent him an official challenge letter.
Our old neighborhood was demolished years back, so we're no longer neighbors, but he still lives in the same city—only two subway stops away.He's definitely received my letter by now.
I challenged him to a one-on-one duel.The loser must kneel before the victor, admit defeat, and return everything he ever stole.
Of course, I never stole any of his things.But justice wins in the end… right?
The fight location: the open field behind the old boiler plant.Time: 9:00 AM.A perfect hour when no one ever passes by.
I even chose a spot slightly closer to his new home. That way, after he loses, it'll be easier for him to bring back all my Transformers.Don't get the wrong idea—I'm fourteen, I don't play with Transformers anymore.But they're trophies of courage! Symbols of justice!And besides… I'm sure Optimus Prime misses me.
I haven't seen the Little Tyrant in three years.
He was raised by a single parent like me.Even though I hated him, I liked his mom—Aunt Ren.
She was young, beautiful, and basically the crush of every guy in the neighborhood. Hardly the "auntie" type—more like a cool, pretty older sister.The Little Tyrant never dared bully me in front of her.
Probably because she was a legit international-level MMA champion.No wonder he grew up so strong.
Meanwhile, my dad is a bespectacled otaku who runs an online shop selling… adult items.Yeah. Not the most intimidating lineage to inherit.
I wonder how the Little Tyrant has been these last few years.Surely he hasn't gotten even taller… right?
Our last showdown was three winters ago, during a huge snowfall. I don't even remember what triggered the fight.
Back then, I'd finally caught up to him in height. I'd been doing secret training for months, and my arms had gained a little muscle.
I'd decided enough was enough—I would fight back.
He'd turned me into a panda plenty of times with his iron fists, so I aimed right at his eyes.But my punch barely grazed his chin.
He gave me a look like, "Oh? You think you've grown?"Then he kicked me in the stomach so hard I collapsed like a folded lawn chair.
Right—legs. I forgot he had those.Even when we were the same height, his legs were freakishly long. (Sorry, Dad, for giving me your tragically short ones.)
But here's the strange part: after knocking me down, he didn't spit on me.He didn't even walk away.
Instead, in this weirdly lonely voice, he said:
"They're tearing this whole place down, and everyone's moving. We're moving to the red building on West City's North Street… so we won't see each other much anymore."
Why tell me that?You're escaping—with my twenty-five Transformers! Congratulations!
"I just… feel like I haven't fought you enough yet," he said.
Not enough?!Haven't you racked up enough trophies from bullying me?You even took Optimus Prime!Why are you talking like you're the one who's sad?Are you disappointed you won't get to torment me every day?
Or…A shiver ran down my spine.
Or are you saying you see me as your long-time rival…just like I see you?
I lifted my head.The Little Tyrant looked down at me through the falling snow.The sun behind him hid his expression.
"See you around, Haruya," he said—using my name properly for the first time. He normally mispronounced it on purpose, calling me things like "Haru-donkey."
"I'll help you guard those Transformers. When you think you can beat me, come challenge me."
He tossed me a folded slip of paper—his new address. His handwriting was annoyingly neat.
In the three years since, I've trained harder than humanly reasonable.Sit-ups, push-ups, pull-ups—starting with ten, then one hundred, then two hundred.Every day I ran laps around East Lake with two-and-a-half-kilo sandbags strapped to my ankles. Then five kilos.I bought boxing magazines and read them in class instead of my textbooks.
When other kids ate, I trained.When they slept, I trained.
If I don't grow up to be a martial artist, then something in the universe is deeply wrong.
And still… I can't say I'm 100% confident I can beat the Little Tyrant.
His mom was a real MMA champion—he must've learned secret techniques. Maybe even a hidden "sure-kill move."
But I must challenge him.A man doesn't retreat just because he's scared.Even if I lose, I'll challenge him again. And again. Once every year.Until I reclaim Optimus Prime!
Not that this is about toys.I totally don't care about toys anymore. Absolutely not.
Anyway, when I wrote the challenge letter, I suddenly realized…I didn't know his actual name.
I only knew he shared Aunt Ren's surname.
So, following the address he gave me years ago, I wrote the recipient's name as "Ren Woxing" (which basically means "Do Whatever I Want").It suits him perfectly.
And to avoid Aunt Ren laughing at me, I didn't sign my real name.I signed as "The Hero of Justice."
The Little Tyrant will definitely know it's me.He's always been the Demon Lord to my Hero.We're destined rivals.
A light fog crept across the field.Early spring chill seeped through my sweater and the Stallone-style boxing shorts I'd worn for the occasion.
To keep my muscles warm, I took my stance and practiced quick jabs.Warm-ups are crucial.
The field was empty.I checked my watch—8:50.I'd arrived half an hour early and had already waited twenty minutes.
He didn't seem like the type to show up late on purpose.
To be easier to spot, I stood under the biggest banyan tree and kept punching the air.Even if the fog got thicker, he'd find me.
About five minutes later, I heard footsteps—light sneaker sounds on grass, quick and uneven.Hurried. Impatient.And… hesitant.
Heh.Little Tyrant—has it been three years?Don't tell me you're scared?
In reality, my legs were shaking.From the cold. Definitely the cold.
I won't lose.I can't lose.Even if I have to rely on the ultimate forbidden move among men:the crotch kick.