If anything, it got worse.
Whispers spread like wildfire.
"Did you see him?"
"Is he really here looking for someone?"
"Who the hell is crazy enough to catch Daigo Enishi's eye?"
Fighters who once thought they were kings suddenly felt very, very small.
Meanwhile, backstage, Riku sat frozen on a steel bench, bandages tight around his arms and ribs.
He could barely breathe.
Not from the pain,
but from the aftershock of that man walking past him.
The ground had felt like it was shifting under his feet.
The sheer presence of Daigo Enishi was overwhelming.
It was like trying to look at the sun.
Riku’s mind spun in chaos.
"Why... why was he here?"
"Who was he looking for?"
He shook his head, trying to clear it.
No way.
It couldn’t be him.
He was weak.
A nobody.
His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy footsteps approaching.
A man in a black suit stood in front of him, holding a thick brown envelope.
A massive scar ran from the man's temple down to his neck, but his expression was unreadable.
He looked down at Riku.
"Riku Sakamoto?"
Riku blinked.
"...Yeah?"
The man nodded once and held out the envelope.
"You've been invited."
Riku stared.
"Invited...?"
The man’s voice was low and mechanical, like reading from a script.
"To the Big League."
Time seemed to stop.
Riku took the envelope with shaky hands.
It felt heavy.
Serious.
He slowly opened it.
Inside:
A dark crimson card embossed with black letters:
"CROWNLESS INITIATION - NOCTURNE DIVISION."
A ticket stub stamped with tomorrow’s date, time: 8 PM, and a location deep inside the slums of Shinjuku.
A handwritten note, messy but powerful:
"Get stronger. Or die trying.
—D.E."
Riku’s heart hammered in his chest.
He gripped the card so tightly his knuckles turned white.
This wasn't a dream.
This was happening.
Daigo Enishi, THE Daigo Enishi, had left a message for him.
The man in the suit spoke again, flatly:
"Show up or don’t.
But miss it, and you're finished.
No second chances."
Then he turned and walked away, leaving Riku there, breathing hard.
Alone.
The rest of the night passed in a blur.
Riku stumbled home through the back streets, the city lights blurry through his tired, aching eyes.
His body hurt.
Every inch screamed for rest.
But inside?
Something was awake.
A fire he didn’t even know he had.
That night, he barely slept.
He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.
Thinking about everything.
His failures.
His humiliations.
His countless losses.
The way people looked at him like he didn’t matter.
And now...
A chance.
Not just any chance.
THE chance.
The next day, Riku didn't go to school.
He couldn't.
Not with what was coming.
Instead, he spent the day training,
alone, in the tiny, broken gym under his apartment building.
Punching the heavy bag until his knuckles bled.
Shadowboxing until his legs gave out.
Lifting worn-out weights until his arms trembled.
It wasn’t pretty.
It wasn’t glorious.
It was desperate.
But it was real.
And when he looked at himself in the cracked mirror,
sweat pouring down, blood dripping from his fists...
He saw a glimpse.
Just a glimpse...
Of the man he could become.
8 PM.
Riku stood in front of a crumbling warehouse deep in Shinjuku.
The night air was heavy with smog and tension.
The card pulsed in his pocket, like it was alive.
A massive steel door loomed ahead.
No guards.
No signs.
Just a small buzzer.
Riku swallowed hard.
He pressed it.
A mechanical voice crackled from an unseen speaker.
"Name?"
"...Riku Sakamoto."
There was a pause.
Then the door groaned open.
Heavy, slow.
Inviting him in.
Or maybe daring him to.
Inside was another world.
Dim lights swinging overhead.
The stink of blood, sweat, and smoke.
Hundreds of fighters, gangsters, and mercenaries stood around the wide-open pit at the center.
All of them hunters.
All of them wolves.
And Riku?
Just a wounded pup.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
A figure approached.
Renji Arakawa.
The right-hand man himself.
Sharp eyes.
Cold as winter.
He looked Riku up and down like inspecting a dirty coin.
Then, a small, almost imperceptible nod.
"You’re late."
Riku opened his mouth to apologize...
But Renji smirked slightly.
"Good.
Means you didn’t come here rushing like an idiot."
He jerked a thumb toward the pit.
"Rules are simple:
Survive three rounds.
Win one."
He turned, starting to walk away.
"If you do, you join the Big League."
He glanced back over his shoulder, smirking wider now.
"If you don't... well, the janitor’s got a mop ready."
Riku stood at the edge of the pit.
Looking down into it.
Three fighters already waiting for him inside.
Each bigger.
Meaner.
Hungrier.
They saw him.
And they smiled.
The announcer’s voice boomed through the warehouse:
"New meat entering!
16 years old!
Barely alive!
But hey, maybe he's got guts!"
The crowd laughed.
Catcalled.
Threw bottles.
Riku tuned them out.
All he could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
He stepped into the pit.
The steel door slammed shut behind him.
No way back.
Only forward.
Only survival.
Riku clenched his fists.
His body screamed.
His fear screamed louder.
But deep inside?
A tiny, burning voice whispered:
"Move. Fight. Live."
The first opponent charged.
A massive, scarred brawler swinging a wild haymaker.
Riku barely ducked,
felt the air split above his head.
Fight instincts kicking in.
The second opponent rushed from the side, low like a charging bull.
Riku twisted at the last second, the man missing by an inch.
Speed.
Awareness.
Pain exploded in his ribs as the third opponent caught him with a brutal kick.
Riku staggered, but stayed standing.
Blood in his mouth.
Legs shaky.
Vision blurry.
But he grinned.
Through the blood and exhaustion...
He grinned.
"That all you got?"
He whispered it.
But it was enough.
The crowd stirred.
A few whistles.
A few shouts.
The Big League didn't care how many times you fell.
It cared how many times you stood back up.
And Riku?
Riku Sakamoto?
He was gonna stand up again and again and again, until they remembered his name.
The bell rang.
A crude, broken clang from a rusted iron plate hanging over the arena.
The crowd roared.
Riku barely had time to raise his fists before the first opponent lunged again, the brawler with fists like stone blocks.
CRACK!
The man’s punch clipped Riku’s jaw.
His head snapped sideways, blood spraying from his mouth.
The world tilted for a second.
"Stay standing-"
"Stay standing-"
"STAY STANDING-!"
Riku bit down hard on his tongue, the pain yanking him back to focus.
The brawler came again, heavy and aggressive.
No technique.
Just brute force.
Riku ducked the next wild swing.
His instincts screamed...
MOVE!
DON'T TRADE BLOWS!
He weaved low, rammed his shoulder into the brawler's gut, using the man's momentum against him.
The bigger man stumbled.
Riku pivoted on his heel,
then smashed a desperate elbow into the man's temple.
THWACK!
The brawler dropped like a collapsing statue.
The crowd exploded.
Some cheers.
Mostly laughter.
They loved it when the big ones fell.
But Riku didn’t even celebrate.
No time.
No mercy here.
The second opponent, the bull-rusher, was already charging at him.
Riku tried to sidestep.
Too slow.
The man tackled him full force, lifting Riku clean off the ground and slamming him against the pit wall.
BOOM.
His spine rattled.
The world fuzzed at the edges.
"Can't black out-"
"If you black out, you're dead-!"
Riku gritted his teeth and slammed his forehead into the man's nose.
CRACK!
Blood geysered.
The man reeled back, clutching his broken face.
Riku stumbled forward, vision spinning.
No breaks.
The third fighter, a wiry man covered in tattoos, was already moving in.
Fast.
Too fast.
Riku swung instinctively,
The tattooed man caught his wrist and twisted.
Riku felt his elbow scream in protest.
The man smirked, cold and cruel, and yanked him forward, slamming a knee into his gut.
Riku collapsed to his knees.
Coughing.
Choking.
The tattooed man circled him slowly, like a vulture.
Taunting.
Toying.
The crowd sensed it.
Smelled the blood.
Chanted for the kill.
"End him!"
"Snap his neck!"
"Feed the pit!"
Riku could barely hear them.
All he could hear was his own broken breathing.
Then...
Something inside him snapped.
Not his bones.
Not his spirit.
Something older.
Something buried deep beneath the layers of fear and doubt.
A voice.
Not a whisper this time.
A roar.
"GET. UP."
Riku surged forward.
The tattooed man's eyes widened, too late.
Riku slammed a fist into his ribs.
BAM.
The man grunted.
Riku struck again.
And again.
Left, right, left, right,
wild, brutal punches, no rhythm, just raw survival.
The tattooed man tried to counter.
Too slow.
Riku ducked under the swing and drove his shoulder into the man's stomach, lifting him off the ground and slamming him onto the pit floor.
The crowd gasped.
Riku mounted him,
fist after fist raining down.
Blood sprayed.
The man's struggles slowed.
Then stopped.
BELL RING.
Someone had called it.
The announcer's voice echoed through the pit, almost stunned.
"WINNER... RIKU SAKAMOTO!"
The steel door creaked open.
Medics rushed into the pit, dragging the unconscious fighters out like broken dolls.
Riku stood there, swaying, fists dripping blood,
some his, some not.
He didn't smile.
He didn’t scream in victory.
He just breathed.
Deep, ragged, alive.
Up in the stands, Renji Arakawa watched with a rare, almost approving smirk.
He leaned toward the man sitting next to him,
Daigo Enishi.
Daigo’s face was unreadable.
Sharp eyes locked onto Riku.
Judging.
Measuring.
Renji murmured:
"Not bad, huh?
Raw, but not bad."
Daigo said nothing.
Just kept watching.
Riku finally looked up.
His gaze met Daigo's across the pit.
Just for a second.
It felt like a dagger sliding between his ribs.
Cold.
Precise.
Final.
He knew, in that moment...
The real fight hadn't even started yet.
Tonight was just the opening act.
Because if you wanted to wear a crown in this world?
First, you had to learn how to bleed for the name.
Nocturne Arena was still buzzing from last night’s bloodbath.
Names were whispered.
Bets were placed.
Dreams were crushed.
But far from the main pit, beyond the smoke and noise, in a quiet courtyard behind the arena,
someone sat peacefully under a vending machine light.
A can of strawberry milk dangled lazily from his fingers.
He was tall.
Lean.
Effortlessly cool without trying.
Messy black hair flopped over his forehead in a tousled two-block cut, the strands almost shining under the flickering light.
He wore a simple black jacket, loose sweatpants, and old sneakers, a total contrast to the blood-soaked beasts inside the arena.
But if you looked closely, really looked,
You'd feel it.
The weight of something terrifying hidden under that lazy posture.
The kind of pressure that made your instincts scream to run.
His name?
Jin Lee.
Seventeen years old.
Highschooler.
Officially classified as the Top Dog of the Big League.
Unofficially?
The Demon Breeze.
Because when Jin moved...
You didn't even see it.
You just felt it a second too late.
He slurped the last bit of his strawberry milk and sighed contently.
"Man, strawberry’s undefeated."
He popped another can open with one hand, the motion so fast it was almost invisible.
A group of rookie fighters were gawking from a distance.
Whispering.
"That's him."
"He’s the one who fought Daigo Enishi..."
"Almost beat him, right?!"
"No way, Daigo's a monster-"
Jin noticed.
He just smiled.
A soft, harmless smile.
The kind that said,
"I’m not here to fight.
Unless you make me."
But peace was a rare currency these days.
Especially in an era ruled by greedy, ruthless Kings.
THUD.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Arrogant.
The air changed.
Jin’s ear twitched.
He didn't even have to look to know who it was.
The so-called King of Speed...
Hayato Shinozaki,
swaggered into the courtyard, flanked by two cronies.
Hayato was fast.
Very fast.
Fast enough that normal fighters couldn’t react to his blitzes.
But he wasn’t true speed.
He was a King built on fear, intimidation, and cheap tricks.
Not respect.
Never respect.
Hayato cracked his neck and sneered at Jin.
"Well, well... the washed-up prodigy.
Heard you’re still playing around with milk and candy while the real fighters move up."
Jin took another sip of his strawberry milk, unbothered.
"You’re loud, man. Ruining the vibe."
The rookies in the background froze.
It felt like an earthquake was about to start.
Hayato’s eyes narrowed.
"You’re a relic, Lee.
This is the Era of Kings.
Not schoolkids who got lucky against old legends."
Jin finally stood up, stretching lazily.
His shadow stretched long across the courtyard.
The vending machine rattled slightly just from the tiny shift in his posture.
He tilted his head, smiling kindly.
"Nah.
This ain’t about Kings.
This ain’t about Eras."
He dropped the empty can into the trash with a perfect no-look toss.
The clink echoed like a gunshot.
"It’s about who’s still standing when the dust settles."
Hayato snarled.
In a blur, he vanished.
Reappeared behind Jin.
A punch screamed toward Jin's head at impossible speed.
Rookie fighters gasped...
Even some Big League veterans couldn’t track Hayato’s movement.
But Jin?
He simply turned his head slightly.
Casual.
Almost lazy.
Hayato’s punch missed by a hair.
Jin smiled wider.
"That’s it?"
In that second, Jin's body moved.
Not a blur.
Not a streak.
Nothing.
Just one moment he was there,
next moment he wasn’t.
CRACK.
A thunderous sound rang out.
Hayato stumbled back, clutching his ribs, gasping.
No one even saw Jin’s kick.
It was like being hit by a ghost.
Before Hayato could recover, Jin was already standing behind him.
One hand casually in his pocket.
Still smiling.
"You call that speed?"
His voice was still gentle.
Still sweet.
And it made it a hundred times worse.
Hayato roared and charged, unleashing a flurry of jabs faster than most people could blink.
But Jin didn’t dodge.
He weaved.
By the time Hayato threw a fourth punch, Jin was already standing by his side again,
his hand casually tapping Hayato’s cheek.
"Tag. You’re it."
Then...
BOOM.
A spinning back kick faster than lightning struck Hayato's chest.
He flew back ten meters, crashing into a steel wall hard enough to dent it.
Silence.
Pure, stunned silence.
The rookies watched in horror as Hayato slid down the wall, coughing blood.
Jin just sighed and shook his head.
"Speed’s not about moving fast, y'know."
"It's about moving at the right time."
He turned to the silent rookies, flashing a peace sign with that same innocent grin.
"Stay in school, kids."
And with that, he walked off into the night, sipping a new can of melon soda.
Behind him, the wind picked up, scattering trash and broken pride across the empty courtyard.
Jin Lee:
The boy who could have been a King...
But chose to be something greater.
【End of Chapter Four】