Anteros Street was a human traffic jammed thoroughfare as the noon sun, like a ruthless coroner, burned down. Store owners conversed with hagglers whose features were carved with skillful deception, their voices raspy from the cacophony of hawking. Mothers chastised noisy kids, their voices providing a counterweight to the din, their patience becoming thin. However, an off-key tone, an aberrant shudder, crept into the known. From a dim side lane came a deep, steady thrumming that sounded like the heartbeat of an restless giant.
A scrawny youngster, barely bigger than a flimsy milk carton, arched his ears in surprise. An unquenchable itch under his skin, curiosity tore at him with unending rage. He moved deftly through the crowd, a seasoned pickpocket avoiding flailing elbows and protruding baskets with the grace of an experienced mosh pit dancer.
The narrow passage narrowed into a disorganized mass of people, a writhing mosaic of humanity. A primitive resonance that sent shivers down the boy's spine deepened the thrumming. The smell of raw flesh mixed with metal as he pushed past a tall butcher. Breaking beyond the final line of spectators, he was left gazing into a human crucible. Two people were surrounded in the center by a circle of bystanders who were as tight as a drawn violin string.
One guy, a Goliath, had hair the faded blue of a summer sky long forgotten, and it fell over his wide shoulders like a frozen waterfall. A crimson-and-white martial arts gi was strapped to his massive body. The child gasped, but his eyes were what really brought the show. They radiated an unearthly blue light, as to sapphires that had melted into his cranium. The adolescent beside him was incredibly tall for his age, with a mane of raven hair that stuck up like a thunder cloud in defiance. However, the boy's attention was captured by his eyes, which were blazing red flames that seemed ready to burst.
The giant's voice was like an avalanche, booming and shaking the cobblestones beneath their feet as he talked. He yelled, "Look what you've done!" as his voice bounced from the soiled walls. "This performance... I can't let go all of my rage while these people stare at me like scared birds!" The youngster said nothing, a monument chiseled from boiling rage, a tempest building behind his impassive exterior.
Time then appeared to pause. The youngster could hardly even follow the adolescent's movements, which were a blur of sheer, unadulterated action. A single, deafening explosion later, and a hole opened up in the earth, spewing smoke like a wicked genie fleeing its lamp. Shouts and screams from the terrified audience broke out.
However, the youngster saw just the aftermath, a pleasure winding through his belly like a straggling vine. A somber tribute to the adolescent's might, the behemoth lay slumped in the flaming crater with his head twisted at an odd angle. The adolescent who had heralded the end of the world, disappeared without a trace, leaving behind nothing more than the eerie quiet and the lingering smell of ozone. The lad felt a broad smile split his face, his pulse thumping like a frenetic tattoo across his ribs. The boundaries between amazement and terror had melted in that crazy passageway, leaving him breathless, a little eyewitness to the impossibility on Anteros Street.
With a flurry of black hair and anger, the teenager dashed through the winding streets. The city changed from being a recognizable patchwork of sights and scents to a bewildering kaleidoscope. Driven by a frenzied intensity, his legs pumped, accelerating him to a dizzying 49 kilometers per hour. "Why... why wasn't he the one I need to fight?" was the only question that kept repeating itself in his thoughts in a depressing loop. He was meant to be the most capable in this field!"
His eyesight tunneled, his lungs burned, yet he was unable to stop. At least not until he arrived at the Dojo. As he made his way along the well-known road that led to the old structure, time appeared to bend. The dojo itself was an example of hardened perseverance. The sun-bleached, nearly white oak, worn from years of use, groaned under the weight of training sessions. Above the entryway, draped crookedly, was a tattered crimson banner with the characters for "Shinda," which means "real self."
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The shabby sliding doors gave way as he surged through them, his frenzied adrenaline briefly waning at what he saw. His senior and sometimes sparring partner, Oshiro Washichi, stood in the center of the dojo. Oshiro was a guy of discipline and determination, one year older than Kiyota. His well-groomed brown hair stood out against the intense blue color of his calm yet intense eyes.
Oshiro said, "Yo, Kiyota," his first expression of amazement soon giving way to worry. It was impossible to miss the frenzied gleam in Kiyota's eyes. "Yo," Kiyota said in a rough voice. Even though he made an effort to ignore it, his inner struggle persisted. "I recently battled a guy who I thought was powerful, but he was pitiful," the person said. The final phrase came out of his mouth with a bitterness that he didn't like. With doubt visible on his face, Oshiro arched an eyebrow. "Hey, I'm here for you anytime you need a genuine fight." His tone was one of familiar challenge mixed with a tinge of humor.
Kiyota scowled. An actual altercation? He sneered to himself. There was nothing here like the simmering strength he sensed, the force he so much wanted to compare himself to. "Yeah, I guess so," he murmured, losing the characteristic zing to his voice. He moved back toward the back of the dojo, where a set of weights and exercise equipment was kept. Even he was shocked at how casually he picked up an 80-kilogram dumbbell. Every rep passed quickly, the weight providing a pitiful test for his increased strength. He said to himself, "Something will happen soon," with a mixture of expectation and worry in his voice.
As moonlight filtered through a boarded-up window of the abandoned warehouse, a mist of dust motes swirled in the broken beams. Dreams long lost and rotting smelled heavy in the air. Clad in shadows as deep as the night itself, a group of individuals stood in the middle of the vast room. Deep and gravelly, resounding as though from the earth's depths, came the voice, "Sato Morie." People in the room shivered as the words reverberated through the musty air.
A guy moved away from the edge, his outline almost visible in the darkness. Head lowered, Sato Morie crept forward, a guy whose reputation as a cunning information broker preceded him. "Yes, sir," he answered in a raspy voice that was full of tense anticipation mixed with reverence. The one who spoke was invisible to him. The figure was submerged in an unfathomable blackness that appeared to eat away at light itself. The only evidence of a guy's existence was the faint shape of an incredibly tall figure.
The voice, every word brimming with authority, said, "I need you to organize a tournament." "Seize the strongest individuals you can locate—every oddity, every aberration, and every last person who has even the slightest hint of promise. He may be here, we might locate him." Even after spending years in the shadowy underbelly of the city, Sato experienced a wave of terror. This was an command, not a request. Furthermore, the repercussions of failing were too terrible to consider. With his head even further down, he mumbled, "I will try my best, sir."
With a laugh that sounded like boulders falling off a mountainside, the deep voice laughed. "Sato, your best won't cut it. You'll track him down. You have to." That being said, the figure vanished back into the darkness, leaving Sato by himself in the eerie quiet. He slightly straightened, his eyes taking on a hard, determined look. There would be no back-alley brawls in this tournament. A display of power, a seductive melody that would entice the most resilient.