Wakai was hitting the air on a remote beach on an island in Vietnam, his bare torso dripping with sweat. Driven by an intense training schedule, he was a wiry, slender bundle of willpower at thirteen. Elbows snapped out, kicks slashed at the unseen enemy, and every punch reverberated with a sharp crack.

A harsh tone interrupted the steady thudding of his fists. There stood his father, a weathered statue chiseled from adversity. The man snarled, "You prove your worth tomorrow." Wakai, get ready. If not..." The threat was understood but lingered heavy in the briny air.

As his father turned on his heel, tears filled Wakai's eyes. With a fresh rage, he punched the air, the burn in his arms barely perceptible beneath the hurtful words of his father. Wakai's tear-streaked face was engulfed by darkness as it engulfed the island.

He was awakened abruptly by a blow to the back and was sprawled on the ground when the morning sun shone. With a faded shirt in his hand, his father stood tall over him. "Rise up," he bellowed. "Now is the moment."

Wakai stood up, the tautness in his muscles a result of his intense training yesterday. Putting on the shirt, he created a thin wall separating him from the harsh reality of the day. They walked in the direction of the bustling sounds of the tournament, his father's icy gaze following him.

Wakai felt a searing sense of anxiety. The dusty arena was filled with fighters of all sizes and shapes. He felt small in comparison to them, like a twig in a forest of giants. He was dwarfed by his opponent, Snaz, a burly sixteen-year-old. Even though fear was threatening to stop Wakai, he refused to let his father's disapproval get to him. His eyes grew hard as he concentrated on the impending battle. Throughout Wakai, anxiety tore at her. Fighters crowded into the dusty arena, all shapes and sizes combined. Among the giants in the forest, he felt small in comparison. He was dwarfed by Snaz, his formidable sixteen-year-old opponent. Despite the possibility of being immobilized by fear, Wakai refused to let his father's disapproval break him. Casting his attention to the battle ahead, he hardened his gaze.

They heard their names called, and the crowd roared. Wakai gritted his teeth and kept his gaze on Snaz. An adrenaline-fueled brawl broke out. With a vicious elbow aimed at Wakai's face, Snaz charged. Training that lasted years began to pay off. Wakai dropped with a well-practiced move, the blow whistling harmlessly above him. He used the "Iron Counter," a move his father had taught him, to counter. With a sickening thud, both fists struck Snaz's stomach, sending him reeling backwards.

There was silence in the arena. The assembly gaped, gazing in shocked amazement at Wakai. There was a brief moment of surprise even on his father's normally expressionless face. For Wakai, though, it was only a moment. Brief triumph was replaced by confusion. Why was that the way everyone reacted? All he had done was carry out his training.

A panic attack swept over him before he could interpret the strange looks. A flash of fear drove him to run. His heart hammered frantically against his ribs as he dashed through the stunned crowd, running blindly. All he wanted was to get away from the uncomfortable environment and the unexpected responses, regardless of where he was going.

Years blended together, turning Wakai from a thin adolescent into a tough adult. His path wasn't simple. He worked at a number of jobs, each one serving as a stepping stone to his one and only goal: freedom. Freedom from the oppression of his father, from his past, and from ever again bowed his head before anyone.

At last, his unwavering work ethic paid off. Wakai left his island life behind as he boarded a plane with a wad of hard-earned cash and a job application for Tokyo. Japan gave him a chilly reception. After two years of arduous work in a demanding Tokyo firm, every day was a struggle against loneliness and the nagging pressure of results.

A man renowned for his casual cruelty, his senior, began his usual routine one especially difficult day. "Hello everyone, does anyone here know this immigrant?" he would ask, his voice brimming with insult. With every snicker, more pieces of Wakai's heart would break into giggles throughout the room.

The elder added, narrowing his eyes at Wakai, "Or maybe I could be your dad if your dear old Dad doesn't come back for you this time. Wakai, would you just give me your mama's number?

That evening, Wakai noticed a figure in crimson as he emerged from his long shift with a cigarette hanging from his lips. His senior and Wakai locked eyes as they were about to leave the building. A sly smile crossed his lips as he shut the door, leaving them essentially stranded in the empty alley.

The senior teasingly said, "Looks like you'll have to pay for a taxi home tonight, Wakai," with a hint of fear in his voice. "If you don't stop causing trouble, I'll have to call your father and let him know."

Wakai felt a fury that was hidden deep inside him when his father was mentioned. Years of unreleased resentment finally erupted. Gazing back at his harasser, he resembled a predator locking gazes with its victim.

With a low, rumbling voice, Wakai growled, "You, get down on your knees and apologize." At this moment."

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Sensing a change in the balance of power, the senior stammered back. "What are you going to do about it, N-no?"

Prior to completing his sentence, Wakai let out a torrent of suppressed feelings. With a sickening crunch, his fist—a blur of raw power—made contact with the senior's face. The man was thrown through the air by the impact and struck the wall of the building. The force caused bricks to crumble, and the sound reverberated through the quiet night. With a broken nose, the senior fell to the ground, leaving a red stain in its wake.

The man in red didn't recoil from the violence; he had been a silent spectator the entire time. Rather, a broad smile spread over his face. He was intrigued rather than afraid. This unadulterated, raw power was just what he was searching for.

Reaching out to Wakai, the man in red, his red clothes a sharp contrast to the filthy alleyway, held out his hand. Considering the horrific scene that had just occurred, he asked in a surprisingly composed voice, "What do you think, Wakai-san?" "I can help you leave this tedious work and this pointless position. I'm able to fulfill your long-standing desire."

Wakai's mind was a blur of disarray as he gazed at the extended hand. This guy, who was he? His greatest desire: how did he know Wakai's name? But a glimmer of hope sparked inside of him. Liberty. Authority. This stranger might have the key.

What exactly would that entail? Wakai let out a rasp, his voice rough from surprise and disuse.

The man dressed in red had a sly smile on his face. "My name is Okano Kanzaburo," he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. And Wakai-san, if you follow me, I'll make you become the fighter you've always wanted to be."

Wakai's eyes whirled. He yearned to know how Okano came to know about Wakai's past, the fight on the beach, and the longing that had been simmering inside of him for years. He wanted to question Okano so badly. But his curiosity was overpowered by the day's exhaustion, residual anger, and the promise of a better future.

Wakai took Okano's hand without saying anything more. a solid hold and a common spark of primordial energy. Their paths crossed at that precise moment, beneath the neon-lit Tokyo skyline's watchful eye.

Calm chaos of effort buzzed through the sterile training room. As Wakai struck the heavy bag, his skin was drenched in sweat, his strength growing with each blow. Wakai was pushed to the edge by Okano, an experienced trainer whose eyes revealed a lifetime of experience. Their days were occupied by taxing exercises, harsh conditioning, and an unwavering focus on developing Wakai's inherent strength and hidden abilities. His pent-up rage and years of frustration finally released a laser-like focus on becoming the fighter he was always meant to be.

As the weeks turned into months, Wakai noticed a change in both his physical and spiritual state. He was more deadly, swifter, and stronger. More importantly, though, he was learning self-control, self-discipline, and how to precisely channel his power.

Okano was still a mystery. He was reticent to talk about himself, his past hidden behind a curtain of silence. Still, there was no denying his commitment to Wakai's training. He appeared to be aware of Wakai's inner demons, his ferocious need for independence, and his thirst for power.

One day, Okano spoke as Wakai was catching his breath following an especially taxing session. With a low rumble in his voice, he said, "You will be ready soon." Awaiting you is Glutton's Arena. There, you'll have the opportunity to establish your value and assert your independence."

Wakai had a fleeting thought of the previous tournament announcement. Is that the same one, perhaps? But the details were blurry, a memory from a long time ago obscured by the unwavering training and the singular goal of becoming a formidable opponent.

There was no doubt about it. Wakai had changed from being the terrified adolescent who fled. He would test himself in the Glutton's Arena; he was Wakai, the fighter.

Okano was seen with a sly smile on his lips as the training room's heavy steel door hissed open. A massive figure with bulging muscles under a faded tank top stood behind him. With a swagger, the newcomer entered the room and looked from Wakai to the punching bag.

"Andre is this here," Okano declared, his voice resonating throughout the large room. I found the toughest fighter on the streets tonight, and that's him. He walks away with a cool million yen if he can hit you even once, Wakai."

The news shocked everyone in the room. For Andre, a million yen could mean the difference between life and death. In sharp contrast to Wakai's steely focus, his eyes gleamed with avarice.

"But," Okano went on, his tone cruelly turned, "let's just say his health might take a permanent vacation if he loses." However, Wakai, a defeat here damages your reputation even before you enter the Glutton's Arena."

Wakai took up the challenge with all of its weight. This was a psychological game as much as a skill test. Driven by avarice and despair, Andre might be a formidable foe.

Okano growled, "So, Wakai, what do you say? Are you up for the task?"

With a gleam of amusement dancing in his eyes, Wakai met Okano's gaze squarely. He said, his voice cool and collected, "Bring him in."

A harsh spotlight shone on an improvised ring that stood in the room's corner. With his hands clenched in old bandages, Andre climbed into the ring. He sprang around on the balls of his feet, exuding a rush of anxious energy. Conversely, Wakai stayed motionless, a statue of twisted strength.

Making an effort to sound formidable, Andre replied, "Don't underestimate me, rookie." "There's still a little bite left in this old dog."

Wakai answered with merely an arched eyebrow. The battle officially began when the bell rang.

With a barrage of wild punches akin to a cornered animal, Andre launched himself at Wakai. Wakai, however, dodged every blow with ease, moving like a phantom. Andre was getting more and more frustrated with each missed opportunity as his jabs just seemed to land air.

Andre's brow was covered in beads of sweat, and his breath came out in short gasps. He quickened the pace, his blows becoming frantic waving. With a tinge of boredom, Wakai observed. At last, Andre faltered, going briefly off balance, and Wakai saw his opportunity.

"I apologize," he uttered in a barely audible whisper.

Wakai them let loose Phuket Phábbi, or the Flying Ram: This sophisticated move calls for extraordinary dexterity and timing. With both elbows launched simultaneously, the fighter executes a vicious downward elbow strike that targets the opponent's upper back and neck while leaping high into the air and twisting their body in midair. The opponent may be momentarily stunned or even rendered unconscious by the impact. and he quickly brought Andre to the ground.