I woke up feeling like a truck had run me over, not once, but several times. The soreness in my muscles was real, and I could feel the dull throb of pain with every shallow breath I took. For a second, I lay still, trying to let the haze of sleep wear off, but the discomfort in my body kept bringing me back to the sharp reality of yesterday’s events.

Grunting, I turned on my side and slowly sat up, every movement sending a jolt of pain through me. My whole body felt like it had been pushed to its limit. As I shifted into a sitting position, I noticed the bandages. White strips of cloth were wrapped around my torso, my arms, even my legs. Kazuma really did a number on me.

The events of yesterday flashed in my mind—the fight, the hits, the punches, the kicks. That brutal exchange with Kazuma felt like a blur now, but my body remembered it all too well. A bitter smile tugged at my lips. It wasn’t just any normal fight. That one was something else entirely. A battle of hearts, of fists, and of souls. I hadn’t realized how deep into it I’d gotten until now, when the pain was a testament to how much we’d both given.

Suddenly, I heard the soft sound of footsteps approaching. The door creaked open, and a familiar voice followed.

“Finally awake, huh?”

I blinked and looked up. Ryo stood at the door, carrying a tray in one hand. A steaming bowl of miso soup and a towel rested on top of it, and he had that usual smirk on his face. There was something comforting about his presence, though. He walked over to me, his footsteps light as if he was trying not to disturb the fragile calm of the room.

“You look like hell,” he teased, setting the tray down on a nearby table. “Guess that means Kazuma didn’t go easy on you.”

I grunted again, rubbing the back of my neck as I leaned back against the wall. “Yeah, well, you try going a few rounds with him and see how you feel.”

Ryo let out a soft chuckle and handed me the bowl of miso soup. “I’ll pass, thanks. But seriously, you did good. You’re alive, aren’t you? That’s gotta count for something.”

I took the bowl from him, the warmth of it radiating through my fingers. It felt good—comforting, even. I sipped the broth slowly, letting the savory taste fill my mouth. It was simple, but it was exactly what I needed. After all that happened, something as ordinary as soup felt like a lifeline.

As I sipped, Ryo leaned against the wall across from me, watching me carefully. There was something in his eyes—concern, maybe, but also curiosity. He wasn’t just here to check on me. He had something on his mind.

“So,” he started, folding his arms across his chest, “you and Kazuma... what’s the deal now? You two just beat each other senseless, and now what? Are you guys friends or something?”

I paused, thinking about that for a moment. Friends? It seemed too simple a word for whatever happened between me and Kazuma. But something had definitely changed. The way we exchanged blows, the way we pushed each other to our limits—there was an understanding there. A mutual respect that hadn’t existed before.

“I don’t know,” I admitted, setting the bowl down. “I mean, we were at each other’s throats, but... I guess we understand each other now. In some weird way, yeah, maybe we are.”

Ryo raised an eyebrow, surprised by my response. “That’s kinda messed up, but also... kinda cool.”

I chuckled lightly, the motion making my ribs ache. “Yeah, it is. But it’s not like we’re best buddies now or anything. We’ve still got a long way to go before we figure this out.”

Ryo nodded slowly, processing my words. He handed me the towel, gesturing for me to wipe off the sweat that had built up while I slept. I took it, patting down my face and neck, the cool cloth soothing the heat in my skin.

“You know,” Ryo began, his tone a little more serious now, “Kazuma’s not exactly the easiest guy to get along with. The fact that you two even made it through that fight without killing each other is kind of a miracle.”

“Tell me about it,” I muttered. “But there’s something about him... something I didn’t see before. He’s not just angry or aggressive. He’s got pain, Ryo. I could see it in his eyes. He’s hiding something deep.”

Ryo’s expression softened, and he glanced out the window, his eyes distant. “Yeah, well, we’ve all got our demons, don’t we?”

I didn’t respond immediately. He was right. We all had our battles, both inside and out. And somehow, in that fight with Kazuma, I felt like I wasn’t just facing an opponent. I was facing a part of myself—a part that was fighting for survival, for meaning.

As the silence stretched between us, I finished the rest of the soup and leaned back against the wall again. My body was still sore, still aching, but the warmth of the soup and the quiet comfort of Ryo’s presence made it a little easier to bear.

“What happens now?” Ryo asked, breaking the silence.

I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know. But I guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

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Ryo nodded, a faint smile on his lips. “Yeah, we will.”

We sat there in comfortable silence for a while, the weight of yesterday’s events slowly lifting. It wasn’t over—not by a long shot—but for now, we had a moment of peace.

And maybe that was enough.

----------------------------------------

The dimly lit gym echoed with the dull thud of fists hitting leather. In the corner, a man with long, fiery red hair was going through his usual routine. His every movement was deliberate, casual, and yet held a power that was undeniable. His body was sculpted, though not in an exaggerated way—each muscle seemed to serve a purpose, a testament to years of combat, struggle, and unspoken pain.

The punching bag swayed violently as he hit it with practiced strikes, each punch harder than the last. His eyes, a piercing shade of crimson, remained focused, but there was a sense of restlessness about him, as though something wasn't quite right. He drew his fist back, tightening the bandages wrapped around his knuckles, and delivered another bone-crushing punch. This time, the bag didn't just sway—it split open with a loud tear, the sand inside spilling across the floor like the guts of a fallen beast.

The man stared at the bag with a look of disappointment. He flexed his hand, slowly pulling at the bandages wrapped around his wrist and forearm, unwinding them with an absent-minded air. "So weak now…" he muttered, his voice a low rumble. His gaze shifted to his hands, now free of the worn-out tape. He clenched his fist, feeling the soreness that came with age—or perhaps it was rust, the result of inactivity. "I used to be stronger... faster..."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, his lips curling into a dissatisfied scowl. The gym was silent now, save for the faint hum of the old light fixtures overhead. He stood still, lost in thought, when the sound of footsteps echoed from behind him.

"Sir," a voice called out, breaking the quiet. The red-haired man turned his head slightly but didn’t bother facing the source of the voice fully. He already knew who it was.

The man who had entered was younger, dressed in a dark suit, though there was a nervousness in his posture. He approached carefully, keeping a respectful distance. "It’s about… that guy," the younger man continued, his voice formal, as though addressing someone he feared greatly.

The red-haired man remained silent, still focused on the remains of the punching bag. The younger man swallowed hard and continued, knowing that any hesitation would only irritate the person before him. "The one from the fight… the one we've been watching."

At the mention of the fight, something flickered in the red-haired man’s eyes. He turned his head slightly, his interest now piqued. "The fight?" he asked, his voice soft yet carrying an edge.

The younger man nodded, taking a step closer but still keeping his distance. "Yes, sir. I’ve confirmed it myself. There was a fight, a rather brutal one. It took place recently. The participants—well, one of them stood out. You could say… he was different."

The red-haired man’s brow furrowed, and for a moment, the weight of his presence intensified. The air in the room seemed to thicken as if the very walls could sense a shift in his demeanor. His eyes, once dull with boredom, now gleamed with something darker—curiosity, perhaps, or anticipation. He rolled his shoulders, stretching the stiff muscles as if preparing for something. "Go on."

"The two who fought—one was the usual type, strong, stubborn, but nothing particularly special. The other, though…" The younger man hesitated, choosing his words carefully, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched the red-haired man’s reaction. "He was different. Stronger than expected, and more skilled. It was as if… he was born for this."

The red-haired man’s hand stilled as he finished removing the last of the bandages. He slowly turned to face the younger man, his crimson hair falling over his shoulder like a cascade of fire. His eyes narrowed slightly, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Is that so?"

The younger man nodded quickly, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yes, sir. The fight was relentless. Neither of them held back, but the one we're watching... he fought with purpose. Almost as if he knew something the others didn’t."

The red-haired man’s smirk widened, his interest now fully captured. He hadn’t felt this intrigued in a long time. "And what’s his name?" he asked, though the question felt more like a formality. The truth was, he already had an idea of who it might be.

The younger man hesitated again, sensing the weight of the question. "We… we haven't confirmed the name, sir, but it seems like… he's back."

There was a long pause. The words hung in the air, filling the room with an unspoken tension. The red-haired man’s smile faded, and his expression darkened. He turned his back to the younger man, staring at the wreckage of the punching bag on the floor. His body tensed slightly, and the atmosphere shifted once more.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop, though there was no cold wind. The red-haired man’s aura, once casual and relaxed, changed into something far more sinister. His energy radiated outward, and the darkness that surrounded him became almost palpable. Black tendrils of an unseen force mixed with hues of dark red and white seemed to seep from his very being, swirling around him like a storm of malevolence.

The younger man took an involuntary step back, his breath catching in his throat. He could feel the oppressive energy pushing against him, threatening to suffocate him. He knew better than to speak now. The red-haired man had shifted into something else—something terrifying.

The red-haired man chuckled softly, his voice filled with dark amusement. "Back, huh?" he mused to himself, his tone low and dangerous. "This… is getting interesting."

His eyes gleamed with excitement as the shadows around him twisted and coiled, reflecting the black, dark white, and deep red hues of his aura. The younger man, now trembling slightly, could only watch in silence, fearing what might come next.

The red-haired man slowly began to walk away from the remains of the punching bag, his footsteps heavy with purpose. The oppressive aura didn’t fade; it lingered in the room like a storm waiting to be unleashed. As he passed by the younger man, he didn’t spare him another glance. There was no need. His focus was now elsewhere.

Without another word, the red-haired man disappeared into the dimly lit hallway, leaving the younger man standing there, frozen in place. The tension in the air began to dissipate, but the ominous feeling remained, lingering like a shadow over everything in the room.

The younger man exhaled shakily, trying to steady his nerves. He had delivered the message, but the consequences of what he had said were still unknown. He could only hope that whatever happened next wouldn’t end in disaster.

As he turned to leave, the image of the red-haired man’s aura still burned in his mind—a haunting reminder of the power he had just witnessed. And with that thought, a cold chill ran down his spine.

Whatever was coming next, it was going to be anything but ordinary.