City: Tokyo, Japan
Date: November 15, 2025
Time: 11:47 PM
The rain hammered against the window violently, as if trying to pierce the thin barrier between inside and outside, between false warmth and the real cold that inhabits the world. The room was small, suffocating, filled with the smell of old sweat, stacked books, and chronic loneliness that crept into the soul like a slow poison.
On the narrow bed, a nineteen-year-old young man sat, his back resting against the cold wall, his gray eyes staring into emptiness as if piercing reality itself. His messy black hair hung over his forehead, and his sharp features carried a harsh maturity unbefitting his age — the face of a man who had lived more than he should have despite his youth.
His body was strong, tall — 1.87 meters of taut muscles and solid bones. Broad shoulders, arms with visible muscles even under the loose black shirt — the result of years of karate, boxing, bodybuilding, and obsessive training. But the strong body was not enough to fill the void that resided in his chest.
His name was Kyle Kobayashi, an ordinary boy like any other living in Tokyo, Japan…
In front of him on the small table, a laptop was open to a manhwa page. But his eyes no longer read. They were fixed on the hero standing in the middle of a battlefield, a terrifying aura surrounding him, a cold gaze in his eyes, absolute power radiating from his entire being.
"Power…"
The word escaped his lips as a rough whisper, loaded with thirst, hunger, and the sick desire that had been eating him from the inside for years.
He raised his right hand in front of his face, looking at his clenched fist, the bulging veins, the small scars on his knuckles — boxing scars, scars from walls broken in anger, scars of a past that never dies.
"If I were stronger… more aware… I wouldn't have suffered that betrayal."
If he were stronger and more aware, he wouldn't have been betrayed by Aiko, the fool.
If he were stronger, Hiroshi wouldn't have laughed at me and betrayed me. If he were stronger, I wouldn't have stammered in front of the whole class when I was twelve. If he were stronger, I wouldn't have cried like a weak child when I was ten.
"If I were stronger… more aware…"
He closed his eyes tightly, jaw clenched, teeth grinding. Memories attacked him like rusty knives, cutting and tearing but never killing — only making the pain chronic, a part of existence.
Memory: Age 10
Residential neighborhood, schoolyard
A small, thin child, eyes shining with tears, surrounded by three older kids. One of them shoved him hard; he fell to the ground, his knees bleeding slightly.
"Look! The weak kid is crying again!"
Laughter. Laughter that pierced the skull and settled in memory forever.
The child — young Kyle — tried to stand, but his hand trembled. His heart pounded not from courage, but from pure fear. He wanted to fight, but his body wouldn't obey. He wanted to scream, but his voice came out in broken stammering:
"I-I-I… I-I'm n-not w-weak…"
More laughter.
"He can't even speak! Hahaha!"
Despite his strong body from karate training since childhood — reaching a black belt at twelve — something prevented him from defending himself. Not the weakness of the body, but another weakness… deeper, more complex.
Memory: Age 14
Public park, under a Sakura tree
Teenage Kyle, still thin but slightly taller, stood in front of a beautiful girl with dark brown hair and kind eyes: Aiko Nakamura.
His heart pounded as if it would burst from his chest.
"A-Aiko… I… I l-love you."
The words came out with difficulty, broken by stammering, but they came. It took him two months to gather the courage to say them.
The girl smiled. A gentle, warm smile.
"I love you too, Kyle-kun."
Joy. Pure joy, naive, of the kind only unbroken teenagers know.
But the joy didn't last.
Memory: 8 months later
Side alley, behind the school
Kyle stood frozen, eyes wide, heartbeat stopping.
In front of him, Aiko — his promised love, the girl who had smiled at him, who said she loved him — stood embracing another boy. Ryota, the handsome, athletic, popular boy.
Beside them, Hiroshi — his supposed friend — laughed.
"I can't believe he really thought you loved him, Aiko! That's hilarious!"
Aiko laughed, a light, almost innocent laugh.
"It was entertaining. The way he stammered was cute… but he's just a weak kid."
Ryota hugged her tighter, looking at Kyle with mockery:
"Listen, man, don't take it personally. Girls don't like weaklings."
Kyle didn't move. Didn't speak. He just stood there, the world collapsing silently around him.
After that night
Kyle returned to his room, anger boiling in his chest like molten lava. His pride — that high pride he had always carried — shattered like glass thrown to the ground.
He went to the wall. Hit it with his fist. Once. Twice. Three times. The rage in his eyes mounting with every blow.
The pain in his hand was nothing compared to the pain in his chest.
Weeks passed like this. His hand was injured, knuckles swollen, but the anger didn't die out.
Then… he found cigarettes. The thing he never imagined touching, he held in his hand — it became his only refuge.
Two a week. Just to calm the anger, to extinguish the fire burning inside him.
A whole year passed like this.
But during that year, something else changed. Kyle matured. Not naturally, but harshly, earned from pain and betrayal. He looked at his old self — the naive child who believed in love, friendship, goodness — and laughed.
A bitter laugh, yet a sign of deep transformation.
Age 15 — Quitting cigarettes
At fifteen, Kyle realized something simple yet crucial: cigarettes harm health and money. And he… was not someone who surrendered to weakness.
But quitting wasn't easy. His body craved them, and the anger returned stronger when he tried to abstain. He was torn, ripped from the inside.
Yet he refused to surrender. He was determined to quit at any cost.
He made a clever plan: reduce one cigarette gradually. From two per week to one. Then one every two weeks. Then one every three weeks.
It took six months of iron will.
By mid-fifteen, he quit completely.
Age 15 — Boxing
But Kyle knew quitting cigarettes wasn't enough. He still carried that weakness — the suffocating feeling of not being strong enough.
And he hated weakness. Detested it with every cell of his body.
So he entered the world of boxing.
"Iron Fist Gym" — Shibuya district
In front of him, an old Japanese coach with a wrinkled face and sharp eyes: Takamura-sensei.
"Are you sure you want this, boy? Boxing isn't a game. You'll get hit. You'll bleed. You'll feel like dying."
Kyle looked directly into the coach's eyes, unblinking:
"I want to be strong."
"Why?"
"Because I hate weakness."
The coach stared at him for long seconds, then gave a small smile.
"Alright. But don't cry when your teeth break."
First month
It was hell.
Kyle was hit almost every day. Punches to the face, chest, stomach. Once, his nose broke. Another time, he vomited blood from a hard stomach blow.
But he didn't give up. Didn't cry. He just gritted his teeth and stood again.
Though his body was strong from years of karate, boxing was different. It was about reading, timing, and combat intelligence.
Third month
He began to understand.
Not just how to dodge, but how to read the opponent, seize opportunities, and turn pain into fuel.
His natural talent began to show. Takamura-sensei noticed — speed in learning, adaptability, indomitable persistence.
Sixth month
He won his first training match.
Not a sweeping victory, but a victory nonetheless.
And the victory… it was an indescribable thrill.
End of the year + three months
Kyle was no longer that thin child. His body became toned, muscles clearly visible. His punch became fast, strong, precise.
Something else changed — his eyes. Colder. Harsher.
Takamura-sensei said one day:
"You're talented, Kyle. But there's something frightening about you. When you fight… it's as if you're not fighting your opponent, but something else. Something inside you."
Kyle didn't answer.
Because the coach was right.
He was fighting weakness. Fighting the child he once was. Fighting memories that never die.
Ages 16–18 — Bodybuilding
After leaving boxing (after achieving what he wanted — learning to fight, gaining strength), he turned to bodybuilding.
Not to become ridiculously huge, but to feel power in every cell of his body. He wanted to look in the mirror and see someone unbreakable.
His obsession with being the strongest burned inside him — an insatiable greed, a deep desire for absolute superiority.
Training was brutal. Heavy weights, repetitions to muscle failure, pain tearing muscles then rebuilding them stronger.
But Kyle loved the pain.
Because the pain was honest. It didn't lie. It didn't deceive. It only said: "You are still alive. You are still fighting."
Two years of obsessive training.
Kyle's muscles grew. His shoulders widened. His chest became sculpted. His arms like iron. Height increased — 1.86 meters at eighteen.
But more importantly, his presence changed.
When he entered a room, people noticed. Not just because of his body, but because of something deeper — an invisible aura surrounding him. Something that said: "This person is dangerous."
Hiroshi's betrayal — Age 18
During this time, Kyle discovered another betrayal — Hiroshi, who he considered a friend, stabbed him in the back again.
But Kyle's reaction this time was different.
He didn't get angry. Didn't punch the wall. Didn't smoke.
He just looked at Hiroshi with cold eyes and said calmly:
"It's fine."
Then turned and walked away.
He forgot it. Focused on one thing: his honor. His pride. His strength.
People come and go. They betray and lie. But what remains is what you build within yourself.
Age 19 — Overcoming stammering
The stammer.
That cursed problem that had plagued him since childhood.
It angered him deeply — how could a man with this pride, this strong body, this presence, stammer in speech?
But overcoming it wasn't easy.
It took years of speech exercises, continuous practice, voice recordings, breath control.
By nineteen, he finally overcame it.
No trace remained.
Only a calm, deep, confident voice.
Return to the present — 11:58 PM
Kyle turned from the window, looked at the laptop, at the image of Sung Jin-Woo, then at his reflection on the darkened TV screen.
A sharp face. Strong jaw. Gray, cold eyes. Features of a man who had lived more than he should have.
"If only fantasy were real…"
He whispered softly, as if speaking to someone nonexistent.
"If there were a world… a world where power isn't just muscles, money, or influence. A world where you could truly become strong. Strong enough to shatter mountains. Strong enough to make kings kneel. Strong enough to…"
He stopped, chuckling lightly — not a joyful laugh, but a laugh of self-mockery.
"I can't believe I wish for childish things like this."
Yet the wish was sincere. More sincere than anything else in his life.
He walked to the bed, lay on his back, staring at the cracked ceiling.
"The real world is disgusting. People are disgusting. All masks. All lies. They smile at you and then stab you in the back."
He closed his eyes.
"If I were in a different world… I wouldn't be weak again. I wouldn't trust anyone easily. I wouldn't let anyone laugh at me. I would… be the strongest. I would be the king of myself."
Midnight — 12:00 AM
Kyle slept.
And for the first time in many years, he didn't wake up to a nightmare.
But to something far stranger.
End of Chapter One Narrator's Note:
That night, Kyle didn't know that his wish — the naive wish he whispered in the dark — was being heard.
Not by a human, but by an entirely different entity.
An entity that saw something… intriguing in the soul of that broken young man.
Greedy ambition. Pride that refuses to bend. Anger burning beneath the calm surface. And most importantly: unbreakable will.
And when Kyle woke the next day…
He wasn't in his room.