In the heart of Central Africa, in the wild lands of Congo-Brazzaville, stands a towering mountain: Mount Nabemba. Surrounded by dense forests and species with astonishing abilities, it appears inhospitable. And yet, at its summit, a tiny white dot, visible from space, intrigues satellites. This dot is not a cloud or a rock — it's an ancient temple. Or so it seems. Up close, everything is too clean, too orderly. Abandoned? No. Inhabited.
Halfway up the slope, an old man climbs, a sack of metal bars on his back. His face reveals the years, but his body defies time: flexible, strong, powerful. He stops, drops his load, removes his top, and begins a titanic workout. Three hundred sit-ups. One hundred push-ups. Fluid, repeated, precise movements. For two hours, he does not stop.
Then, he dives into an icy spring, emerges without a sound, and sits in the shade, facing the void.
He closes his eyes. Meditates. And thinks.
"To think there was once a time when three people knew the truth… soon, I'll be the only one left with this secret. Should I break my oath and tell Seyren everything?"
Silence surrounds him. He becomes stone. Birds land on his shoulders. A black mamba slithers across his back, mistaking him for a tree trunk. An entire day passes. Then night falls.
And suddenly, he opens his eyes.
The animals flee.
Something returns—aggressive, fast.
That same black mamba.
It strikes, lightning-quick. The old man tries to dodge the bite, but it's too late. His finger swells and turns black. He observes it, calm and nearly expressionless. Then, without blinking, he brings it to his mouth… and bites. Hard. Not the snake — he bites off his own finger. Blood spurts, but his composure remains. The snake slithers away, a temporary victor.
He throws the severed finger into the forest like a javelin, eyes full of hatred.
A sigh. Then he stands. Slowly. He enters the temple.
All is silent and dark.
He moves down a shadowy corridor like the master of the place, pushes a door like a ghostly apparition, and enters a room steeped in darkness. A small bed sits at the back.
He pulls out an old baseball bat. Raises it.
Strikes.
BAM. BAM. BAM.
The sound is heavy, powerful, wet—almost visceral. Like hitting raw chicken.
He keeps hitting. Harder. Until the sheet turns red.
He stops. Surprised.
He pulls out another bat, this time made of metal.
He strikes again—but this time, the bat stops cold. As if caught in an invisible jaw.
The sheet moves, shifts, begins to take shape.
A silhouette rises.
A child.
With a grumpy, annoyed look.
— "I thought this was scheduled for next week," he says, utterly unimpressed.
— "It was a surprise training," the old man replies. "You were supposed to be caught off guard. Mission accomplished. And… what's with all the blood?"
— "My kunai. It cut me while you were hitting."
— "Let me get a bandage."
— "It's fine. I took care of it during your last two hits. Let's continue…"
A smile appears on the old man's face.
In a split second, the child is hurled through the wall of his bedroom. He lands in the hallway. Behind him, his grandfather, sprinting, chases after him with the bat in hand. The next blow already incoming, the child dodges, calculates, anticipates every swing.
He fights, risking at any moment a brain hemorrhage or a full spinal fracture—with passion.
He had learned to read movements, anticipate intentions, to sense the blow before it came.
But the hardest decision was always the same:
Should he take the hit… or dodge it?
He assessed, every instant, his ability to absorb a strike and the speed needed to avoid it.
"If he hits too hard, I dodge.
If he hits too fast… I absorb it."
Those were the two golden rules he had set for himself.
But one thought kept spinning in his head like a poisoned top:
What if the blow was both too hard… and too fast?
He thought he knew the old man's limits.
Or at least, he used to think so.
Deep down, he had a persistent feeling:
This man was hiding an extraordinary strength, a bottomless well he had never fully tapped into.
Every time he thought he had seen it all, the old man surprised him.
Another strike—more powerful, a level above the rest.
A constant defiance of logic.
Was it the result of decades of training?
Probably.
But Tenma had forged his body and mind in a furnace far harsher.
He had endured things even elite soldiers would refuse to face:
— Sleeping suspended in mid-air for three days,
— Running barefoot over burning coals,
— Doing ten thousand push-ups with bricks tied to his back,
— Meditating in a cave full of snakes,
— Spending a night tied to a baobab… near a cliff,
— And worst of all: surviving a soup made with a thousand chili peppers… prepared by the old man himself.
(The worst trial of all.)
He had been beaten, tortured, electrocuted, stabbed—sometimes all in the same day.
And yet… he smiled.
Always.
As if nothing could ever taint his childlike gaze.
As if pain had forged within him a kind of eternal calm.
A quiet fire.
Then came the strike.
The one that defied all the laws of possibility.
Too fast. Too strong.
With a near-divine reflex, Tenma threw his dagger, arm fully extended along the path of the incoming blow.
The blade snapped in half, and the impact launched him into the courtyard like a straw doll.
He crashed to the ground, fused with the dust for a second—but already, he was rising.
Staggering, blood dripping from his forehead—but standing.
And then, a miracle: the old man stopped, placed a hand on his back, and grimaced in pain.
— "I'm done! Break time! That's it for today!"
— "What? Seriously? Is it your back again, or is it another episode of that dumb soap opera?"
— "Oh oh oh, sharp boy!"
He stretched like a tired old cat.
— "To be honest, I was planning to stop earlier. I have a date with Miss Tornella at 6 PM."
— "A date?"
— "Yeah. She's finally going to confess her love to Detective Potopo! You think I'm gonna miss that?"
— "You train like a demon, live like a monk… and watch cheesy romance dramas?"
— "That's balance, kiddo. Yin and yang. Muscles and emotions. Tears are cardio too!"
— "Pfff… You're ridiculous."
— "And you? Look at yourself. With your stamina, you're already ahead of me. If you manage to master the final keys of your training, I'm telling you… you'll surpass me."
— "You're exaggerating."
— "Exaggerating? You survived my chili soup! You're the monster here!"
— "That wasn't a soup. It was a weapon of mass destruction."
— "Ha haha! Alright, it's time. It's 5:54. Don't forget to file a repair request with Ahoya. We almost wrecked the house again."
— "No worries. This time I'll write 'RECONSTRUCTION' in all caps."
— "Good. Now let me enjoy my episode. And remember…"
He turned, finger pointed toward the sky.
— "Entertainment… is a form of spiritual training!" he shouted, running into the living room.
Tenma sighed, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
— "Crazy old man…"
Because this man is no ordinary person.
He's his grandfather.
And this mountain—they call it their world.