56. Legacy
Unknown Location
Inside a pitch-black chamber, the air was thick with the scent of oil, metal, and sweat. Only a faint neon-blue glow traced the corners of the vast hall, casting long, shifting shadows across its walls. The faint hum of dormant machines echoed in the background, broken only by the thunderous, rhythmic thud of fists meeting steel.
In the center of the space, beneath a flickering light overhead, a solitary man moved like a storm—silent, focused, and utterly lethal.
He stood tall, his bare torso sculpted like a weapon, forged from years of discipline and pain. Each muscle coiled with tension, veins bulging, his chest rising and falling in heavy, steam-like breaths. His jet-black hair, damp with sweat, clung to his forehead, and his short, perfectly trimmed beard only enhanced the regality of his face. His face was of Diamond- Oval shape with almost Perfect symmetry . Yet, it was his scar—a thick, brutal line slashing diagonally from his jawline, across the bridge of his nose, and ending near his right temple—that told the real story. A story of survival. Of violence. Of something he never talked about.
He looked a little similar to Kai and Moon .
His eyes—cold,black , calculating—were locked on the enemy before him.
It wasn't human.
A towering humanoid training bot, easily Fighter-to-King class, stood in combat stance. Crafted from a titanium alloy skeleton wrapped in high-impact synthetic muscle, it was no ordinary sparring machine. This one was designed for elite combatants. It could adapt. Counter. Kill—if allowed.
The room trembled with the shockwaves of their ongoing duel. Blows cracked through the air like gunshots. The bot moved with inhuman speed—its fists a blur, its footwork flawless, its sensors tracking every breath.
But the man moved like something born to conquer.
He flowed between punches like liquid shadow—parrying, weaving, and striking back with savage clarity. His fists connected with pinpoint precision, each hit aimed not just to damage—but to dismantle. When the bot tried to flank him with a spinning roundhouse, he leaned just enough to dodge, letting the air rush past his skin.
Then—he struck.
A brutal knee drove into the bot's chest with the force of a collapsing building. The bot staggered, sensors flickering. Before it could recalibrate, he twisted, pivoting his hips with perfect biomechanics—and delivered a crushing elbow directly into the core of the machine.
There was a moment of stillness.
Then—a sharp metallic crack tore through the silence as the bot's chest caved in. Sparks erupted, wires sizzled, and a burst of compressed steam shot out as its internal engine shattered, rendering it lifeless.
The man didn't flinch.
He stood over the wreckage, chest heaving, knuckles bruised and bleeding. Droplets of sweat slid down his shoulders and spine, forming small puddles around his feet.
He didn't speak. Didn't smile.
He simply turned toward the next bot—already powering up in the dark—and raised his fists again.
The training wasn't over.
Not until perfection was achieved.
The bot fell.
Before he could catch his breath, another figure approached from behind, clapping slowly.
"Well done, Rivan," a voice echoed through the hall—low, gravelly, but laced with unmistakable pride. "You just crushed a King-level combat bot. And you're only at the Professional stage. That too… so effortlessly."
Rivan turned, breath still heavy, sweat glistening off his frame.
His instructor had arrived—John, the grizzled warrior who once fought shoulder-to-shoulder with names etched into history. The man was dressed plainly, but his presence filled the room like a silent storm. His weathered face carried the marks of too many battles, and his eyes—sharp and tired—had seen too much to be impressed easily.
Rivan immediately bowed. "That was nothing, Teacher John. I just got lucky."
John's lips curled into a small, tight smile. Not condescending—just… knowing.
"Luck?" he echoed. "No, Rivan. Luck doesn't tear through reinforced alloy plating. Luck doesn't dodge algorithms. And it damn sure doesn't echo the footsteps of monsters."
He stepped closer, the soft thud of his boots somehow heavier than the silence.
"There's something in you, boy," he continued, his tone shifting—growing weighty. "Something that the world hasn't seen since your father's prime."
Rivan looked away at the mention of his father. A shadow passed through his expression.
John paused beside the ruined training bot, giving it a slow glance before returning his gaze to the young man before him.
"You have four years," he said firmly. "That's all. Four years until the Tournament. Until you face the one man blood whose fists… broke your father."
The air felt heavier now.
John's voice lowered.
"Ashoka Alhuwalia."
The name hit like a dropped hammer.
"After that fight… Ashoka changed," John went on, his eyes distant now. "He was never the same. He stopped smiling. He stopped speaking much. Trains every day like he's chasing a ghost—or being haunted by one. As if he's punishing himself for what happened on that battlefield."
Silence stretched between them.
Then John stepped forward and gripped Rivan's shoulder.
"This isn't just about skill, Rivan. Not anymore. This is about legacy. Blood. And whether or not you can carry a name… that still terrifies all the past generation top hunters."
"John's voice grew heavier, filled with old memories.
"They called your father a monster. But he wasn't a man who fought for peace. He didn't raise his fists for justice. No…"
> "He fought because no one else had the strength to do what needed to be done.
He moved with purpose.
Writing his legacy with blood.
He wasn't a hero.
He was a necessity.
Even monsters forged in the darkest hours couldn't match the shadow of the Celestial King.
Remnants of his legacy still breathe.
Still loom.
Still infect."
John looked Rivan in the eyes.
> "And now, it's your turn.
You carry the blood of Ashoka Alhuwalia.
And with it, his will—not to save the world, but to end what should have never begun.
Be your father's son."
Rivan had never heard anyone speak of his father like that. Never with such weight. Such truth. He nodded silently, eyes burning—not with fear, but with resolve.
Without another word, he turned toward the teleportation pad. The light swallowed him.
---
Shifting Expanse – Planetary Tier – Human Base #12072008
Kai was still lost in thought.
Tom had appeared like a storm, beat them both half to death, then healed them as if nothing happened. The whole encounter made no sense. What did he want?
Kai glanced at Moon.
Moon was stirring now, slowly regaining consciousness. He sat up, swaying slightly, vision still hazy. The pain of Tom's slap would likely haunt him forever.
Kai walked over and offered a hand. Moon accepted it wordlessly.
Nearby, Ruok was still unconscious—his body broken from Tom's attack.
Then—knock knock knock.
The two instantly tensed.
Without a word, they began clearing the room. All the blood, corpses, torn fabric—vanished into their storage rings in seconds. The place looked spotless again.
Kai carefully looked through the peephole.
A girl.
Her entire body and face were wrapped in cloth, hiding her features. But Kai sensed no dangerous aura.
He opened the door cautiously.
Meanwhile, Moon dragged Ruok's limp body into the bathroom and shut the door quietly.
The girl entered, ignoring Kai completely. She walked in like she had a mission.
"Here," she said, handing him something. "Take it. Where's Ruok?"
She began removing her face covering as she turned—then froze.
Her eyes widened. Panic set in.
"You—you're K–Kai, aren't you?! The one boss he killed on that day?!"
Before she could scream—
CRACK!
Moon appeared from behind and delivered a brutal kick to her face. Her jaw dislocated instantly.
She stumbled backward, but before she could react, Moon glanced at Kai—seeking instruction.
Kai didn't hesitate.
"Kill her."
Without a moment's pause, Moon stepped forward and kicked again—this time directly at her neck.
SNAP.
Her body fell limp.
She was dead.
To be continued…