The lights blazed down on the arena. Two men circled each other, exchanging vicious blows as the crowd roared. Blood sprayed with every hit. Both fighters were bruised, battered, and barely standing, but neither gave in.
Powerful auras radiated off their bodies—clashing, pulsing, and flaring in rhythm with their strikes. A final uppercut sent one man staggering. The crowd exploded with excitement as a victor emerged.
In the middle of the chaos, unnoticed by most, sat a wide-eyed nine-year-old boy—Nathan. His body jolted with each heavy blow. A grin stretched across his face, wild and amazed.
Beside him, his older brother Andrew watched him, then ruffled Nathan's hair.
"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"
Nathan nodded fast, eyes still fixed on the ring.
"It's so amazing. Thanks for bringing me. Best brother ever!"
In the ring, the champion raised his fist high.
Nathan copied the motion subconsciously, raising his hand with pride—dreaming, imagining, basking in the glow of an impossible future.
Then his stepfather, standing next to them, slapped Nathan's hand down.
"You? A real fighter?" he scoffed. "Don't kid yourself. You'll never be anything like him."
Nathan froze. His hand dropped. His smile died.
"Yes, sir," he whispered, ashamed.
When they got home, the mood shifted further.
Their stepfather slammed the door behind them, turning sharply toward Andrew.
"Why the hell would you take him to a fight?" he barked. "You want him growing up like one of those animals?"
Andrew stood firm. "He's always wanted to see a match. Just once. That's all."
Their mother, overhearing from the kitchen, marched in with a furious look—and slapped Andrew hard across the face.
"I wanted my boys working in offices one day," she snapped. "Not getting ideas from thugs who beat each other for a living!"
Their stepfather narrowed his eyes, then looked down at Nathan.
"You wanna see a match so bad, huh?"
He turned to Andrew, stripping off his shirt.
"Let's give him a real one."
Without warning, he lunged at Andrew—slamming him against the wall and raining down punches. Nathan screamed, horrified, as his brother was beaten senseless in front of him.
The kettle began whistling from the kitchen—shrilly, violently—as if the entire house had lost its mind.
Their mother, trembling, ran to the stove and returned carrying the steaming pot of boiling water. She placed it on the floor and looked at Nathan with tearful, frantic eyes.
"It's for your own good," she muttered. "You're just going to get second or third-degree burns. We'll treat you. This way… you'll stop chasing nonsense dreams and get a real job one day."
Before Nathan could run, she grabbed him, dragging him to the floor. Then she plunged both his arms into the scalding water.
The boy's scream was pure agony—raw, animalistic. It tore through the house.
"Shut him up!" the stepfather yelled from the other room.
The mother obeyed. She ripped a strip of duct tape from a drawer, slammed it over Nathan's mouth, and began lashing him with a belt. Over and over. The sound of skin tearing joined the whistling kettle and Andrew's muffled cries.
Their stepfather, not satisfied, beat Andrew harder. His fists came down with renewed rage, each hit louder than the last.
Both boys eventually passed out from the pain.
The next morning, they woke up on the floor. Bruised, broken, and half-conscious.
Their parents greeted them with bright, cheerful smiles as if nothing had happened.
Andrew, wincing with every breath, stood up. He went into their stepfather's room, opened the cabinet, and took something—quietly, deliberately.
He left the house. Their parents watched him go.
When he returned an hour later, he found Nathan on the floor—covered in fresh bruises, his face swollen.
"Where were you?" their mother demanded.
Andrew didn't answer fast enough.
Their father slapped him. "I asked you a question, boy."
Andrew stood there, shaking. His fists clenched. His eyes burned with tears and something darker.
Then he pulled out a gun—stolen from their stepfather's police uniform.
He didn't hesitate.
He fired once—straight into his mother's abdomen.
She staggered back, gasping.
Their father lunged, but Andrew fired again. Once in the knee. Once in the thigh. The man collapsed in a scream of rage and pain.
Andrew's breathing grew ragged. He ran into the kitchen, grabbed a steel pipe, and beat them both until they stopped moving.
The room fell silent.
Then Andrew dropped the pipe and rushed to Nathan, picking up his weak, trembling body. They stumbled through the streets until they found a hospital.
But the doctors refused to treat them.
So they ran. Injured, bloody, and alone, they collapsed in an alley and slept beneath the open sky.
That night, they didn't dream. Just shivered beneath a billboard, as the city moved around them like they were already dead.
The streets became their new home.
They begged. They worked odd jobs for neighborhood kids. They were beaten by other beggars, robbed, and spat on. Sometimes Nathan watched Andrew get beaten. Sometimes Andrew had to watch Nathan bleed. Sometimes… they bled together.
A year passed.
And then, crime found them.
They started doing small jobs—robberies, kidnappings, anything that brought in money. It wasn't about greed. It was survival. It was the only path they could see to achieving the dream they'd once shared: To become the greatest fighters in the world.
In their second year on the streets, they were hired for a scouting and assassination job.
The target? A retired fighter. Codename: Hancho Puncho.
There was barely any data on him. No records. Just whispers.
When they finally tracked him down, the man moved before they could blink. In seconds, they were both disarmed and pinned to the wall.
Hancho Puncho looked at them with narrowed eyes.
"Two kids… doing a job like this?" he muttered. "Why?"
"None of your business," Andrew growled.
"Yeah!" Nathan echoed. "What he said!"
Hancho sighed. "Let me guess. Some shady group took you in. Promised you power. Shelter. Maybe food. Now you do their dirty work."
He glanced at them again, then added, "I know how to stop them."
"You don't get it!" Andrew snapped. "Even if you shut them down—they'll kill us! There's no escape!"
Hancho smiled faintly.
"I've got a plan for that, too."
Hancho let them lead him to their base.
Inside was hell.
Smoke. Drugs. Gambling. Screams. Training pits. Torture rooms. Children are being brainwashed, brutalized, and butchered. Men and women of all ages are laughing in the madness.
Hancho stepped forward.
Every eye turned to him.
He pulled down his hood. His eyes were calm—too calm. His breath slowed. Then… he blinked.
And vanished.
In an instant, chaos erupted.
Hancho tore through the compound like a ghost of vengeance. He gave no space to breathe. He struck down anyone in his path—killing those beyond saving, sparing only a few.
Andrew and Nathan stood frozen at the entrance. No one even noticed them. Hancho's assault was too overwhelming.
To Nathan, it felt like time had slowed. He watched, mesmerized by Hancho's movements. He had seen greatness before… but this was something else. Pure. Perfect. Terrifying.
When the battle ended, Hancho stood alone, under a shattered ceiling, blood dripping from his knuckles. He raised his fist.
Nathan raised his own in sync—just like he did years ago, in the arena.
Andrew reached over, quietly stroking his brother's hair. Both of them remembered the night everything changed.
Nathan stepped forward and hugged Hancho tightly.
"You're one of the best things that's ever happened in my life."
Hancho chuckled. "Alright, kid. Time to go."
Two years passed.
Nathan and Andrew now lived with Hancho. He trained them, guided them. Together, they cleaned the streets—day by day—beating up crooks, saving children, and finding them safe homes. They made friends: Hayley, Becky, and others.
But one day, Andrew disappeared.
He left behind only a note:
"I was wrong. The mistakes I made hurt both of us. So I'm leaving… to pursue our dream. I'm heading to The Tower—the greatest Arena in the world. If I make it to the top, I'll become the Number One fighter. I'll make everything right. I'm sorry, Nathan."
Nathan was devastated. No goodbye. No warning. No chance to say anything back.
Anger boiled in him. Sadness too.
So he trained.
For seven long years, Nathan trained under Hancho Puncho and countless others. He fought and fought and fought—until he became the strongest fighter in the city.
Then, one day, he packed his things.
And headed for the one place he knew he'd find his brother again:
The Tower.
The lights blazed once more.
At the right side of the ring stood a giant—a towering, muscular monster wielding a massive club.
Across from him stood a lean, calm man dressed like an office worker. His jacket and sleeves were rolled up. His arms were bandaged. He held a slim briefcase in one hand.
As the spotlight fell on him… the crowd exploded.
It was Nathan.
The arena trembled with cheers.
The referee stepped into the center.
"Ready on the left?"
The giant grunted.
"Ready on the right?"
Nathan adjusted his neck. "Yes."
The bell echoed.
Fight!
TO BE CONTINUED…