At sixteen, he walked out of the Yamazaki estate alone. No weapons, no companions—only the strength in his body and the fire in his eyes. His father's words echoed behind him:
"Return when the world can no longer shape you."
The gates closed, and the world became his arena.
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Training Montage – Three Years of Relentless Force
From the moment he left, his body and mind were pushed to their limits. Every day, he faced men stronger, larger, and more experienced. He did not dance around strikes or feints; he met them head-on. Every punch, every elbow, every knee was absorbed, amplified, and returned with overwhelming force.
Walls were broken with shoulder strikes, wooden dummies crushed under his fists, and logs became tools to strengthen his forearms and wrists. Streams of ice-cold water and relentless physical drills forced his muscles and bones to bend without breaking. He grappled with seasoned fighters, letting their force collide with his own, twisting them into the ground, smashing bones against stone, proving dominance in every contest.
He sparred in mud, rain, snow, and scorching sun. He fought on cliffs, rivers, and debris-strewn ruins. Every opponent who tried to hit, strike, or tackle him felt the unyielding wall of his presence. By seventeen, he was no longer training—he was evolving through combat itself, his body and reflexes becoming lethal instruments of brute force. By eighteen, he was unstoppable: every opponent crushed beneath him, every attack met with equal or greater power, his reputation spreading wherever he went.
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Sixteen – The Pits
The underground rings were brutal. His first opponent, a hulking brawler, swung fists like hammers. He did not dodge; he met the blows head-on, shoulder and arms absorbing the impact, and countered with a barrage of fists and elbows, each strike crushing ribs, splitting guard, breaking momentum.
Three men attacked at once. He advanced relentlessly, fists and shoulders smashing into each of them. He twisted one into the floor with a shoulder slam, elbowed another in the ribs, and struck the third across the jaw with enough force to send him sprawling. He moved like a force of nature, unstoppable, relentless, and utterly dominating. By the end of the night, bruised but unbeaten, he had earned whispered reverence: a youth who broke men rather than danced around them.
Weeks turned into months. He fought men who claimed titles in distant cities, each encounter more brutal than the last. His fists were not just weapons—they were tools of calculation. He learned to read the tension in a shoulder, the subtle lean of a stance, the shift of weight that betrayed every strike before it came.
By the end of his first year, he was a predator. Rumors spread of the boy who moved like liquid steel.
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Seventeen – The Mountains
In the mountains, he faced masters and beasts alike. Hermits with decades of experience hurled strikes at him. He met each blow, absorbing and amplifying force, smashing their defenses with shoulders, elbows, and fists. A spinning elbow came at his head; he blocked with forearm and retaliated with a brutal palm strike to chest and jaw.
Rivers, waterfalls, and stone pummelled his body daily. Wild animals attacked—wolves, lynxes, even a bear. He fought them directly, striking with unstoppable force, controlling them without hesitation, leaving only respect for his raw dominance.
When a band of ten raiders ambushed the hermits, he did not dodge or outwit—they charged, and he met them with unstoppable momentum. He threw, smashed, and crushed, each man falling under his overwhelming strength before they could even coordinate. The hermits watched silently; they had never seen a body and will fused into pure force like this.
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Eighteen – The Wars
Deserts, jungles, and battlefields became his proving grounds. He fought four mercenaries at once in the desert. He did not sidestep—they threw hooks, knees, and tackles, and he met every attack head-on, absorbing, shoving, and smashing them with fists, elbows, and shoulders. Every strike he gave crushed bone, every movement dominated space.
In the jungle, two mercenaries tried to ambush him from behind trees. He turned into them mid-charge, shoulder and fists colliding with bone, driving them to the ground, then advancing relentlessly on any remaining threat. Every fight reinforced one truth: he did not evade—he overpowered.
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The mercenary leader, massive, scarred, and deadly, stepped forward in a ruined village under the blood-orange sun. Dust swirled thick around them.
"You think you can survive me?" he growled.
The boy said nothing. His chest rose and fell steadily. His gaze radiated dominance.
The mercenary charged with a hammering punch, aiming to crush him instantly. The boy planted his feet and met it directly, absorbing the impact, letting the force roll into his shoulders and arms, and then unleashed a torrent of fists and elbows, each strike crushing defenses, bending ribs, shattering momentum. A knee drove into the stomach, a palm smashed into the chest, his blows relentless and unyielding.
The mercenary lunged for a tackle. The boy braced, collided with the attack, and threw the man violently across the rubble. He pressed forward like a living battering ram, fists and shoulders breaking guard after guard. A desperate hook came; he grabbed the arm mid-swing, twisted it violently, and slammed him down.
Breathless and shattered, the mercenary lay on the ground. The boy stood over him, chest heaving, aura suffocating, the embodiment of unstoppable, overwhelming force. He had confronted every ounce of strength and bent it to himself; no finesse, no dodges—only domination.
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Nineteen – The Return
He returned to the Yamazaki estate, muscles taut, movements threatening, aura crushing without a word.
A young sparring partner, daring to test him, approached. Fists came swinging. He did not evade; he met each strike with equal or greater force, elbows, shoulders, and fists crushing defenses, bending the opponent with power. A spinning kick aimed at his head collided with his forearm and chest, and he twisted the boy into the ground. Every movement was deliberate, overwhelming, unstoppable.
The courtyard fell silent. The clan had sent away a child.
What returned was a living weapon.
He had become more than human, more than a fighter—he had become a predator honed by three years of relentless, overwhelming combat. Every strike, every throw, every shoulder ram, every crushing punch testified to his obsession with strength. The Yamazaki estate would never see him the same way again.