He realized, far too late that he was in trouble.
The man didn't hesitate. "Watch where you're going!" he roared and swung a wild fist.
The punch wasn't trained, but it was fuelled by rage. It landed clean against Ryu's cheek, snapping his head sideways. White-hot pain exploded behind his eyes. His knees gave out, and he dropped to his knees, one palm hitting the ground to stop himself from falling completely.
Dazed, he cracked one eye open. His vision swam. The alley tilted as the world blurred into motion, voices, footsteps, distant shouts all melding into a single haze. Through the swirl, he saw the man step forward, winding up for a brutal kick.
Ryu exhaled shakily, closing his eyes.
So, this is it...
Then, CRACK.
A sharp, bone-splitting sound echoed through the alley, followed by a scream.
Ryu's eyes shot open.
Before him stood a tall figure, broad-shouldered and poised like a statue of iron. His long black hair shimmered with a strange luster, falling over one shoulder, and his presence alone sent chills down Ryu's spine. He had appeared from nowhere, and intervened.
The crazed man now lay screaming on the ground; his leg grotesquely twisted at the knee. It was clearly broken. The sight was horrifying, yet Ryu couldn't deny the grim satisfaction he felt deep down.
Looking up, Ryu noticed the other two men who had been with the attacker. Their confidence evaporated in an instant. They froze, eyes locked on the newcomer, then slowly began to back away, fear plain on their faces.
The stranger turned toward them, his gaze cold and unblinking. His eyes held a dangerous sharpness that pierced straight through them.
That was all it took. The two fled without a word, stumbling over themselves in their haste to escape. They knew, instinctively, that this man was not someone they wanted to cross.
Ryu looked up at his saviour, who now glanced down at him with a soft smile, his expression almost serene. His eyes were barely open, as if he didn't need sight to sense the world around him.
The man spoke first, voice calm and low.
"It's dangerous around the tournament grounds," he said, nodding toward the alley. "You should stick to the main roads. Less trouble that way."
Ryu gave a sheepish smile and nodded, still dazed. He glanced down and saw that his notebook had spilled open across the ground, pages fluttering in the breeze, sketches and martial notes laid bare.
"You must be a martial artist," Ryu said, brushing dirt from his knees.
The stranger chuckled lightly. "Keen eye. You'll find out soon enough... if you're heading to the tournament."
Before Ryu could reply, the man turned and disappeared down the path with quiet grace, leaving behind only silence and a broken thug groaning in pain.
Still dishevelled and aching, Ryu gathered his things and limped toward the tournament grounds.
He arrived just in time to witness the final move of the first semi-final.
One competitor drove a powerful palm into his opponent's chest, sending him staggering back. A high kick followed, barely dodged, then a sweeping leg cut beneath the opponent's feet. In one fluid motion, the attacker struck with twin palms angled to the ribs, forcing a ring out.
The announcer's voice rang out, confirming the result.
"Competitor Number Eleven advances!"
From the original sixty-four, only one more match remained before the final.
As the second semi-final was about to begin, Ryu found himself surprisingly calm. He adjusted his notebook, ready to take notes on the upcoming fight. As he stared blankly across the arena, his eyes locked onto a familiar figure standing in the raised spectator tier reserved for martial masters and nobles. It was the man who had saved him earlier. Ryu blinked. So, he wasn't just strong, he came from a far more prestigious background than Ryu had assumed.
The two semi-finalists approached the stage, each walking with a confidence that was impossible to ignore. Every step they took seemed to echo with intent, drawing the attention of the entire arena. Even before the first move, the weight of their presence could be felt by everyone watching.
The first to enter was Don Ro, a half-westerner known for his towering frame and overwhelming physical strength. He hailed from one of the city's elite families and was rumoured to be untouchable by ordinary means. But this was no ordinary match.
His opponent was Kalavan, the prodigy. Recently recruited into the Royal Palace guard, Kalavan's name already carried weight across the academy. At just nineteen, he had surpassed guards with years of battlefield experience. Where Don Ro brought power, Kalavan brought precision.
Ryu held his breath as they stepped onto the platform. Don Ro stood like a mountain, solid and intimidating. Kalavan, by contrast, held himself with the stillness of a drawn blade, sharp, controlled, and disciplined. His stance was militant, refined down to every angle of his footwork and posture. This didn't feel like a semi-final. It felt like the real final.
At the referee's signal, the match began.
They moved in the same instant.
Kalavan danced lightly on his feet, weaving between Don Ro's powerful, straightforward strikes. The first came fast, a heavy punch fuelled by brute strength. Kalavan sidestepped with ease, conserving energy. Another attack followed: a sweeping kick aimed at his ribs.
He raised his forearms, catching the blow without resisting it directly. Instead, he twisted his torso, flowing with the momentum and sliding a step to the side. The impact dulled, the damage reduced.
Ryu's eyes widened. Flowing River Technique.
Rare, fluid, and difficult to master, it was designed to redirect force rather than clash with it. Kalavan hadn't just learned the form, he'd mastered it.
For the next ten minutes, Don Ro kept the pressure on, launching strike after strike. The arena filled with the sounds of impact, blows landing hard, crowd gasping, but Kalavan never buckled. He absorbed the force gracefully, redirecting when he could, rolling with it when he couldn't.
He didn't need to block everything. He just had to survive.
Kalavan's counterattacks were few but precise, sharp elbows to the shoulder joint, knuckle jabs to the inner thigh, palm flicks to the wrist. Don Ro collected bruises and scrapes, his body wearing down blow by blow.
His breathing grew heavy. Sweat beaded across his brow.
Kalavan waited. Watching. Calculating.
Then he moved.
He ducked under a wide punch, letting the momentum carry Don Ro forward. A follow-up hook came, Kalavan caught it on crossed arms and slipped inside the guard.
A clean strike to the ribs.
Then another, twin palms slamming the same spot. Don Ro choked, stumbling back, coughing violently.
Kalavan didn't let up. He surged forward again, landing a leopard punch to the shoulder. Don Ro flinched. Kalavan raised an arm for the finishing blow, aimed at the temple,
But Don Ro caught it. Both hands blocked the strike.
It left his lower body exposed.
Kalavan stepped in and drove a knee into his diaphragm. Don Ro reeled, gasping. Desperate, he swung an elbow. It landed hard, crashing into Kalavan's shoulder.
Kalavan grimaced. Something gave. A strain. Maybe worse.
But he wasn't finished.
Ryu leaned forward, heart racing, his notebook forgotten in his lap.
Kalavan exhaled once, calm, sharp, and activated a movement art. An ancient stepping technique.
His body seemed to relax for a split second.
Then he shot forward like a released arrow.
He crossed the space in a blur and unleashed a flurry of strikes to Don Ro's wounded side. Each one landed with brutal precision.
Don Ro stumbled, arms guarding his core, but Kalavan was already gone, slipping around the wild counters.
One final strike, fluid and perfectly placed, smashed into Don Ro's centre of mass.
He flew back.
Skidded across the stage.
And landed outside the ring.
Ryu sat in stunned silence.
The power. The control. The finesse. Kalavan was teetering on the edge of what many considered master level, and he was only nineteen. It was unreal.
Ryu's hands moved on instinct, scribbling notes and sketching forms with shaky focus. He tried to capture the stances, the flows, the precise pivot Kalavan used to redirect force. There was an entire world of martial mastery unfolding in front of him, far beyond what his textbooks had ever hinted at.
As he mapped out the movement patterns, the rhythm of the fight still playing in his mind, a sudden argument nearby broke his concentration.
He glanced up.
In the stands, not far from where he sat, a tall man stood beside a young woman with long blonde hair that shimmered like polished crystal under the arena lights. The two were locked in an animated debate.
"Kalavan's got this in the bag," the man said. "No one else even came close."
"You'll see," the woman replied with a knowing smile. "Competitor Eleven will win. He's stronger than anyone here."
The man scoffed, but she continued with confidence. "I know him. Personally. He's the strongest fighter in all five cities of the Ayon Kingdom. They say he's changed the tide of battles and defeated a martial master."
Ryu blinked, eyebrows rising.
He hadn't even seen Competitor Eleven. His class schedule had kept him from nearly half the preliminary rounds. He'd assumed the finals would be between Kalavan and some overconfident senior student.
Now, he wasn't so sure.
As the hour-long rest period began, Ryu spent the break moving through the crowd. He asked questions, listened carefully, and pieced together what he could. Everyone had something different to say, but one thing was clear: Number Eleven wasn't a regular academy student. No one recognized him, and none had seen him before the tournament.
Some whispered he was from a distant region. Others said he'd transferred under special permission. A few even speculated that he belonged to a noble house hidden from public records.
Ryu frowned, tapping his pen against his notebook.
Whoever this fighter was, he wasn't just strong.
He was a mystery.
And then the hour passed.