Tokyo, Border of Bunkyo and Toshima Wards
On a vacant lot next to a dilapidated single-family building, two makeshift metal shacks had been erected.
"Big brother, I'm off to school! I'll be working the night shift tonight, but I'll come back early, so don't go wandering around!" The younger sister, a second-year high school student, reminded him carefully before leaving.
Shiraki Sho groaned, his head throbbing painfully, and instinctively waved his hand.
"Be careful on your way! But… how would I even go wandering"
"…Actually, I probably would!"
As he watched his sister's departing figure, a sudden jolt of memory hit him. Memories of his previous life surged like a tidal wave, making everything seem at once familiar yet unreal.
He remembered being brutally beaten with a black rod last night.
After being sent to the hospital for basic treatment, he had staggered home, afraid of racking up high medical bills, and collapsed into bed in a daze.
"Ugh…"
His head throbbed.
Outside, he turned on the tap and splashed cold water on his face, then raised his gaze to the mirror.
Bandages wrapped around his head, dried blood crusting through.
Sho gingerly touched it.
"Ugh!"
It wasn't just a headache—his brain itself ached!
He remembered
Once, a kind old man had taken in the homeless Shiraki Sho, along with his sister, orphaned by an earthquake. Together, they had formed a makeshift family.
When the old man lay on his deathbed, he left them the family property and an old dojo built upon it.
Sho had hoped to live quietly, running children's interest classes and other odd jobs. But after a training session, his headaches intensified. A hospital visit revealed the grim truth
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, commonly known as "boxer's brain."
A condition often found in professional boxers, it occurs when the brain suffers repeated trauma, leading to diffuse microbleeds, brain atrophy, and degeneration of nerve fibers—essentially, permanent brain damage.
Early symptoms: slow movements, unsteady gait, slurred speech.
Mid-stage: Parkinson-like syndromes.
Late-stage: dementia, epilepsy, personality changes.
There is currently no definitive cure—only maintenance and care.
The doctor had told him: decades ago, a promising young boxer named Yabuki Joe had been poised to rise on the world stage, only to collapse after a match. One of the reasons: boxer's brain.
…
Since his diagnosis, Sho's health had steadily worsened. Running his dojo had become impossible, and the once-bustling place had fallen into disrepair.
In the past two years, his condition had reached the mid-to-late stage, with frequent lapses into confusion and even wandering off.
To help her brother—at least to slow the disease's progress—his sister Sakurai Arisa had scrimped and borrowed money. But after exhausting their meager savings, she was deceived by local gangsters into taking high-interest loans.
Medical costs were astronomical, interest compounded, and the debt quickly became astronomical. The local gangsters demanded the dojo property as collateral.
Sho knew their true nature—they were nothing but thugs. Even if they got the land, the siblings would never live a single peaceful day. Worse, signing the deed would give the gang free rein to strip them bare.
Sho refused to sign, and they retaliated—attacking him with a black rod on a dark street.
…
Opening his eyes, Sho stared at his reflection.
Amidst the pain and dizziness, he felt as if time itself had slowed, while the reflection in the mirror writhed and shifted.
What was happening…?
Was it another episode?
Yet strangely, his mind remained perfectly lucid. He could hear his heartbeat—but each beat seemed stretched, elongated.
Everything around him appeared slowed.
Except the reflection in the mirror. It shifted like ink in water, transforming into someone else entirely
A muscular middle-aged man, clad in a dark red kasaya over his torso and white martial arts pants below, a red headband across his forehead.
Thick brows, sharp eyes, a sparse stubble. He didn't look unkempt; instead, he seemed as if ink had been brushed onto rice paper—bold and vigorous.
…Ryu?
Memory surged, and Sho instinctively recognized the name.
Before him was a fighter from a world that did not exist in his own—the world of Street Fighter.
Ryu was a pure "martial arts seeker," trained in assassination-style combat, combining multiple fighting styles with solid fundamentals. His fighting style was versatile and precise.
…
In the mirror, Ryu's form shifted like drifting ink.
Other vague figures appeared: a hulking wrestler, a face-painted sumo, a drunken fist master with a flask at his waist, a soldier with a strange broom-like haircut…
Though time seemed to last only a second, Sho could think endlessly in that single instant.
Time slowed… yet my mind keeps racing.
The fighter in front of me—is Ryu? And he's staring at me.
What does he want to say?
No… he's not speaking. He wants to
Sho realized immediately.
Ryu stepped back into stance, his right fist drawn tight at his waist, nostrils quivering with each breath. His gaze locked on Sho.
Boom!
Ryu's punch shot forward, aiming straight for Sho's face!
A simple yet overwhelmingly powerful blow, carrying the force to split mountains. Sho's cheeks quivered, and his eyes nearly shut.
Every nerve in his body screamed; his untrained muscles of the past five years were forced to awaken.
Swish!
Sho sidestepped, but just slightly too slow—Ryu's knuckles grazed his head, throwing him off balance and sending him sprawling.
Only then did he regain full awareness, his throat catching up with his mind:
"Ah!"
The figure dissolved like ink in water, leaving the surrounding world flowing normally again.
"…Huh."
Touching beneath his nose, he found a smear of blood. Nosebleed.
Everything had frozen… except my mind, allowing rapid thought in a single instant.
Was I hit by Ryu?
Could I dodge that punch? Could I spar with Ryu again? And the other fighters' shadows?
…Wait, I dodged it just now?
Sho leaped to his feet, arms relaxed, weight centered, legs bouncing lightly as he began sliding steps forward and back.
Swish—swish!
After a few rounds of testing, he concluded: the previous gait disturbances from his boxer's brain were gone.
Could it be… cured?!
My head doesn't hurt, my vision is clear, my hands are steady. That punch… it really hit me?
I need a check-up! But no money… wait for Arisa.
Calm down… don't panic, or she'll think I'm at death's door…
…
Clang!
A loud crash outside snapped him from his thoughts.
Looking up, he saw a gang underling in a striped suit, slicked-back blonde hair, flanked by two black-suited men in sunglasses, striding toward him.
The sound had come from the underling kicking a railing.
"Hey! You useless cripple, long time no see!"
The underling surveyed the area, then spat toward Sho.
"Where's Arisa? This dump needs a woman's scent, or it's unbearable!"
"Tch… like a junkyard. Such a waste of good land…"
He glanced at Sho's bandaged head, smiling cruelly.
"Got hurt? Told you this place was dangerous! Here's good news—you might be able to move!"
"…."
Sho recognized him: the local gang responsible for tricking Arisa into signing a high-interest loan.
They were here because the repayment deadline was near, and they wanted Sho to sign over the property quickly.
"See how generous I am? You don't even have to leave your house to sign."
He gestured to the two black suits:
"These are agents from the Teiai Group, in charge of land mortgage transfer—Teiai is a legal finance company. Even if you call the cops… it counts."
Sho froze, considering his options, when familiar words hit his mind.
The two Teiai men each produced a contract.
The underling continued, pointing to another contract:
"Since Arisa is so cute, I want to help you. Here's a repayment delay plan"
"You run a karate dojo, right? You can fight?"
"Our gang took a commission from Teiai Group—to fight someone. We're short-handed, so you helping would be perfect!"
He stared at Sho, holding out another contract.
"Go fight a martial artist in a so-called 'Fighting Will Tournament.' Win to reduce your debt; lose and you get a few extra days. Deal?"
"…."
Sho froze. Those two words—unexpectedly linked—raced through his mind:
Teiai Group? Fighting Will Tournament?
His consciousness surged again.