The morning air was sharp, cold enough to sting the lungs. The sun hadn't yet climbed past the trees surrounding the Momo Dojo, but the faint orange glow through the mist painted the wooden walls like fading embers. The dojo was closed that day — no students, no noise, no distractions. Just me and my father.
He was already there when I stepped inside. Barefoot, shirtless, a towel around his neck, the faint scars across his torso visible in the dim light. My father never said good morning. He just nodded once, eyes hard and steady.
"Wrap your hands," he said.
I did. No hesitation. The smell of sweat and cedar hit my nose as I tightened the cloth. The sandbags hung heavy, still from the night before. Wooden dummies stood in rows, silent partners waiting to be punished.
"Start with three-hundred strikes," he said, stepping aside. "Full power. Don't lose rhythm."
I moved. Fist after fist, the sound of impact echoed through the empty hall — thud, thud, thud, like a drumbeat. Sweat formed fast, dripping down my arms, my chest tightening with each breath. The first hundred came easy. By the second, the pain crawled up my shoulders, biting deeper.
"Don't slow down," he said flatly. "You want strength? Then earn it."
I pushed harder. Every strike sent a shock through my bones, skin splitting a little where old scars hadn't healed right. My breathing became ragged, but I didn't stop. I couldn't.
"Good," he muttered finally, barely above a whisper. "Now knees. Elbows. No hesitation."
Hours passed like minutes. My world shrank to the sound of impact, the grind of my muscles, the scent of wood and iron. I felt the floor tremble beneath my feet, sweat pooling on the tatami. When he told me to switch to grappling drills, my knuckles were raw, blood smearing the wraps — but I didn't complain. I just nodded.
My father didn't smile, but his tone shifted — subtle, softer in its own way.
"Remember what I told you," he said as I caught my breath. "Real strength isn't in the punch. It's in standing up after every one that fails."
I straightened, breathing heavy but steady. "I know."
"Then prove it. Again."
And so I did.
By the time the sun had fully risen, the dojo floor was slick with sweat, my arms trembling from fatigue, my breathing slow and heavy — but I was still standing. My father walked over, looked me up and down, then gave a single nod.
"That's enough for today," he said.
He turned toward the door, sunlight washing over his back. I stayed there a moment longer, staring at my bruised hands, feeling the dull ache in every muscle
The city was barely awake when I left the dojo. The morning chill clung to my tracksuit, the faint sting of soreness still biting at my shoulders from training. Tokyo's streets buzzed to life — vending machines humming, bikes clattering over pavement, students flooding toward the same destination.
Eiyuu Academy.
When I stepped through the school gate, the noise changed. Conversations dulled, eyes followed. I'd gotten used to it — the looks, the whispers. Some admiration, some envy.
"Is that him?"
"Yeah, Momo-kun. The national champ."
"He's even taller in person…"
"Don't stare! He'll notice!"
I adjusted my bag higher on my shoulder and kept walking. I didn't try to look cool. I just was. Maybe that's what bothered them most — that I never seemed to try.
A group of girls by the courtyard tried to start small talk.
"Morning, Shojiro-kun~!"
"Big match today?"
"You should smile more, you know—it'd suit you!"
I gave a polite nod, nothing more. The truth was, I didn't dislike them. I just didn't belong in their world — laughter, gossip, after-school cafés. I was built for mats, sweat, silence.
Still, one of the first-years ran up to me, clutching a notebook. Her hands trembled.
"C-can I have your autograph?"
She looked like she'd been working up the courage all morning. I took the pen and signed my name neatly, handing it back with a small grin.
Her eyes lit up like I'd given her a blessing. The crowd murmured again, but I kept walking.
Up ahead, a couple of senior wrestlers from other schools waited by the entrance — rivals who'd once tried to take me down in tournaments. They stepped aside as I passed.
"Yo, Momo," one called out. "You're still human, right?"
I didn't slow down. Just glanced at him once, calm and unreadable.
"Guess you'll find out next season."
He laughed nervously. I didn't.
As I entered the building, sunlight flared across the glass doors — a fleeting, cinematic moment of silence before the noise of students filled in again.
The classrooms of Eiyuu Academy were buzzing with the usual morning chatter, but a subtle shift rippled through the air as I walked down the hallway. Students turned their heads, some whispering, others smiling nervously. I wasn't trying to draw attention, but it found me anyway.
"Shojiro-kun!" a voice called from across the hall. A group of first-years waved, books in hand. "Can we sit with you at lunch today?"
I smiled faintly, nodding. "Of course. Save me a spot," I said calmly, then moved on. Their faces lit up like I'd just handed them treasure.
Even the teachers noticed. Mr. Hayashi, my homeroom advisor, gave a subtle nod of approval as I passed. "Good morning, Shojiro," he said. "Don't forget the extra practice today."
I only chuckled quietly. "I won't."
During class, whispers followed me quietly — no loud disruptions, no gossiping — just admiration. People didn't dare bother me. It wasn't fear exactly, more like awe. The aura of someone who had mastered himself before even reaching adulthood.
At lunch, the first-years I'd promised a spot hurried over, still glowing from my brief acknowledgment. I shared a few laughs, answered simple questions about wrestling, and even offered pointers to one of them struggling with push-ups. Nothing grandiose. Just small kindnesses that seemed to make everyone's day brighter.
Another girl from my year approached, holding a notebook. "Shojiro-kun, could you—"
I raised my hand slightly to pause her, smiled, and took the notebook. A few seconds later, she walked away, grinning from ear to ear. The entire interaction was quick, effortless, and yet somehow magnetic. People were drawn to me without me needing to try.
Even in these mundane moments — walking through the hall, sitting at lunch, chatting politely — I could feel it: the respect, the admiration, the quiet energy of everyone noticing me. Not because I demanded it. Not because I sought it. It just existed.
And I let it.
Because this was part of who I was.
The final bell rang, releasing the hallways into a flood of laughter and chatter. Most students hurried home or to after-school clubs. I walked calmly, backpack slung over one shoulder, head held high. Some stopped to nod or wave, others simply stared. I returned their gestures with the same quiet, effortless charisma that seemed to follow me everywhere.
The city streets were warmer now under the afternoon sun, but I barely noticed. My focus shifted to the gym — another hour of pushing limits, refining technique, shaping strength that already bordered on unnatural.
Inside, the familiar scent of sweat and iron greeted me. Dumbbells, ropes, and mats were laid out in organized chaos. I moved through my routine like a machine honed by years of discipline:
Weighted squats until my legs burned and quivered,
Rope climbs that left my forearms screaming,
Punches and strikes on the bag with precise, bone-jarring force,
Shadow wrestling, footwork, grapples, repetitions until the echo of each movement filled the empty gym.
Hours passed. Sweat pooled, muscles ached, but I didn't stop. Every strike, every lift, every pivot felt like another step toward understanding the fire inside me. Even the world outside — the chatter, the noise, the whispers — fell away. There was only me, my body, and the endless drive to control it.
I paused briefly, chest heaving, hands raw, staring at my reflection in the mirrored wall. The face staring back was calm, composed, untouchable. But in the corner of the mirror, my phone buzzed.
Breaking News.
"Unprecedented phenomena: Cracks appear across major cities worldwide. Reports of strange occurrences, violent anomalies, and mass chaos emerging. Governments and emergency services are scrambling. Details remain unclear."
"I didn't die once.
I died twice...
First as a son.
Then as a man."
"I thought I'd have time.
A few more matches.
One last moment with my father.
But the sky didn't ask.
It just broke."
It started with a sound — glass tearing across the sky.
From above Tokyo, a crack opened in the clouds, a gash in space itself. Violet lightning surged through the heavens, warping gravity. Birds screamed. Power lines snapped.
And then
they fell.
Demons. Hundreds of them.
Screeching, writhing, in every shape — humanoid, serpentine, winged — raining onto Earth like hellfire.