Chapter 1: Shiraki Kei
Tokyo, on the border of Bunkyo and Toshima Wards.
On an empty lot next to a dilapidated, standalone building, two temporary tin-sheet sheds had been set up.
"Bro, I'm heading to school! It's my night off from my part-time job, so I'll be back early. Don't go wandering off, okay?" His little sister, a new high school sophomore, seriously warned her big brother before leaving.
Shiraki Kei, his head splitting, subconsciously waved his hand. "Be careful on your way! But why would I ever wander off..."
"...Wait, no. I actually would!"
Watching his sister's retreating back, Shiraki Kei suddenly jolted awake. Memories from a past life flooded his mind like a tidal wave, making everything seem both real and unreal.
He'd been clubbed from behind last night!
He was sent to the hospital, but after a simple bandaging, he worried about the high medical fees, staggered all the way home, and collapsed onto his bed, passing out.
"Hsss..."
His head ached.
Shiraki Kei went outside, turned on the water spigot, and washed his face. He lifted his head to look at his reflection in the mirror.
His head was wrapped in gauze, and the blood that had seeped through was already dry.
Shiraki Kei gently touched it with his hand.
"Hiss!"
His head... no, his very brain ached!
He remembered—
Once, there was a kind old man who had adopted the homeless Shiraki Kei, and later, his little sister, who had lost her parents in an earthquake. The three of them pieced together a family.
When the old man was critically ill and on his deathbed, he left the ancestral plot of land, and the old dojo on it, to the two siblings.
He thought they could live a stable life by running odd jobs like a children's interest class, but Shiraki Kei developed a severe headache after a training session. A trip to the hospital revealed he had a disease—
Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, commonly known as "Punch-Drunk Syndrome."
Commonly seen in professional boxers, it's caused by repeated external impacts to the head, leading to diffuse micro-hemorrhages, brain atrophy, and nerve fiber degeneration—in short, "brain damage."
Early symptoms include slowed movement, unsteady gait, and slurred speech. The mid-stage shows symptoms of Parkinsonism. The late stage can develop into dementia, epilepsy, and personality changes.
Currently, there is no effective cure for Punch-Drunk Syndrome; one can only try to manage it.
According to the doctor: decades ago, a rising star in the boxing world named "Joe Yabuki," who was about to make his debut on the world stage, collapsed after a match—Punch-Drunk Syndrome was one of the reasons.
...
After falling ill, Shiraki Kei's health deteriorated. He could no longer run the interest class, and the already deserted dojo fell further into disrepair.
In the last two years, Shiraki Kei's condition had progressed to the mid-to-late stage, and he would sometimes even zone out and wander off, getting lost.
To pay for her brother's treatment—or at least slow the disease's progression—his sister, Sakurai Arisa, raised money everywhere she could. After spending all of their meager savings, she was tricked by the local yakuza into taking out a high-interest loan.
The medical bills were already exorbitant, and with the interest rolling over, the debt had become astronomical. The local yakuza then proposed that they use the dojo's "plot of land" to pay off the debt.
However, Shiraki Kei knew in his heart that these yakuza were just thugs with no credibility. Even if they handed over the land, the siblings wouldn't see a single day of peace.
On the contrary, the moment he signed the transfer papers, those thugs would have no more reservations and would surely devour the two of them, leaving nothing behind!
Shiraki Kei refused to sign, and so they retaliated. He was clubbed from behind on a dark road.
...
...
Shiraki Kei's eyes widened as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Accompanied by intense pain and dizziness, he felt everything around him slowing down. Even the "self" in the mirror was squirming and changing.
How could this be... Is it happening again?
But strangely, Shiraki Kei's consciousness was incredibly clear. He could hear his own heart beating, but the interval between each beat was stretching longer.
Everything around him seemed to be slowing down.
Only the "self" in the mirror, like shifting ink and smoke, transformed into another person—
It was a robust middle-aged man. He wore a dark red kesa over his upper body, white martial arts pants, and a red headband tied around his forehead.
Thick eyebrows, large, wide-open "tiger eyes." His face had sparse stubble, but it didn't look sloppy; rather, it was like ink splashed on rice paper—forceful and vigorous.
...Ryu?
Memories surged, and Shiraki Kei subconsciously thought of the name.
The man appearing before him was a fighter who didn't exist in this world—from the world of Street Fighter.
Ryu is a pure "Seeker of the Way," practicing a martial art derived from an assassination fist, Ansatsuken. He has integrated various fighting techniques, has exceptionally solid fundamentals, and a fighting style with broad applicability.
...
In the mirror, Ryu's form, as if sketched in ink, flickered indeterminately.
There were more blurry shadows: a burly wrestler, a sumo wrestler with face paint, a drunken fist master with a wine gourd at his waist, a soldier with a strange flat-top hairstyle...
It felt as if only a second had passed, but Shiraki Kei was able to think a great deal, remaining conscious within that brief second, his thoughts running at explosive speed.
"Time has slowed, but I am still thinking."
"That's a fighter who doesn't exist in this world—Ryu? He... is staring at me."
"What does he want to say to me?"
"No, he doesn't want to talk. He wants to..."
Shiraki Kei suddenly realized.
Ryu took half a step back into a stance, his right fist clenched tightly at his waist. With every breath, his nostrils flared slightly, his gaze locked onto him.
BOOM!
Ryu threw a punch, aimed straight at Shiraki Kei's face!
It was a ferocious punch in the absolute sense. The movement was simple and unadorned, yet it carried a force capable of splitting mountains and cracking stone, the pressure buffeting Shiraki Kei's face so hard he could barely keep his eyes open.
The tension peaked instantly, as if all the blood in his body was surging. His body, which hadn't trained in five years, was forcibly reawakened at this moment!
SWISH!
Shiraki Kei dodged to the side, but his movement was half a beat too slow. Ryu's two knuckles grazed his head, causing him to instantly lose balance and fall to the ground.
Only then did Shiraki Kei finally snap back to reality, his throat catching up to his thoughts, letting out a cry of alarm—
...
"Ah!"
As if waking from a long dream, the vision of Ryu, after throwing his punch, rippled and dissolved like ink in water.
The surrounding frozen space had already resumed its flow even before Shiraki Kei had moved to dodge.
"..."
He felt something under his nose. Shiraki Kei reached up and touched it, his fingertip coming away stained with bright red.
A nosebleed.
"Just now, everything froze—including my own body. Only my consciousness was still running at high speed, allowing me to think so much in an instant..."
"Did Ryu... hit me?"
"Could that punch have been dodged? Can I spar with Ryu again? What about the shadows of the other fighters?"
"...Wait, did I just dodge?!"
Shiraki Kei's spirit jolted. He scrambled up from the ground, ignoring his appearance. His arms hung naturally, his center of gravity held steady. He bounced on his legs a few times, then executed a rapid forward-and-back shuffle step.
Shuff—Shuff!
After a few rounds of testing, Shiraki Kei made an assessment: the unsteady gait and slowed movements caused by his "Punch-Drunk Syndrome" were completely gone.
It seemed... his sickness was cured?!
"My brain doesn't ache, my eyes can see clearly, my fingers are steady... So did that blow to the head—or that punch—actually... cure me?"
"I need to go to the hospital for a check-up! No, wait, I have no money. I have to wait for Arisa to come back."
"Calm down. Otherwise, Arisa will think I'm terminally ill, that I've reached the final stage..."
...
KLANG!
As he was thinking, a loud noise from the street shattered Shiraki Kei's train of thought.
Shiraki Kei followed the sound and saw a minor yakuza boss in a pinstripe suit and a slicked-back blond pompadour, flanked by two men in black suits and sunglasses, walking towards him.
That noise just now was the boss kicking the railing.
"Hey! Long time no see, you crippled piece of trash!"
The boss strolled over, looking around. He spat in Shiraki Kei's direction. "Where's little Arisa? A dump like this needs the scent of a woman to be bearable, right?"
"Tch, it's like a garbage dump. What a waste of a good piece of land..."
He glanced at the bandages on Shiraki Kei's head and gave a sinister smile, the threat unmistakable.
"Got hurt? See, I told you it was dangerous around here! But hey, I brought you good news. You've got a chance to move out of here!"
"..."
Shiraki Kei glanced at the boss.
It was this boss's local yakuza crew, backed by a finance company, that had tricked Arisa into signing a massive loan contract.
Their showing up now definitely meant the payment deadline was near, and they wanted Shiraki Kei to sign the debt transfer papers to get their hands on this land as soon as possible.
"Look how good I am to your family. You don't even have to leave the house to sign."
The boss introduced the two men in black suits:
"These two gentlemen are sales reps from the Teiai Group, specializing in land collateral transfers. Teiai is a legitimate financial institution. Even if you call the fuzz... I mean, the police, they'll have to recognize it!"
Shiraki Kei: "..."
He was still trying to think of a way to deal with this, but he suddenly heard a familiar name.
At the same time, the two "Teiai Group" men in black each took out a contract.
The boss immediately changed the subject, pointing to the other contract:
"Of course, because little Arisa is just too cute, I'm hoping to help you guys out a bit more. So, I've provided a way for you to postpone the payment—"
"Your family runs a karate dojo, right? You should know how to fight, yeah?"
"Our Grisly Tooth Gang took on a commission from the Teiai Group. We've been hired for a fight, but we're a little short-handed. It'd be great if you could help us out!"
The boss stared at Shiraki Kei, reaching over to take the other contract.
"Go have a fight with some 'Kengan match' fighter, test his strength for us. If you win, we'll write off part of the debt. Even if you lose, we'll give you a few more days' extension. How about it?"
"..."
Shiraki Kei couldn't answer right away. Because those two names—two names that shouldn't have any connection—were churning over and over in his mind.
Teiai Group? Kengan matches?
Shiraki Kei's mind went into overdrive once again.