Kazahiro sat alone on the warehouse floor, sweat cooling on his skin, the dim light flickering overhead. His ribs throbbed where Akira had landed the final blow. The ache wasn't physical — not really. It was something deeper.
He hadn't tasted a loss like that in years. Not since the alley days.
He played the match over and over in his head. The angles, the timing, the flow. Akira didn't just fight — he moved. He made Kazahiro look like a child throwing tantrums. That smoothness. That calm.
It infuriated him.
It fascinated him.
Goro approached, slow and silent, and sat beside him. For a long time, he didn't speak.
Then: "How's it feel?"
Kazahiro didn't answer.
"That's how you grow," Goro said. "Not when you win. When you lose and decide it won't happen again."
Kazahiro stared at his knuckles. "What is he?"
Goro's eyes narrowed. "He's a product of the higher game."
"The one behind that binder?"
A pause. Then a nod.
"It's called the Kagutsuchi Circuit," Goro said quietly. "A private network of corporate-sponsored fights. Hidden from the world. No rules. No weight classes. Just raw, beautiful violence. Companies use fighters as living weapons — wagers of pride, money, and power."
Kazahiro's throat went dry. "You were in it?"
Goro chuckled. "Briefly. I was what they call a disposable — strong enough to bleed for the crowd, but not polished enough to be an investment."
"Akira…?"
"He's a groomed heir. His family owns stakes in one of the conglomerates—Tsukino Pharmaceuticals. He's not just in the Circuit. He's bred for it."
Kazahiro clenched his fists. "I want in."
Goro's voice turned grave. "It'll eat you alive."
"Then I'll devour it first."
Goro studied him. For a moment, he saw not the boy he took in months ago — but something else. Something colder. A flame burning so hot it was starting to turn blue.
"You'll need more than fists," Goro muttered. "You'll need clarity. Control. Philosophy."
Kazahiro nodded once. "Then teach me. Everything."
That night, Kazahiro returned to training with renewed fury — but something was different. His strikes grew cleaner. His breathing sharper. He no longer fought to destroy — he fought to understand.
And every night before sleep, he whispered the name to himself like a prayer.
Kagutsuchi.
He didn't know when.
He didn't know how.
But someday, he'd step into that ring — the one behind the curtain.
And he'd make them all remember the name: Kazahiro Yamazuo.
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