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 inside when I stepped through the sliding doors. Barefoot, shirtless, a towel around his neck. The faint scars across his torso caught the dim light like pale lightning. My father never said good morning. He just nodded once, eyes steady and unblinking.
"Wrap your hands."
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. Fresh blood smeared across the wrap.
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. The tatami darkened with sweat. My knuckles throbbed. My legs felt like lead. 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 classroom hummed with quiet chatter as Mr. Hayashi wrote equations across the blackboard. Shojiro's pencil hovered over his notebook, tapping against the page. Numbers swam before his eyes. Integrals, derivatives, kinematic equations — all tangled together in a blur.
He frowned. He hated that moment of helplessness. Wrestling came naturally; his body responded instinctively, muscle memory flawless. But numbers? Logic? These required something else, something that refused to bend for him. He bit the pencil, frustrated.
"Shojiro-kun?" Mr. Hayashi's voice broke through his thoughts. "Did you complete the last problem?"
He blinked. "Uh… almost," he admitted, cheeks warming. His notebook bore messy scratchouts, attempts to force answers that wouldn't come.
Across the room, some classmates whispered.
"Even he struggles with physics?"
"Yeah… makes you feel better about yourself, huh?"
Shojiro glanced up, forcing a smile. He wanted to be confident, unshaken, but he hated being out of control. His fingers drummed against the desk, a restless rhythm, as if muscles could solve equations the same way they solved opponents.
A classmate leaned over. "Need help?"
Shojiro shook his head. "I've got this," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. He scribbled furiously, erasing and rewriting, but the numbers remained stubborn. He felt a small knot of frustration twist in his chest. I can handle anything else. Why can't I do this?
By the time the bell rang, Shojiro's page was a battlefield of crossed-out work and tentative solutions. He packed his bag slowly, avoiding eye contact with the classmates who had peeked. Walking out into the corridor, he let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head.
Even champions had weaknesses. He just hated admitting them — even to himself.
The hallways of Eiyuu Academy were buzzing with the usual morning chatter, but a subtle shift rippled through the air as I walked down them. 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."
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.
Lunchtime buzzed through the cafeteria. Students chattered and laughed, trays clattering against tables. A small crowd had gathered in the corner, eyes glued to the table where Shojiro sat quietly eating.
"Hey, Momo-kun!" a first-year shouted, bouncing on their heels. "Think you can take me in arm wrestling?"
Shojiro glanced up from his food. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Sure," he said lightly, sliding his tray aside.
The table groaned as they locked hands. He barely flexed. His opponent's eyes widened the instant contact was made. One, two, three… his arm pressed down like a falling hammer. The first-year's face flushed red, struggling futilely.
"W-wait… that's… impossible!" they stammered, finally tapping out.
Laughter and cheers erupted around them. Shojiro shrugged, still smiling faintly. "Next," he said.
Several more students lined up, each more confident than the last, each more surprised when he bested them with casual precision. Some groaned. Some laughed nervously. He didn't gloat; it wasn't about proving anything. He just enjoyed the rare moments of simple fun, the echoes of laughter in a room that normally felt distant.
Some of the older students teased him from across the cafeteria. "You even try?" one shouted, grinning.
Shojiro only shook his head. "Doesn't feel fair otherwise," he said.
The first-years left with stories to exaggerate for weeks. And Shojiro returned to his tray, calm, eating like nothing had happened, a small, private smile lingering.
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.
By mid-afternoon, a small stack of folded notes had accumulated in Shojiro's desk. Girls from various years had taken a chance, leaving letters or brief messages. Some were polite, timid, handwriting shaky; others were playful, teasing.
He picked one up carefully, opening it. Inside was a short note: "Shojiro-kun, I think you're amazing. Will you go out with me sometime?" He read it twice, then smiled faintly, setting it aside to answer later.
Another note slid out accidentally when he opened his notebook for physics. A small doodle of him flexing, exaggerated and cartoonish, with a shy message: "I drew you beating everyone. It's… cool." He chuckled quietly, shaking his head. The effort mattered more than the content.
Some letters were funny, a first-year admitting, "I tried to copy your arm wrestling strategy… I lost in ten seconds. Teach me?" Others were shy, almost whispering through the page, their words careful, tentative.
Shojiro carefully folded them all and slipped them back into his bag, a faint warmth creeping into his chest. He didn't have to respond immediately. He didn't need attention. But the letters reminded him that normal life had its quiet joys — a glimpse of human connection that required no victory, no dominance, just small gestures of courage.
He glanced around the room, catching the occasional glance or small smile from a classmate. His calm, composed aura drew attention without effort, and he let it be. Not for pride. Not for show. Just for… life.
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. At some point my phone buzzed on the bench beside me. I glanced at the notification.
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.