Part of the shorts series. Shorts are short one off stories done by request of the person generally in the story. Meaning, they will be self contained even if they have characters from other stories. Good for when you are looking for a quick fight that won't hurt your eyes reading for a long time.
In reality, Vic was an up-and-coming kick boxer, he has a decent build, good skill but still a LOT to learn. So day after day, match after match, he carried himself like the whole world already knew the truth. He. Was. God. His frame was cut lean, cords of muscle wrapped tight around him like rope. Every motion carried a kind of sharp snap, like a blade coming out of its sheath. In the gym, he worked harder than anyone, but he made sure everyone noticed. In the ring, he fought meaner than anyone, and he made damn sure everyone remembered. Broken bones, bleeding, bruising, that was his signature, and he didn't care how the other guy wound up. Just as long as they, and everyone, knew him. And truth be told, and this was the infuriating part, no one could touch him. Opponents walked in with confidence and left staring at the ceiling, clutching their ribs or spitting blood into their gloves. His highlight reels were short because his fights never lasted long. A few brutal kicks, a savage right cross, and down they went. The local promoters whispered that he wasn’t just “good,” he was “next.” The name Vic started to circulate beyond the town’s borders. But of course, the more he won, the worse he got. Every KO swelled his ego, every headline fed the fire. Humility wasn’t in his vocabulary. Outside the ring, he strutted like he owned the ground under his boots. At bars, at clubs, on the street didn't matter, if someone mouthed off, Vic’s knuckles or knees did the talking. Broken ribs were his calling card, bruises the souvenirs he left behind. And if he was in a bad mood?
Well, people learned quickly to clear a path.
Friends tried to talk him down. Coaches warned him about burning bridges. But Vic didn’t care. He was the man. Everyone was just jealous of him. Everyone else was just waiting their turn to be humbled by him. So when the next fight opportunity landed on his lap, he didn’t even blink. He didn’t ask who he was fighting, didn’t bother to study tape or ask about style. To him, it was simple: another payday, another win, another poor bastard to add to the list of victims. A long list he didn't even know (or care to know) the name of. He smirked as he scribbled his name across the sign-up sheet. No hesitation. No second thought. Just a lean, hungry fighter too arrogant to imagine that this time might be different.
His name was Kenji Sato.
He came from a village most maps didn’t bother marking, a forgotten patch of earth in the mountains where the roads broke down to gravel and the houses leaned tiredly against each other like old men too stubborn to fall. Kenji had grown up in those dust thick streets, barefoot and thin, working odd jobs before he was old enough to know what childhood was supposed to feel like. His father had died when he was just a boy, leaving behind debts no one could pay and a mother too frail to carry the load.
So Kenji carried it.
Day after day, he hauled wood, cleaned stalls, took whatever work people would throw at him. Nights, he trained in secret. An old fighter from the city had retired in the village years ago. Broken body, busted jaw, but sharp eyes and a fire that refused to die. The old man taught Kenji how to fight, how to strike, how to keep breathing when the world was trying to choke him out. Kenji wasn’t born with bulk, but he had wiry muscle, balance, and a stubborn streak that refused to let him quit. Best of all?
He didn’t fight for pride. He fought for survival.
Every tournament he entered, every underground match he scraped through, the money went straight home. Medical bills for his mother. Schoolbooks for his younger brother. Sometimes he walked away from fights bleeding and bruised, but that didn't matter to him. No. what he cared about was walking away with cash in his pocket. Cash that meant food, medicine, life, and that was enough. Humility had been beaten into him by circumstance. He didn’t brag, didn’t boast. He bowed to opponents, win or lose. He didn’t need recognition.
He needed rent money.
So when a promoter whispered about a chance to fight a rising star from overseas, the offer made his stomach tighten. The purse was large, larger than anything he had ever seen. Enough to buy his brother new clothes, enough to put actual meat on the table for months. Maybe enough to send his mother to a real doctor in the city. It was to much, and to damn good. Kenji didn’t hesitate, he couldn't for the sake of his family. He signed his name, quiet as ever, bowing slightly as he handed the form back. Whether he won or lost, he had already won in the only way that mattered. The walk home was one of deep thought. Kenji wasn’t blind or stupid. He had seen Vic’s fights, had heard the stories. The arrogance, the power, the way he cut through opponents like they were nothing. But again, that didn’t matter. Kenji wasn’t stepping into the ring to make a name for himself. He was stepping in to feed his family.
And for that, he would fight until his bones broke.
