The pit smelled of iron and cheap sake.

  Takeshi Jinsuke stood in the flickering torchlight, his bare feet pressing into the blood-soaked earth. Across from him, Gorou "Oni-Blood" Shigeto cracked his knuckles, the sound like breaking twigs in a silent forest.

  The crowd held its breath.

  Gorou smirked. "You know you can't beat me."

  Takeshi rolled his stiff shoulders, feeling every old wound protest. "I'm aware,"he said. Then he smiled, teeth red in the torchlight. "But it's not about winning or losing. It's about me taking you on right here, right now."

  The gong sounded.

  ---

  Gorou moved like a rockslide. A fist grazed Takeshi's temple - stars burst behind his eyes. He countered blind, felt his knuckles connect with something soft. Gorou's nose gave way with a wet crunch.

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  They broke apart.

  "You're dead, runt," Gorou spat blood.

  Takeshi wiped his mouth. "Maybe." He settled into his stance again. "But you'll remember this."

  ---

  The beating lasted until the torches burned low. Takeshi didn't know how many times he went down. Didn't count how many times he got back up.

  At some point, the crowd stopped cheering.

  At some point, Gorou's punches lost their certainty.

  When Takeshi rose for what felt like the hundredth time, swaying like a sapling in storm winds, Gorou didn't immediately rush in. The champion stood there, chest heaving, fists hanging at his sides.

  "Why?" Gorou panted.

  Takeshi spat a tooth. "Because someone needed to stand against you,"he said. "Today, that someone was me."

  ---

  They never declared a winner that night.

  But when the gamblers spoke of it later, they didn't talk about Gorou.

  They talked about the man who wouldn't stay down.

  The man they called “Makenai”.

  And in the darkest corners of Rakusho, sometimes you'd hear a drunk mutter:

  "I know I can't beat you. But that's not the point..."

  And everyone knew exactly what he meant.