Sen wasn’t born to be anyone’s hero. Hell, he wasn’t born to be anything other than another lost kid in a world that didn’t give a damn. Raised in an orphanage, abandoned, tossed around like a ragdoll, he learned early on that survival was the only game that mattered. The matron of the pce never gave him a kind word, only cold eyes and disdain, so he learned to fend for himself. When he was old enough, he didn’t stick around long. He didn't need anyone’s pity or charity.

  The streets weren’t any better, but at least they were honest. You either got strong enough to stand on your feet, or you ended up crushed under someone else’s heel. And Sen? He was built for crushing.

  He spent the next few years training in every form of martial arts he could find, piecing together techniques, blending styles until he could read his opponents with a single gnce. By the time he hit his mid-teens, he was no longer the outcast. He was the one people feared, and that’s when the underground fighting rings found him.

  They didn’t care about his past or what he’d been through. All they cared about was money, blood, and the kind of violence that made crowds scream. The first fight was easy. Too easy. A broken nose, a few bruises, and a handful of cash in his pocket. But it wasn’t the money that fueled him—it was the rush. The thrill of fighting for his life in front of a crowd that reveled in every punch, every bone-crushing hit. He became addicted to that power, the power of being feared and respected, the power of watching men tremble before him.

  As the years went by, Sen’s name started to spread. The "Deadly Fist," they called him. A fighter who didn’t just win—he destroyed. His hands were weapons, his body a finely tuned machine designed for nothing but brutal, efficient destruction. He didn’t py by the rules. He made his own. Every fight was a test of endurance, intelligence, and sheer willpower. And with every victory, his reputation grew.

  There was a time, in the back alley of a dingy arena, when they asked him how he did it. How did he keep winning? Sen’s answer was simple. “You can either take a hit and make 'em regret it, or you can wait for them to take the first swing and pray you don’t end up on your back.”

  By the time he was in his mid-20s, Sen had become the undisputed king of the underground circuit. Fighters from every corner of the city feared the name “Deadly Fist.” They knew that stepping into the ring with him meant either victory by a miracle or an early trip to the hospital. He was untouchable. No one could match his speed, his power, or his brutal efficiency.

  But just when things seemed like they couldn’t get better, the streets threw him a curveball—an opportunity he couldn’t resist. A bank heist. It wasn’t his idea, but the chance to make some serious cash, live the life he’d always dreamed of, was too tempting. The pn was simple. Hit the bank, grab the money, and disappear. What could go wrong?

  Everything.

  The cops came down on them hard. Sen wasn’t stupid—he fought his way out, even gunned down a few of their boys. But in the chaos, his luck ran out. It wasn’t a clean getaway, and as the sirens wailed, Sen found himself caught between a hail of bullets and the long barrel of a police rifle. They dragged him out, half-dead, and spped the cuffs on him. Sentenced to death, with a three-year dey. That was his fate.

  But the world wasn’t done with him yet.