Chapter 31: The Regroup

  The SAAHO medical facility buzzed with quiet urgency. A stark contrast to the battlefield, its pristine white walls and the scent of antiseptics offered a fleeting illusion of peace. Yet, despite the warmth of the doctors and nurses who worked tirelessly, the air remained heavy with the weight of suffering. The team—Ray, Michael, Kaizen, and Maya—lay in their respective beds, their bodies broken but their spirits unyielding.

  Ray, the youngest among them, was barely recognizable beneath the bandages that wrapped his arms and legs. The second-degree burns marred his skin, and the dull throb of his shattered hands and feet served as a cruel reminder of his brutal clash with Aliyah. But the worst of it coursed through his veins—the venom, a toxin akin to a pit viper's bite, weakening his body with every passing moment. It was his first time battling such a foreign, insidious enemy. He had faced countless threats before, but this one made him question—how much longer could he keep fighting before his limits finally betrayed him?

  Michael, the steadfast guardian, had suffered injuries that would have killed a lesser man. His body bore the evidence of his unrelenting determination—bruises bloomed like ink stains across his skin, deep gashes marred his flesh, and his ribs groaned under the weight of fractures. Both his hands and one leg were broken, rendering him immobile, but his mind remained sharp. He had stood against Doku’s monstrous form and Aliyah’s wrath, and despite the agony tearing through him, he had refused to surrender. Yet, in the stillness of the hospital room, doubt crept into his thoughts. For the first time, he was forced to entertain the idea that he might not always be strong enough to protect the ones he loved.

  Kaizen, the tactician of the group, lay in quiet contemplation. His injuries were extensive—fractured bones, burns, and deep lacerations carved a roadmap of suffering onto his body. But the worst of it lay within him. Doku’s poison was relentless, spreading through his bloodstream like an invisible chain meant to drag him down. He felt its constant presence, a gnawing weakness that threatened to claim his focus. He hated it. His mind, usually a fortress of strategy and precision, felt fogged by the pain. And yet, he forced himself to think ahead, to analyze their failures, to plan for what came next. His body may have faltered, but his mind refused to yield.

  Maya, the strongest in so many ways, had suffered the most at the hands of Doku’s venomous wrath. Her body was riddled with stab wounds, her flesh slashed open in more places than she could count. The poison had done its work, sapping her strength, making every breath a battle of will. She had never been one to rely on others—she had always been the one to stand tall, the one to carry the burden. And yet, here she was, at her weakest. It infuriated her. She did not fear pain; she had long since accepted it as part of her existence. But the reality of her own limitations left a bitter taste in her mouth. How much longer could they keep fighting like this? How long before their bodies finally gave in?

  The doctors worked with unwavering dedication, their hands precise as they stabilized the warriors before them. Yet, despite their medical expertise, they couldn't hide their astonishment. Few had ever witnessed such extensive injuries sustained in a single battle, let alone survived them. Whispers of awe circulated among the medical staff—these four were not ordinary fighters. They were legends in the making, warriors who defied death itself.

  But beyond the physical wounds, there were deeper scars forming. In the silence of their hospital room, the team was forced to confront their mortality. The harsh reality of their journey loomed over them like a shadow, whispering truths they had long chosen to ignore. They were strong, but not invincible. They were relentless, but not unbreakable.

  And yet, they were still here.

  The hospital's warmth was a fleeting respite from the cruel world that awaited them outside. Their time to heal would be brief, their recovery measured in days rather than weeks. The battle had left them wounded, but not defeated. Even now, as they lay in sterile beds, their hearts beat with the same unwavering resolve that had carried them this far.

  For now, they could rest. For now, they could breathe.

  But soon, the war would call them back, and they would rise once more.

  In the darkness of the forgotten warehouse, the Machinist's broken body lay sprawled across the cracked concrete floor, a lifeless monument to his failed battle with Deimos. The sharp, acrid scent of burning metal and spilled oil hung heavily in the air, mixing with the cold and dampness of the surroundings. The place felt abandoned, as if even the walls themselves had given up on the war that had been fought within them. His mechanical frame, once a testament to human ingenuity, now lay shattered, reduced to a twisted heap of bent metal, severed wires, and fractured parts. There was no sound but the faint hum of distant machinery, a haunting reminder of the life that once pulsed through him. The warehouse was empty, save for the lifeless remnants of his former glory, and the silence seemed to stretch on forever, as though the world was holding its breath.

  And then, in the stillness, something changed.

  A single crackle sliced through the quiet, sharp and jagged, like a spark igniting in the dark. It was faint at first, barely noticeable, but it grew steadily louder, reverberating through the room. Electricity surged through the Machinist’s body, its flow erratic and powerful, as though it was pushing through every broken part of his shattered form. Tiny, violent sparks flickered to life along the edges of his metal limbs, jumping from joint to joint. His fingers twitched—first as an involuntary spasm, then with increasing purpose, as if the electricity was trying to find a rhythm, a heartbeat. The deep groan of machinery filled the air as his internal systems hummed, turning themselves back on, the intricate network of wires and circuits that made up his body coming back to life piece by piece.

  The first sound that escaped his lips was low, a mechanical groan, as if he was waking from a long, torturous slumber. Slowly, almost agonizingly so, his head jerked to the side, and his eyes—once dim, now a sickly, pulsating glow—flickered back to life. A chilling hum of power thrummed in the air as his body moved, stiff and jerky at first, his limbs refusing to obey until the surge of electricity reinvigorated him. His joints cracked, gears ground against one another, and with a shuddering, rattling sound, he finally pushed himself off the cold floor. His body, once motionless and broken, now surged with energy as the raw power of electricity coursed through his metal frame.

  The Machinist stood, his movements still slow but deliberate. His chest heaved with the strain, each mechanical breath more a function of his systems coming online than any human need for oxygen. His mind raced, processing everything at lightning speed, his intellect sharpened by the raw electrical surge flowing through him. The machines that had been working to repair him, piece by piece, were now fully integrated. The battle with Deimos had torn him apart, but it hadn’t defeated him. The Machinist was more than just a man; he was a living machine, a construct of both flesh and steel. He had adapted to survive, and now, with every electric pulse that jolted through him, he was reborn.

  A twisted grin spread across his face, his lips curling into something that resembled both amusement and malice. His synthetic fingers flexed, feeling the residual charge crackle beneath his skin, igniting his senses with newfound energy. The machinery embedded in his body had been painstakingly restored, but his mind—his mind had never been more focused. He was still the same Machinist, only now, he was stronger. More versatile. Unstoppable.

  “Deimos thinks he can destroy me?” he muttered to himself, his voice now a distorted rasp, thick with static and the hum of electricity. It was a voice not fully human, not fully machine, but something twisted and corrupted in between. “He barely scratched the surface. And those four fools?” His grin deepened, an unsettling sound of metal grinding against metal echoing in the air. “They have no idea what I’m capable of. I always come back. I adapt. I evolve.”

  His hands clenched into fists, the energy flowing through his limbs becoming a tangible force. The battle may have left him in pieces, but his machines had been at work, reassembling him from the inside out. Piece by piece, his form was being rebuilt. Circuit by circuit, his systems were returning to full functionality. He was no longer the man who had been defeated; he was something more.

  His voice, corrupted by the very machinery that sustained him, carried a venomous confidence. “They think they’ve won,” he muttered, his eyes flashing with dangerous intent. “But they’re wrong. I’m not finished. Not by a long shot.”

  The warehouse, which had once felt like a tomb, now seemed to tremble with the power radiating from him. The silence was broken by the hiss of his metal joints as he moved, his heavy footsteps echoing through the abandoned space. He turned, his gaze fixed on the rusted doors ahead. With a grunt, he shoved them open, the cold night air rushing in to greet him. Outside, the world waited—dark and unknown—but to him, it was simply a battlefield. A place where he would rise again.

  As he stepped out into the night, his body still bearing the marks of his recent destruction, his mind was clearer than ever. His gaze lifted, fixing on the distant city skyline, where the headquarters of the Tori no Ichizoku clan loomed like a shadow. That was where he would go. That was where his machines would finish the work that had only just begun. There, he would rebuild himself fully, perfecting the very systems that had once betrayed him. His body would be restored, his mind sharper than ever, and when he emerged from his hiding place, the world would feel the full force of his return.

  With every step, the Machinist’s twisted laugh echoed through the streets, a sound filled with self-assurance and malice. “They think they’ve won,” he murmured, as if savoring the taste of the words. “But I’m far from finished. I always come back. Stronger. Smarter. Deadlier.” He paused, letting the words linger in the air before delivering the chilling conclusion, his voice now dripping with cold certainty. “And this time, I’ll be ready.”

  Meanwhile, deep within the heart of SAAHO’s secluded training facility, the air was thick with the anticipation of an impending clash. The room itself was stark and utilitarian—concrete walls lined with heavy punching bags, thick mats covering the floor, and scattered weapons hanging on the walls, their gleaming edges a silent testament to the deadly potential of those who trained here. The faint scent of sweat and metal lingered in the air, the echoes of countless battles and training sessions now absorbed into the very walls.

  Two of SAAHO’s most lethal assassins stood in the center of this arena, their presence a silent challenge to each other, the weight of unspoken rivalry hanging in the air like an invisible force. It was more than just a friendly match; it was a culmination of years of tension, a battle to test who had evolved the most, who had grown beyond their limits. It was about pride, technique, and dominance.

  Michael stood at one end, his body brimming with raw energy. His towering figure seemed to pulse with a palpable tension, muscles rippling under his tight-fitting shirt as he cracked his knuckles, the sound reverberating through the air like a harbinger of the storm to come. His grin stretched wide, one that was both cocky and brimming with excitement. "Kaizen," he said, his voice carrying a hint of playful menace. "For practice, let’s spar. I feel like throwing hands and knees." He rolled his shoulders, the sound of his joints popping briefly before his arms dropped into a ready position, his eyes gleaming with the anticipation of the upcoming bout. "Been a while since we had a proper match, yeah?"

  Kaizen, ever the picture of composure, stood across from him. His lithe figure was a stark contrast to Michael's bulk, but the lethal calm radiating from him was enough to put anyone on edge. His black training attire clung to his body, accentuating his grace and precision in every movement. As he exhaled slowly, his sharp, calculating gaze locked onto Michael, assessing him with the sharpness of a hawk sizing up its prey.

  A small smirk tugged at the corner of Kaizen’s lips, his eyes glinting with something darker—something competitive and eager to engage. "Bro, literally—after a reveal like that?" he mused, his voice smooth, but tinged with the challenge of a thousand unspoken battles. He shook his head slightly, his stance shifting ever so subtly, his body a perfect example of controlled energy, poised and ready to strike at a moment’s notice. "A spar sounds nice." His words were calm, but the undertone was clear—this was no longer just a practice session. This was a test of wills, and Kaizen was ready for it.

  The moment stretched, the two men locked in a silent, almost predatory dance, sizing each other up. The air between them was thick with tension, every movement they made seeming to ripple through the space. Michael’s muscles twitched with unrestrained excitement, while Kaizen remained still, his focus unwavering, his every sense honed like a blade.

  Both knew that what was about to unfold would be more than just a match. It would be a display of their skills, a showcase of their strength and technique. It was a test to see who had grown beyond their limits, who had surpassed the other in terms of mastery and instinct. A simple spar, but with a weight that could not be ignored.

  With a single breath, the world around them seemed to still, the faint hum of the training facility fading into the background. The silence was deafening, broken only by the sound of Michael's sharp exhale as he launched himself forward.

  And then—Michael moved.

  His powerful legs propelled him forward with explosive speed, his fists a blur as he closed the distance between them. His usual unrestrained nature took hold, as he aimed a lightning-fast jab toward Kaizen’s head, followed by a knee strike intended to catch Kaizen off guard. The raw force behind the attack was impressive, but it was more than just power—it was the beginning of a strategy, a test of how Kaizen would respond.

  Kaizen’s body, however, was already in motion before Michael had even begun his assault. His eyes narrowed, the tiny smirk on his lips fading into a mask of pure focus. In a fluid motion, Kaizen ducked under the incoming punch, his body a coiled spring of precision. With a deft twist, he sidestepped Michael’s knee strike, his hand reaching out to grab Michael’s wrist mid-swing. The smoothness of Kaizen's movement was a direct contrast to Michael's explosive aggression, the two fighting styles already clashing in a beautifully brutal dance of skill.

  Kaizen’s grip tightened around Michael's wrist, his other hand sweeping low to trip his opponent. But Michael wasn’t one to be so easily taken down. His body twisted mid-motion, breaking free from Kaizen’s hold and using the momentum to launch a spinning backfist.

  The sound of their fists colliding with air was followed by the loud thud of their bodies making contact with the ground as both men transitioned into a flurry of rapid movements, each seeking an opening, each striving to get the upper hand. It was a test of endurance, speed, and sheer willpower.

  Their feet danced across the mats, each step and strike as precise as the last. Their breathing grew heavier, the fight intensifying with every passing moment, the clash of their strength and skill filling the air. It was no longer just about the fight—it was about proving who was the better warrior, who would come out on top when the dust settled.

  But Kaizen was not to be outdone. He flowed like water, his body responding to every shift in Michael's movements. He could see the way Michael's body reacted, the small hints that gave away his next move. With a quick sidestep, Kaizen launched himself forward, aiming a high kick toward Michael’s midsection, his foot connecting with a resounding thud. Michael grunted, the air rushing out of him, but before Kaizen could press his advantage, Michael’s hand shot out, grabbing Kaizen’s leg mid-kick.

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  With a grunt of effort, Michael swung Kaizen’s leg down, using his momentum to throw him off balance. The match had only just begun, but the tension between them was already palpable—a test of not just physical power, but mental and emotional endurance.

  Kaizen regained his footing, wiping the sweat from his brow, a brief flicker of admiration crossing his features as he squared off with Michael once more. "Impressive," he said, his voice low, but with a hint of approval.

  Michael, breathing heavily but still grinning, returned the compliment with a chuckle. "You’re not so bad yourself, Kaizen. But let’s see who’s really got the upper hand."

  And so, the battle raged on, a perfect storm of skill, strength, and the relentless pursuit of mastery. Every move, every strike, every counterattack told a story—a story of two warriors locked in a dance of power and precision, neither willing to back down, both determined to prove themselves the best.

  Kaizen vs. Michael: The Sparring Round 2

  The air in the dimly lit training room crackled with anticipation. The space was deliberately small, littered with obstacles—scattered chairs, a coffee table, an old couch—turning the sparring session into more than just a test of skill. It was a battlefield where adaptability and spatial awareness would be just as crucial as technique.

  Kaizen stood steady, his stance low and balanced, the embodiment of a seasoned wrestler. His muscles were relaxed but coiled, ready to explode into action at a moment’s notice. Across from him, Michael shifted lightly on his feet, his body instinctively bouncing in a rhythm forged through years of brutal Muay Thai experience. His striking game was honed through combat against the deadliest criminals and killers on the planet, and it showed in the way his every movement carried a predatory grace.

  Neither of them spoke.

  There was no need.

  The timer buzzed.

  Michael was the first to move. He darted forward in a blur, his foot slicing through the air as he delivered a low, powerful kick aimed at Kaizen’s lead leg. Kaizen absorbed the impact, barely flinching, but Michael had expected that. The kick was a feint.

  Before Kaizen could react, Michael launched a rapid combination of jabs and hooks, forcing his opponent to retreat. His fists blurred, aiming for Kaizen’s jaw, ribs, temple—each strike coming with sniper-like precision.

  Kaizen weaved, his movements economical, his eyes calm as he analyzed Michael’s patterns. He sidestepped, shifting near a wooden coffee table. Michael smirked, pressing forward, pushing Kaizen toward the furniture with an aggressive series of strikes.

  Then came the high roundhouse.

  Kaizen’s eyes flickered in the briefest moment of recognition. Michael’s shin carved through the air like a guillotine, aimed directly at his skull.

  Kaizen ducked.

  The kick sliced past his head with barely an inch to spare, the force behind it enough to take a lesser man’s head off. But Kaizen had baited him in.

  He lunged forward, closing the distance before Michael could recover. His powerful arms wrapped around Michael’s waist in a vice-like grip. Michael felt his feet leave the ground.

  Impact.

  They crashed into the couch, the wooden frame groaning under their combined weight. Michael instinctively planted a foot against the backrest, using it to create leverage, but Kaizen’s wrestling instincts were already at work. With a powerful hip twist, he lifted Michael off the cushions and slammed him onto the floor with the raw force of a human avalanche.

  Michael gasped as the impact sent shockwaves through his spine, but his mind was already racing. Kaizen was shifting, his weight pressing down, moving toward side control.

  Shit.

  Michael fired short, vicious elbows at Kaizen’s ribs. The strikes were sharp, but Kaizen remained composed, weathering the storm. He methodically transitioned, tightening his grip, pushing Michael toward the corner of the room, where a cabinet restricted his ability to roll away.

  Michael had limited options. He had to explode out now, or Kaizen would lock him down completely.

  With a sudden, violent bridge, Michael bucked his hips and twisted, creating a sliver of space. It was enough. He brought his knees in, pushing against Kaizen’s hips—framing him away just long enough to break free.

  Kaizen immediately responded, shifting his weight to shut Michael’s escape down.

  Too late.

  Michael rolled backward into a crouch, eyes locking onto Kaizen’s. His breath was measured, but there was a fire in his gaze now.

  Kaizen smirked.

  “You almost had me there,” Michael said, his voice laced with excitement.

  Kaizen didn’t answer. He simply lifted his hands and gestured.

  Come.

  Michael obliged.

  Like a bullet fired from a gun, he launched forward, his movements fluid, aggressive, and mercilessly precise. His right cross came in fast and heavy, a strike designed to knock the teeth from Kaizen’s mouth. Kaizen barely dodged, his instincts saving him by the narrowest margin, but Michael was already two steps ahead.

  An elbow slashed toward his temple. Kaizen raised an arm in defense, absorbing the impact.

  A knee came next, aimed straight for his ribs. Kaizen twisted, deflecting it with his forearm, but the force sent a ripple through his body.

  Then—a low kick, a whip-like strike meant to chop his leg out from under him. Kaizen checked it, the impact shuddering up his shin.

  Michael was relentless, chaining his attacks together in a never-ending storm of violence. Every move was perfectly timed, seamlessly flowing from one to the next, a barrage of strikes that never gave Kaizen room to breathe.

  Kaizen blocked what he could, absorbed what he couldn’t, and countered when the opportunity arose.

  Then came the trap.

  Michael feinted a high kick. Kaizen’s body tensed, bracing for it—but that was the mistake.

  In an instant, Michael dropped low, sweeping his leg out in a brutal arc. Kaizen had no time to react. His footing vanished from beneath him, and he hit the ground hard.

  But he was a grappler. Hitting the ground meant nothing to him.

  Rolling into a defensive position, Kaizen prepared to reverse the situation. But Michael was already in the air.

  A flying knee, descending like a guillotine, aimed straight for Kaizen’s skull.

  Kaizen had seconds—no, fractions of a second—to react.

  He twisted, rolling just in time. The knee slammed into the wooden floorboards, inches from his head. The impact was brutal, cracking the wood beneath them. If that had landed…

  For a moment, there was only silence.

  Then—Kaizen grabbed Michael’s outstretched leg.

  Michael’s eyes widened.

  Kaizen’s grip was ironclad, his fingers locking around Michael’s ankle like a vice. With a sharp yank, he dragged Michael downward, forcing him into a leg lock.

  Shit.

  Michael felt it immediately—the pressure on his knee, the way Kaizen’s positioning isolated his leg. If Kaizen got the hold in properly, he’d tear the joint apart.

  No time to think.

  Before Kaizen could crank the submission, Michael twisted his body, planting his free foot against a nearby coffee table. With a powerful push, he kicked off of it, using the force to spin himself out of danger.

  Kaizen’s grip broke, and Michael tumbled away, landing in a crouch.

  They separated.

  Both men were breathing harder now.

  The air in the room was thick, charged with an intensity that neither had felt in a long time.

  For a long moment, neither moved.

  Then—Michael grinned.

  "You're a stubborn bastard, huh?"

  Kaizen smirked, rolling his shoulders. "You talk too much."

  Michael’s grin widened. Good. That meant he was still having fun.

  And then, they clashed again.

  This time, there was no hesitation.

  Kaizen lunged first. He shot in low, aiming to take Michael down before he could mount another flurry of strikes.

  Michael wasn’t about to let that happen.

  He sprawled, widening his base, using all his strength to stuff the takedown. But Kaizen wasn’t deterred. He redirected his attack, driving forward and forcing Michael into the wall instead.

  They hit the surface with a thud, and Kaizen immediately worked to control Michael’s limbs.

  Michael struggled, pushing against Kaizen’s weight, trying to create space—but Kaizen was already adjusting, snaking an arm around Michael’s neck.

  A guillotine choke.

  Michael’s eyes flickered with realization. Dangerous.

  He had seconds to escape before Kaizen locked it in fully.

  Instead of panicking, he did something reckless.

  He jumped off the wall.

  Kaizen had no time to react before Michael used the momentum to flip over him, wrenching his head free mid-air.

  The moment his feet touched the ground, Michael was already attacking again.

  Kaizen barely turned around before he was met with a blistering elbow to the jaw.

  The impact sent him staggering, his vision flashing white.

  Michael followed up—

  A low kick, crashing into Kaizen’s thigh.

  A body shot, burying his fist into Kaizen’s ribs.

  A head kick, swinging toward Kaizen’s temple like a hammer.

  Kaizen ducked just in time, but Michael was already moving, already adjusting.

  He was adapting.

  And Kaizen knew it.

  A sharp thrill ran through the wrestler’s veins. This is what he loved.

  A fight where neither side could afford to make a mistake.

  Where both had to evolve on the fly, constantly pushing past their limits.

  Michael threw another elbow.

  Kaizen caught it—

  But Michael had already launched a knee to the stomach.

  Kaizen grunted, the air forced from his lungs.

  For a split second, his stance broke.

  Michael saw the opening.

  And he went for it.

  He pivoted, throwing his entire body weight into a devastating spinning back kick.

  Kaizen barely had time to register it before the strike slammed into his chest, sending him crashing into the couch.

  For the first time in the fight—

  Kaizen was the one on the defensive.

  Michael didn’t stop.

  He pounced, knowing Kaizen was off-balance.

  Kaizen saw it coming.

  And he reacted.

  Fast.

  He rolled over the couch, using it as a shield, landing on the other side as Michael’s next kick obliterated the cushion where his head had been.

  Kaizen’s eyes flashed.

  This had gone on long enough.

  Before Michael could recover, Kaizen charged through the couch, tackling him to the floor with monstrous force.

  They hit the ground hard, but Kaizen didn’t waste a second.

  He was already transitioning—mounting Michael, trapping his arms, cutting off his options.

  Michael struggled, but Kaizen’s grip was absolute.

  This was his world.

  A world where striking no longer mattered.

  Michael bucked, twisted, tried to free himself—

  But it was too late.

  Kaizen locked in the rear-naked choke.

  Michael fought against it—his hands clawing, his body thrashing—

  But Kaizen tightened his hold.

  Seconds passed.

  Michael gritted his teeth. His vision blurred.

  And then—

  Tap.

  It was over.

  Both men lay on the ground, breathing hard, sweat dripping onto the wooden floor.

  Michael ran a hand through his hair, his chest rising and falling.

  Kaizen sat up, wiping his mouth, his expression unreadable.

  Then—Michael laughed.

  A breathless, exhausted, satisfied laugh.

  Kaizen shook his head, a smirk tugging at his lips.

  "You're insane," he muttered.

  Michael grinned, still catching his breath. "You love it."

  A silence stretched between them—one filled with mutual respect.

  This fight hadn’t just been about skill. It had been a test.

  A test of who could push further.

  Kaizen had won today.

  But Michael knew.

  Tomorrow, they would do it again.

  And next time—

  There would be no walls, no furniture.

  Nothing to contain what was coming next.

  The next exchange was brutal.

  Michael unleashed hell.

  His strikes became sharper, faster, more precise—every punch, every kick designed to kill. He threw elbows like blades, knees like hammers, kicks like whips. His self-taught Muay Thai had no wasted movement, no hesitation. He didn’t just attack—he dissected, every strike aimed at a vulnerable joint, an exposed rib, a weak spot waiting to be shattered.

  Kaizen matched him.

  For every blow Michael delivered, Kaizen countered with cold efficiency. His wrestling wasn’t just a tool—it was a philosophy of control, of limiting his opponent’s options. His footwork remained stable, measured, rooted like an immovable mountain. He smothered Michael’s range, absorbing strikes with a brutal acceptance of pain, forcing the fight into the trenches where he reigned supreme.

  Michael aimed for the jaw. Kaizen slipped it with an effortless turn of his head, his eyes locked onto Michael’s every twitch.

  Michael shot for the ribs, a wicked teep kick meant to create distance. Kaizen’s arm came down like an iron gate, absorbing the impact with a grunt before stepping in, closing the gap like a predator boxing in its prey.

  Michael jumped, twisting into a spinning elbow.

  Kaizen’s instinct took over. He caught him in midair.

  For a split second, Michael’s world tilted, his momentum stolen, his body suspended. His mind screamed to counter, to do something—but before he could react, he felt Kaizen’s grip tighten.

  Boom!

  Kaizen slammed him into the ground with devastating force. The impact rattled through Michael’s spine, sending a shockwave of pain up his back. The room seemed to shake with the sheer violence of it.

  But even as his back hit the floor, Michael laughed.

  Kaizen paused for just a fraction of a second, studying him.

  Michael grinned through the pain, his breath ragged. Blood trickled from his bottom lip where one of Kaizen’s counters had landed earlier, but his eyes burned with adrenaline, with hunger.

  “You’re gonna have to do more than that,” Michael said, rolling backward into a standing position with a fluid grace that belied the damage he had taken.

  Kaizen exhaled through his nose, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—impressed, intrigued.

  Then—the timer buzzed.

  The round was over.

  Both men stood there, staring at each other, their chests heaving, their bodies aching but alive with the thrill of combat. This wasn’t just a sparring session anymore. It was a statement.

  And neither was done yet.

  Kaizen stood over Michael, who was still kneeling, catching his breath.

  For a moment, there was nothing but silence.

  Then, Michael chuckled. “Alright. I’ll admit it. You won this one.”

  Kaizen raised an eyebrow. “This one?”

  Michael stretched his arms, rolling his neck. “Yeah. This room gave you an advantage. Too many obstacles for me to move properly. If we were outside, I’d be kneeing you in the face right now.”

  Kaizen smirked. “Excuses.”

  Michael grinned. “Nah, just facts.” He extended a fist. “Rematch. Tomorrow.”

  Kaizen stared at the outstretched hand for a moment.

  Then, he bumped his fist against Michael’s.

  “You’re on.”

  This sparring match wasn’t just about physical ability. It was a battle of mindsets.

  Kaizen fought with control. Every move was calculated, every exchange dictated by his ability to smother, restrain, and redirect force. He didn’t just grapple—he commanded the fight, shaping it to his advantage with an almost machine-like precision. His wrestling was a philosophy, a doctrine built around dominance and inevitability. He didn’t need to overwhelm his opponent with speed or sheer power—he only needed to limit them, to strip away their options one by one until there was nowhere left to go.

  Michael fought with chaos. His Muay Thai was relentless, sharp, and alive with violence. He thrived in movement, in the rapid exchange of blows, in the ability to dictate a fight through overwhelming pressure. Unlike Kaizen, he didn’t seek to control his opponent—he sought to break them. His fists, elbows, knees, and shins were weapons forged in countless battles, each strike meant to cut down anything in his path. If given space, if allowed to move freely, he became a storm—unpredictable, unstoppable, inevitable in his own way.

  But here, in this small, enclosed room?

  The walls, the furniture, the sheer lack of space had tilted the match in Kaizen’s favor. Michael had been forced into unfamiliar territory, his movement restricted, his range of attack cut short. His most dangerous weapons—the devastating knees, the crushing elbow strikes—had been contained by Kaizen’s smothering grappling. The wrestler had used the environment itself as an extension of his style, turning the tight quarters into a battlefield where Michael’s usual advantages meant nothing.

  But in an open space?

  That would be a different fight.

  Kaizen knew it. Michael knew it.

  There was no need for words. Their gazes met in silent understanding, an unspoken agreement lingering between them.

  Tomorrow, they would do it again.

  And next time, there would be no furniture to save Kaizen from Michael’s knees.