Trial Under the Open Sky
The fight at school had been brutal—for Kokojin and his weak-ass crew, at least. The hallway still echoed with the gasps and whispers of students who had just witnessed their so-called "strongest" crumble before Hiroki and Peter like brittle glass.
Now, back at Peter's mansion, Hiroki wasted no time. His body was still warm from battle, but his mind was sharper than ever.
Steam curled through the bathroom as hot water cascaded over his shoulders, washing away the sweat and grime of the fight. He tilted his head back, letting the heat seep into his muscles, soothing the lingering tension. Yet, even as the water pounded against his skin, his mind remained restless.
They were weak.
Too weak.
For all their numbers and threats, Kokojin and his crew were nothing but wasted potential. Hiroki had expected more. Instead, they folded the moment real power stood in front of them.
They weren't opponents.
They were stepping stones.
Finishing his shower, he grabbed a towel, dried himself off, and dressed quickly—his usual attire, black hoodie over his uniform. No distractions. There was still work to do.
Sitting at his desk, he dove into his homework with mechanical efficiency. Math, literature, science—trivial things, but necessary. Peter had drilled that into him:
"Strength without knowledge is like a sword without a wielder. Be both the weapon and the master."
Hiroki's hand moved quickly across the page. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could go train.
Minutes passed. Then an hour.
Finally—done.
He stood up, stretching his arms, already envisioning the brutal training session waiting for him in the basement. But just as he reached for the door—
"Hiroki."
Peter's voice, calm but firm, stopped him mid-step.
Hiroki turned, an eyebrow raised.
"We're not training today in the basement," Peter said casually, leaning against the doorway.
Hiroki blinked, confused. "Wait... so, we're not training at all?"
Peter smirked. "Not there."
He lifted a finger and pointed outside, toward the vast open fields that surrounded the mansion.
"We're going to train outside."
Hiroki vs. The Unknown
A slow, excited smirk spread across Hiroki's lips.
"Outside?"
The idea intrigued him. All his training had been underground—controlled, calculated, structured. The basement was an arena of repetition and refinement, where he perfected techniques and honed his power.
But outside?
That was the unknown.
Hiroki crossed his arms, eyes flicking to the massive grounds beyond the window.
"What's out there?"
"The real world."
He pushed off the doorway and strode toward the front entrance.
"You've trained enough in the basement, honed your body, learned control. But that was safety. That was preparation."
The mansion door creaked open, revealing the vast landscape beyond, bathed in the dimming light of dusk.
Then, Peter turned slightly, his brown eyes gleaming under the fading sun. And in a voice that sent chills through Hiroki's bones, he spoke:
"Now... it's time to show me who you really are."
hiroki slowly grind, as he know what he did for the first time that night.
A gust of wind howled past, as if the very world itself acknowledged the challenge.
Hiroki's lips curled into a confident grin.
This was going to be fun.
The Streets of Reckoning
Timeskip – A Moment of Peace Before the Storm
The scent of grilled meat filled the air, mingling with the warm glow of the mansion's dining room. The table was set simply—nothing extravagant—but the meal in front of Hiroki felt like a feast.
Rice, steaming and perfectly seasoned, sat beside skewers of sheesh kebab, their smoky aroma making his mouth water. Peter had cooked this himself. And damn, it was good.
Hiroki took a bite, eyes widening slightly before closing in pure satisfaction. A grin spread across his face—a real, genuine smile, untouched by the shadows of betrayal or rage.
For a moment, he wasn't the boy who had lost everything.
He wasn't the one drowning in pain, clawing his way back to the surface.
He was just Hiroki, eating a good meal, enjoying the simple pleasure of life.
Peter, sitting across from him, smirked at the sight. "You're smiling like a kid who just found out summer break got extended."
Hiroki swallowed, leaning back. "This is actually good. Didn't know your cooking skill is so unexpected and good."
Peter shrugged, effortlessly cool. "A man who only knows how to fight is half a man. You survive with your fists, but you live with your skills. Remember that."
Hiroki chuckled. "I'll take your word for it."
The meal ended, and the night had fully settled by the time the two of them stood near the entrance.
Peter dressed in all black—black t-shirt, black jeans, black boots, even a black jacket draped over his shoulders, blending into the darkness like a shadow given form.
Hiroki, on the other hand, kept a touch of color—blue jeans, a black t-shirt hidden beneath a hoodie, and dark red-and-black sneakers that stood out just enough without screaming for attention.
Peter slowly turned to him, eyes gleaming under the dim porch light. His voice was casual, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.
"Ready for some fight and shii?"
Hiroki didn't answer with words.
Instead, he smirked—a devilish, almost predatory grin creeping onto his face as his eyes gleamed with anticipation.
Into the Streets
The city was alive with its usual chaos. Cars hummed along the roads, streetlights flickered, and the distant murmur of nightlife blended with the occasional drunken shout.
Peter and Hiroki walked side by side, their pace steady, their presence cutting through the night like a blade.
Then, without breaking stride, Peter spoke. His voice was deeper now, colder, sharper, like steel wrapped in silk.
"Listen, Hiroki. I always told you to have a calm mind—to never let anger and adrenaline control you. But sometimes..." He glanced at Hiroki, eyes dark, voice dipping into something more sinister. "Some people don't need a lesson. They need a hospital bed."
Hiroki's steps faltered for just a fraction of a second.
A hospital bed?
For a brief moment, he thought Peter was exaggerating. But when he turned to look at him—really look at him—he saw something in Peter's expression.
It wasn't cruelty. It wasn't recklessness. It was conviction.
Hiroki knew Peter wasn't someone who spoke just for the sake of sounding intimidating. Every word he said carried weight—meant something.
Some people couldn't be reasoned with.
Some people didn't understand anything except pain.
Some people... were just like Kokojin and his crew—beasts who mistook kindness for weakness.
Hiroki clenched his fists, taking in Peter's words, letting them sink deep into his bones.
He understood.
Even if you put a Bible on a donkey, the donkey is still a donkey. No matter what.
His expression hardened, and without hesitation, he gave Peter a single nod of agreement.
Peter smirked.
The night had only just begun.
THE FIGHT – BLOOD IN THE STREETS
The night air was thick with tension, the city lights flickering as if they could sense the violence about to unfold. Hiroki and Peter walked side by side, their shadows stretching long under the dim glow of the streetlamps.
Then, they saw them.
A gang of six—no, seven—thugs, rough-looking bastards with cigarettes dangling from their lips and the unmistakable aura of men who thrived on power and fear. Yakuza, most likely.
They had cornered a young couple.
The boyfriend was already on the ground, his face contorted in agony as he clutched his stomach, coughing up air after taking a brutal kick. His girlfriend, desperate and terrified, dropped to her knees in front of him, shielding him with her own body.
But the leader of the thugs wasn't satisfied.
He stepped toward her, his mouth curling into a disgusting smirk as he licked his lips, his filthy mind already undressing her with his eyes.
Hiroki felt something ignite inside him—a wildfire of rage, of unforgiving fury.
That was it.
No words needed. No questions.
Just blood and broken bones.
Before Hiroki could move, Peter's voice sliced through the heavy air.
"Some of them..." Peter spoke slowly, his voice dripping with quiet menace, "because they think they have power and manipulation, they believe they can do whatever they want."
He reached into his pocket, and when his hand emerged, Hiroki's breath hitched.
A pair of sap gloves.
But these weren't ordinary.
The knuckles were reinforced with metal, and sharp spikes glistened like the fangs of a predator waiting to sink into flesh.
Deadly.
Peter turned them over once in his hand, then held them out.
"Use these." His voice was calm, but there was something dark in it. Something that told Hiroki this wasn't just a weapon. It was a responsibility.
"From now on, these are yours." Peter's gaze locked onto Hiroki's, the weight of his words sinking deep. "But use them wisely, ok?"
Hiroki's fingers trembled—not with fear, but with exhilaration—as he took the gloves. The leather was cool against his skin, and when he slipped them on, they fit perfectly.
A slow, wicked grin stretched across his lips.
He flexed his fingers.
Felt the weight.
Felt the power.
Then, with a single glance at Peter, Hiroki whispered two words.
"I'll be back."
And with that, he walked straight toward the thugs.
𝙎𝙃𝘼𝙏𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙀𝘿 𝘽𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙎 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝘽𝙍𝙊𝙆𝙀𝙉 𝙎𝙊𝙐𝙇𝙎
The leader of the thugs let go of the girl, turning his full attention to Hiroki. His grin dripped with arrogance, his fingers twitching as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette.
"the fuck are you supposed to be, kid?" He scoffed, lighting the end and taking a long drag. Behind him, his gang tightened their grip on the girl, her screams muffled by a rough hand covering her mouth. Her boyfriend groaned from the pavement, barely conscious as one of the thugs ground his foot into his skull, twisting it like he was putting out a cigarette.
Hiroki's fingers tightened inside his new gloves. His blood boiled.
The leader exhaled, blowing a cloud of smoke directly into Hiroki's face, the smugness in his eyes clear. "Play hero somewhere else, dumbass. Fuck off."
He reached out, a single mistake that cost him everything.
The moment his hand touched Hiroki's shoulder—
BAM.
Hiroki's fist drilled into his gut with all the force of a freight train. The spiked knuckles shredded through flesh, sinking into muscle like a knife through butter. A wet gurgle escaped the thug's lips as his whole body jerked violently. His cigarette slipped from his mouth, blood splattering onto the burning embers as his eyes bulged in pure, agonizing shock.
"GHHHUUUAAK—!"
He vomited blood instantly, his body collapsing forward. Hiroki ripped his fist free, leaving behind a gaping wound in his stomach, and before the bastard could fall—
CRACK!
A brutal uppercut to his jaw snapped his head back, his teeth clacking together so hard it sounded like a gunshot. He hit the ground like a lifeless sack of meat, blood pooling beneath him.
One down.
The other thugs froze.
Then— rage.
"KILL THIS MOTHERFCKER!"
Metal and wooden bats swung toward Hiroki at full force—
Too slow.
Hiroki vanished from their line of sight for a split second, already moving.
He targeted the first one—a guy with a metal bat. Before the thug even knew what happened, Hiroki's spiked fist slammed into his bicep.
𝘊𝘙𝘈𝘊𝘒.
The sound was sickeningly loud. A scream tore from the thug's throat as his arm snapped unnaturally, his bat clattering to the ground.
But Hiroki wasn't done.
With a whirlwind of motion, Hiroki twisted his body and—
𝘗𝘈𝘈𝘈𝘈𝘔!
A brutal shin kick to the side of the thug's head sent him flying backward, his skull bouncing off the brick wall. Blood trailed down the concrete as he slumped, twitching, and didn't move again.
The remaining thugs were enraged, but fear was creeping in.
Two of them charged at once.
The first one swung at Hiroki's jaw—
Hiroki didn't dodge.
He tanked the hit, letting the bat collide with his torso. The impact barely even made him flinch.
The thug's eyes widened— "What the f—"
Hiroki exploded into motion.
Nagare Otoshi.
With a perfect counter, Hiroki grabbed the guy's arm, flipped him over his shoulder, and slammed him into the pavement with bone-crushing force.
Before the thug could even scream—
CRACK!
Hiroki snatched up the fallen metal bat and brought it down on his leg.
The bone snapped on impact, bending in a direction it was never meant to. The thug's screams pierced the air, his body convulsing in agony.
But Hiroki wasn't finished.
The second thug finally landed a hit—
A desperate sucker punch to Hiroki's ribs.
It connected.
But Hiroki didn't budge.
Instead, he slowly turned his head, his hand casually patting the spot where he'd been hit, as if a mosquito had just landed on him.
"...That all?"
The thug's face drained of color.
𝘚𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩.
Hiroki's footwork blurred as he swept his leg under the thug's feet.
𝘛𝘏𝘜𝘋.
The guy hit the ground hard.
And then—
Hiroki grabbed his foot, his grip tightening like a viper's bite.
The thug started thrashing—"W-WAIT, STOP—"
𝘾𝙍𝘼𝘾𝙆.
Hiroki forcefully twisted the ankle in the wrong direction.
A sickening snap echoed through the night, followed by a bloodcurdling scream.
The thug convulsed in pain, his body locking up.
Hiroki stared down at him, his face emotionless.
"People like you don't deserve mercy."
The remaining thugs were now frozen in terror.
Some of them were backing away, their hands trembling.
But Hiroki wasn't letting anyone leave.
Not yet.
And the girl—
She was still trapped in their grasp.
This fight wasn't over.
MEANWHILE
The girl, with wide, terrified eyes, helped her boyfriend to his feet. His legs trembled beneath him, his face twisted in pain from the relentless beating he had endured. But survival was the only thing on their minds now. She clutched his arm tightly, her heart racing as she turned toward Peter—the man who had been standing still, watching the chaos unfold with an amused smile.
She hesitated for a moment before pleading, "Please… help us."
Peter's smile never wavered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of crisp bills, counting a few before extending them toward her. "This should cover a taxi and a hospital visit," he said coolly.
Relief washed over her face as she took the money, but just as she was about to thank him, Peter crouched down. He grabbed the battered boyfriend's chin, tilting his face upward with an eerie calm. Without warning—SLAP!
The sharp crack echoed through the street.
The girl gasped, eyes widening in shock. "Why the hell did you hit him?!" she screamed, furious and protective.
Peter ignored her. His focus remained on the beaten man before him. He reached into his pocket again, this time stuffing a hefty amount of cash into the guy's jacket. Then, in a voice devoid of sympathy, yet laced with authority, he spoke:
"Now listen up, you weak-ass little shit."
The boyfriend's dazed eyes flickered with anger, but he was in no position to retaliate.
"I gave you this money so you can put it to good use," Peter continued. "Build something. Start a business. And most importantly—train your body. Get stronger. Lift weights, learn how to fight, master martial arts… because if you don't, you already know what would've happened tonight if I hadn't passed by."
His voice was sharp—like steel cutting through flesh. Every word hit harder than the slap. The girl, still stunned, looked between Peter and her boyfriend, realizing the weight of what he had just said.
A slow, burning rage formed in the boyfriend's eyes as he pushed himself up, his lip still bleeding. He clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. "This slap…" he muttered, his voice low, shaking with suppressed fury. His gaze locked onto Peter with pure resentment. "I will never forget this. And I won't let it slide."
Peter smirked, amused. "Good. Let it fuel you."
The guy wiped the blood from his lip, his expression hardening. Then, without another word, he turned and limped away, the girl following closely behind.
As they disappeared into the night, Peter exhaled through his nose, a knowing grin creeping onto his face. "Another stray dog, given a chance." He chuckled under his breath before shifting his attention back to Hiroki—who was standing amidst the carnage, fists bloodied, eyes burning with untamed fire.
Peter took a deep breath and smirked. "Now, where were we?"
Pure Brutality Unleashed
The remaining thugs finally snapped out of their shock, realizing that Hiroki wasn't just another random idiot playing hero—he was a monster. But fear only made them more reckless. Fueled by desperation, they lunged at him all at once, thinking that numbers would grant them victory.
They were dead wrong.
Hiroki's smirk widened into something downright inhuman—a cruel, twisted grin that sent a shiver down their spines. His aura, the way he moved, the way his eyes gleamed with an almost sadistic amusement—it was like staring into the abyss. A demon had been let loose.
One of the thugs—a wiry man with a scar on his cheek—came in swinging, his fist cutting through the air toward Hiroki's face. Too slow. Hiroki slipped under it effortlessly, his body moving like a shadow. Before the thug could react, Hiroki's fist rocketed upward, burying itself deep into his kidney.
CRACK.
A sickening noise echoed through the alleyway. The thug's ribs snapped like twigs, his body folding inward as if he'd been caved in from the inside. A strangled gurgle escaped his lips before he collapsed instantly, convulsing on the ground, vomiting blood.
One down.
Hiroki didn't even take a breath before he moved to the second thug—a towering brute, built like a boulder.
The bastard roared, swinging a wooden bat with all his might, aiming to split Hiroki's skull open. But Hiroki wasn't there. At the last second, Hiroki feinted, twisting to the side like a phantom, the bat slicing through empty air.
The brute's eyes barely widened in shock before Hiroki was already behind him.
Both arms locked around his waist.
A brutal yank.
And then—BOOM!
Hiroki arched his back and Slammed the thug's skull directly into the concrete with a devastating German suplex. The impact was like a car crash. His spine folded. His head cracked against the pavement so hard, blood instantly pooled beneath it. The giant twitched violently before his entire body went limp.
Two down.
The third thug? He was already pissing himself.
The metal bat clattered to the floor as he took slow steps backward, his lips trembling. This wasn't a fight. This was a massacre.
"N-No…" he whispered, shaking his head. "F-F*ck this, I—I'm out…"
He turned to run.
Wrong move.
Hiroki's foot shot forward.
A vicious push kick—straight to the center of his back.
The thug flew.
SMASH!
His body slammed against the brick wall with bone-rattling force, a disgusting crunch signaling the shattering of ribs. He groaned, slumping against the wall, his hands weakly grasping at the air.
Hiroki approached, slow and deliberate.
The thug gasped, his voice pathetic. "P-please—"
SNAP.
Hiroki's boot came down hard on his knee. The bone twisted at a sickening 90-degree angle. The man's howl of agony ripped through the street.
But Hiroki wasn't done.
With one last act of pure malice, he cocked his fist back—**knuckles glistening with the blood already smeared on them—**and drove a final, merciless punch into the thug's face.
Teeth shattered. Nose caved in. Skull fractured.
The body crumpled.
Three down.
Hiroki exhaled sharply, flicking the blood off his gloves, his eyes still burning with raw fury.
This wasn't just a fight.
This was a warning.
And every last bastard in that alleyway got the message loud and clear:
Crossing Hiroki Mori was a death sentence.
The fight was nearly over—a bloodbath left in Hiroki's wake. Bodies lay broken, twitching, groaning in agony. The air reeked of sweat, iron, and fear.
But then—movement.
The leader—the same bastard who had mocked Hiroki, who had puffed smoke into his face with a cocky grin—wasn't down yet.
With a trembling body and staggering steps, he forced himself up, clutching his gut where Hiroki's spiked glove had nearly ruptured his insides. His breath was ragged, his pupils shaking. Pure terror in his eyes.
He did the only thing left to do.
He ran.
Hiroki's gaze snapped to him, and for a moment, pure rage flashed through his veins. The bastard thought he could run?
Before Hiroki could take off after him, his instincts made him turn—to Peter.
Peter was still there. Unmoved. Arms relaxed, a faint breeze rustling his jacket. The chaos around him seemed irrelevant. He was watching Hiroki—not the leader. Only Hiroki.
For a moment, a thick silence weighed the air between them.
Then—Peter smiled.
A slow, knowing grin. His chin lifted ever so slightly, and then—
He nodded.
A single motion. A command without words.
Go.
Hiroki needed nothing more. His lips curled into a dark smirk as he turned back toward the fleeing thug.
He bolted.
The hunt had begun.
The night wasn't over. Not yet.
To Be Continue...