The dojo was silent. The only sound in the dimly lit room was Kao's soft, steady breathing as he lay curled up near the entrance. He had fallen asleep waiting for Niran's return.
Niran had been awake for an hour, staring at the address written on the scrap of paper Kao had found in front of the dojo's door.
He knew there were no answers to be found here. Not within these walls.
Rising to his feet, he stretched his sore muscles. His body still bore the marks of the brutal fight with Yoru, but his mind was elsewhere. Jirapat's face kept resurfacing in his thoughts, gnawing at him like a splinter buried too deep to remove. The way Jirapat had looked at him, calm and condescending, was more infuriating than the wounds left by his battle.
From the corner of the room, the spectral figure of Sakchai leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"Are you planning to rush in blindly?" his voice was dry, unimpressed.
Niran didn't answer immediately. He read the address again.
"If I want to know the truth, I have to see it for myself."
Sakchai exhaled sharply, almost like a chuckle, but there was a faint smirk on his lips.
"Going to war without sharpening your blade? That's just suicide."
"It's not time to sharpen the blade yet."
Sakchai didn't argue. He simply met Niran's gaze before vanishing back into the shadows of his mind.
The city sprawled before him, a decaying labyrinth of concrete and steel. Cracked roads, crumbling buildings, neon signs flickering like dying fireflies, Bangkok's underbelly stretched endlessly, a maze of filth and forgotten stories.
Kao followed silently, his small frame moving nimbly over broken pavement. He was still young, but his sharp eyes scanned their surroundings with a level of awareness that made Niran wonder just how much the little creature understood.
The address led to what used to be a shopping district, now reduced to skeletal ruins of abandoned structures.
The building in question was an old warehouse, its rusted entrance slightly ajar.
Niran stepped inside. Dust hung thick in the air, and the scent of old metal lingered. Empty shelves lined the walls, but a few crates near the center looked recent.
Lifting the lid of one, he found rolls of hand wraps, vials of stimulants, medical supplies, and neatly packaged syringes. Someone was using this place.
On the main table, a single piece of paper was left behind. The handwriting was sharp, deliberate.
"If you want the truth, you'll need to grow stronger."
Niran's fingers tightened around the note.
"Jirapat."
He had been here.
But before Niran could think further, movement behind him triggered his instincts.
He turned just in time.
Three masked figures emerged from the shadows, their presence quiet, too quiet.
No words. No threats. Just action.
The first attacker launched a kick straight for Niran's head. He barely dodged, feeling the air shift as the strike passed inches from his temple. The second came in low, aiming a punch at his ribs.
Niran blocked it with his forearm, but the third opponent was already descending from above, knife in hand.
They weren't amateurs.
His body moved on instinct.
Phantom Limb.
His arm stretched unnaturally, tendons and muscles elongating in a controlled dislocation. His fist shot forward, striking the airborne attacker before he could react, sending him crashing against a pile of crates.
The other two barely flinched. The second one lunged again, fists flying in rapid succession.
Niran twisted, using Phantom Limb once more, his leg extended farther than humanly possible, sweeping his opponent's feet out from under him.
The last one hesitated.
"Smart choice."
Niran didn't give him time to act.
He stepped in, closing the distance, and drove his elbow forward. Drilling Fang.
The impact was precise, a brutal calcium-loaded strike straight into the man's temple. The body dropped instantly.
The remaining fighter scrambled back, realizing too late that they were outmatched. He turned to run.
Niran caught him.
With a swift motion, he slammed him against a stack of crates, pinning him down with a knee to the chest.
"Who sent you?"
Silence.
Then
A smirk.
The man bit down hard. A sickening foam bubbled from his lips. Within seconds, his body convulsed before falling still.
Poison. A suicide pill.
Niran exhaled sharply, staring at the lifeless body.
"This is bigger than you think." Sakchai's voice echoed in his mind, grave and certain.
Niran didn't respond. His eyes drifted downward.
In the man's clenched hand, something gleamed.
A piece of engraved metal.
The symbol carved into it was unmistakable.
He had seen it before.
On Jirapat's chest.
And more than that, he had seen it whispered about in the underground.
The Ascendants.
One of the most powerful and influential fighting groups in Bangkok.
The walk back was quiet. Kao trotted beside him, sensing the shift in Niran's energy.
Inside the dojo, he shut the door behind him and sank onto a cushion. The small piece of metal sat in his palm, its weight far heavier than its size.
A puzzle piece. A fragment of a much larger game.
Footsteps.
Sakchai stood across the room, arms crossed, gaze unreadable.
"Now do you understand?"
Niran clenched his fist around the metal.
"I understand that I need to get stronger."
A sharp grin pulled at Sakchai's lips.
"Finally, you admit it. Training starts tomorrow. Be ready."
Niran nodded.
His eyes flickered back to the emblem in his hand.
He wasn't ready yet.
But he would be.