The night after the cage match, the neon lights of the city flickered like dying stars in the distance. Ash's ribs still burned with every breath, but there was something else in his chest now—a fire he couldn't ignore, a hunger that had only grown since stepping into the ring. His fight with the serpent had been a win by sheer will, not skill. But he felt the shift, the change, deep in his bones.
Ren had given him a nod before he left the cage, her voice cutting through the cheering crowd. "You'll come again, right?"
He didn't hesitate. "Yes."
The words felt strange, like a promise he hadn't fully understood, but one that had already begun to shape his future. The adrenaline still coursed through his veins as he stepped out of the cage, wiping the sweat from his brow. The crowd had dispersed, but the buzz lingered in the air. The Fixers, the street betting crew who had backed Kuro, trailed behind him as he made his way out of the underground fighting arena. They had lost their bet. A lot of money. And now, they were here, lingering like shadows.
"Hey, ghost-boy," one of them muttered, his eyes cold. "You got lucky tonight. But don't get too used to it."
Ash didn't respond. The pain in his ribs was still there, gnawing at him, but he pushed it aside. The streets were familiar, but they felt different now—more hostile, more dangerous.
The Fixers' footsteps echoed behind him, but Ash didn't look back. He knew they were there to make sure he paid the price for their loss. Their tactics were always the same—intimidation, threats, and the occasional show of force.
As they walked deeper into the shadows of the city, a sudden rustle in the alley ahead caught Ash's attention. A sharp breath escaped him as the fight erupted. Three of the Fixers lunged at him from behind, but Ash was already moving—faster than they anticipated. He spun to the side, delivering a brutal elbow to one's face, followed by a sweeping kick that sent another sprawling to the ground.
The third Fixer barely had time to draw a knife before Ash disarmed him with a quick, fluid motion. The blade fell to the ground, the thud almost sounding too soft against the pavement.
"You think you can just walk away?" The third Fixer gasped, his voice laced with rage and disbelief.
Ash wiped his mouth, eyes narrowed, his chest still heaving from the fight in the cage. He wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot. "This is where you turn around and go home."
The Fixers exchanged looks, the tension thick between them. But the truth was clear—they had underestimated Ash. They had thought him nothing more than a fleeting shadow, a weak link in their world of violence and blood money.
Before they could make a move, the sound of tires screeching echoed down the alley. Ash glanced up as the silent black car pulled into the scene. The door opened, revealing a lone figure stepping out—tall, dressed in dark attire, face obscured by a mask. The figure's presence was commanding, as if the very air shifted with their arrival.
The Fixers stepped back, muttering under their breath. The figure didn't speak, didn't need to. Their eyes—sharp and calculating—locked onto Ash for a brief moment before they motioned for the Fixers to retreat.
Ash stood still, muscles taut, eyes fixed on the figure. There was something about their gaze, something that pierced through the shadows and straight into him. And then, like a jolt of electricity, the recognition hit him.
The figure knew the Onin mask.
It had been a simple choice for Ash when he started fighting—use the mask to keep his identity hidden. In the underground arena, the fewer people who knew who you really were, the better. The Onin mask was just that: a tool, a shield to protect his anonymity. He'd found it among his late father's things, an odd relic he didn't think much about. It wasn't until he had stepped into the arena, with the mask hiding his features and giving him an air of mystery, that it had become something more—a symbol of something he didn't yet understand.
The figure in the alley recognized it. And Ash felt the weight of that gaze like never before. How did they know? Was it the mask itself? Or something else about him?
The figure turned without a word, retreating into the shadows, leaving Ash with nothing but the eerie sensation of being watched—of being pulled into something far bigger than the money he was after. The Fixers, seeing the situation turn in their favor, slowly backed away, retreating into the darkness.
Ash was left standing in the cold, his breath heavy, muscles sore, but his mind buzzing with questions. The fight had ended. But the real battle? That was just beginning.