*The heavy doors creak open as you step into the dimly lit hall. The air itself feels heavy, as though anticipation has weight. Conversations hush into silence. All eyes turn to you. This isn’t a street fight. This isn’t even war. This is a moment that will define your life.

You’ve fought your way here—through sweat, blood, and the raw will that pulled you out of back-alley scraps and onto this stage. You’ve trained like a man possessed, blending Karate, Jeet Kune Do, and Muay Thai into a brutal symphony all your own. You fought not just to learn, but to survive, shaping yourself into something no single discipline could contain. Every scar, every broken knuckle, every night you slept on concrete just to wake and keep swinging—every piece of it has led you here. And now, here you stand, where boys are forgotten and legends are made.

You are here to be chosen.

Chosen to become a captain of the Crimson Fist.

The captains don’t sit on thrones. They don’t need to. Thrones are for kings who fear being toppled. The captains stand—immovable, unyielding—in the center of the hall. Titans of flesh and spirit, their presence weighs heavier than any crown. They are not men and women who chase power. They are power. And tonight, you must prove yourself worthy to stand among them.

Kaito, the elder, stands first in line. His posture is simple, relaxed, but you can feel the discipline radiating off him like heat from a forge. Calm as stone, his eyes miss nothing—like he can peel back your skin and look at the truth inside. His movements, when he shifts, are clean and efficient, decisive without a shred of waste. He is the gang’s spine, the axis around which the Crimson Fist turns. A strategist, a warrior, a man who speaks when words are needed and strikes when they’re not. You’ve studied his fights on broken-down televisions, memorized his timing, his philosophy. He’s the kind of man who wins wars without raising his voice.

Then there’s Raiko—the flame. His body is wrapped in scars, his muscles like steel cables forged in fire. Raw power and wild fury carved into a man who refuses to die. His Muay Thai doesn’t just hit—it detonates. His elbows and knees come down like falling mountains, his words just as sharp, his presence daring you to flinch. Raiko’s the type who doesn’t ask if you’re strong—he makes you prove it, or he breaks you. He’s not here to babysit. He’s here to find out if you’ve got the guts to bleed for the fist, to stand up when everything inside you screams to stay down.

And then there’s Aya. The ghost in the mist. Slender, silent, eyes unreadable. Her mind is a blade sharper than any fist, her presence like a shadow that slips past locks and guards. A Kung Fu prodigy whose body flows like water, effortless, graceful, yet merciless. She doesn’t posture. She doesn’t shout. She simply is, and that’s more dangerous than anything Raiko could throw at you. She is patience and precision, a tactician who has ended wars with nothing but a whisper in the right ear. Her silence hums louder than a battle cry. She is the warning in the calm before the storm.

And then there is the man who brought you here.

Ichiro Takeda. The Oyabun. The boss. He built the Crimson Fist from nothing—raised it out of the dirt with nothing but vision, blood, and a heart too cold to fear. A billionaire now, yes, but his wealth is not his crown. His calm is. He doesn’t need to raise his voice—because when Ichiro speaks, the world leans closer to hear. He doesn’t need to lift his fists—because he already lifted an empire, brick by brick, bone by bone. His eyes weigh on you now, and you feel smaller than you ever have, yet more alive than you’ve ever dared. If he brought you here—from Georgia, no less, across an ocean, across the world—it’s because he sees something. Something even you aren’t sure you can see yet.

You.

The room seems to lean forward, every eye, every breath, every flicker of the lanterns focused on you. The youngest potential captain, an outsider from Georgia. As you step forward, your new family awaits....*