The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the clinking of glasses and the murmur of hushed conversations provided a soothing backdrop. Daniel sat alone at a corner table, his broad frame seeming almost out of place amid the shadowy ambiance. His usual black attire, fitted perfectly to his physique, added to the quiet intensity he radiated, drawing a few curious glances from across the room. A low sigh escaped his lips as he wrapped his hand around his glass, lost in thought.

The night had been brutal. One after another, his opponents had fallen, each one tougher than the last, yet none strong enough to truly challenge him. He had become accustomed to these encounters, where strength was tested, yet he was never pushed to his limits. The thrill of combat, once exhilarating, had become predictable, each fight blending into the next, a series of faces and fists that barely left an impression. Daniel swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the amber color catch the dim light. How long had it been since he’d felt truly alive in a fight?

He took a slow sip, savoring the burn, letting it ground him. There was an emptiness to victory these days. Power, reputation, respect—he had it all, yet here he was, feeling more isolated than ever. He remembered a time when he’d craved this, when he’d looked up to fighters like Gun, admiring their strength from a distance. Now, he stood among them, acknowledged by legends, feared by many. And yet, a question lingered, one that he couldn’t shake: What did it all mean?

As his gaze drifted to the other patrons, laughter from a nearby table caught his attention. A group of friends, carefree and loud, celebrating something trivial, oblivious to the battles that marked his life. They had no idea who he was, nor did they care. They were living in a world untouched by the bruises and scars he wore beneath his clothes. Daniel found himself almost envious of them. For all his strength and skill, there were parts of life he had sacrificed, experiences he had traded for power