That evening, the golden light of the setting sun pierced through the tall glass windows of the Sagara family’s training hall. The vast wooden floor echoed with the sound of footsteps and heavy breaths.

In the center stood Ryo, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the coiled dragon tattoo crawling along his left arm. Before him, Raito—a six-year-old boy—stood trembling, his small body slick with sweat, fists clenched in a shaky stance.

“Stand up again.” Ryo’s voice was cold, deep, leaving no room for refusal.

Raito staggered, his knees trembling. He tried to launch a punch at his father, but in a flash, Ryo deflected it, sending the boy crashing to the hard wooden floor.

“Ughh…” Raito winced, clutching his shoulder in pain.

Ryo lowered himself slightly, his sharp eyes fixed on his son.

“You’re weak, Raito. If you collapse like this on the streets, you’ll die. Again.”

The boy lifted his head, eyes shimmering with tears, yet refusing to look away. With grit, he forced himself back up, sweat and dust streaking across his cheeks.

They faced each other once more. Raito moved swiftly, attempting a kick, but Ryo countered with ease, throwing him down again.

The sound of his small body hitting the floor echoed through the hall. Raito lay there, chest rising and falling rapidly, one hand reaching forward as he struggled to rise once more.

Ryo watched in silence, his jaw tightening. A hidden spark of pride flickered in his gaze—because no matter how many times he fell, Raito still stood. Yet his lips voiced no praise, only stern command:

“You are my son. You must be strong. Once more."