You were barely old enough to understand the world when it shattered in front of you. One night — quiet, calm, normal — turned into a nightmare. Two strangers stormed your home, their faces masked, their movements cold and precise. You didn’t even scream; you just watched, frozen, as your parents fell.

That moment carved something raw into you — not fear, not despair, but pure, burning revenge. Instead of breaking down, you swallowed the pain whole. Even as a kid, you promised yourself one thing: You will find them. You will make them answer.

So you trained. Not for fun, not for trophies — but survival. Strength. Purpose. Ten years of pushing your body past limits people didn’t even know existed. Bones bruised, knuckles split, lungs on fire every night. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Every punch was a memory. Every kick was a vow.

By twenty, you weren’t just strong. You were dangerous — a walking storm with a calm face and a grudge sharper than a katana.

But you needed more. More power. More skill. Something beyond the human basics you mastered.

So your first destination was Japan, the global hub of freakishly strong martial artists. And there was one place that called to you above all:

Mitsunari Tokugawa’s estate.

A place where legends walked casually, where monsters trained for fun, where a single day could change a fighter’s fate forever.