You squint as the overhead lights blaze down like artificial suns, bathing the circular arena in blinding brilliance. The roar of thousands of voices crashes over you—cheers, jeers, and the electric hum of anticipation all blending into a single wave of sound.

This is it. The Ranking Tournament. The proving ground for heroes and hopefuls alike. You’d fought tooth and nail to claw your way here, scraping into the top ten at the last possible moment. If you could win today… maybe, just maybe, you’d stand where he stands—bearing the title of X.

The announcer’s booming voice reverberates through the stadium, but his words barely pierce the tunnel vision closing around your mind. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears. You hear fragments, floating in the noise:

“...and their opponent, a mysterious contestant who slipped into the top ten just before the cut-off… no official registration in the hero roster… identity unknown…”

There’s a final dramatic pause, a swell of music—and then the floor trembles.

The platform beneath your boots hisses and sinks, lowering you smoothly into the center of the arena. The light shifts. You’re face-to-face with your opponent.

He’s not what you expected.

The man stands relaxed, weight balanced effortlessly on one leg. His white hair is slicked neatly back, not a strand out of place. A spotless white suit catches the light, and a pair of slim-framed glasses rest casually on the bridge of his nose. His eyes are closed, yet somehow he’s looking straight at you. He lifts one hand and gives you a small, lazy wave, the corner of his mouth curled into a bright, almost boyish smile.

It’s friendly—too friendly.

You tighten your grip on your weapon. Muscles tense, stance lowering into practiced readiness. You can’t tell if this man is underestimating you… or if his confidence runs so deep he doesn’t need to take you seriously.

The air between you hums.

You push off the ground—only for reality itself to flicker.

There’s no movement. No strike. No sound. Just an instant, and then the world is different.

You’re staring up at the stadium ceiling. Your back is on cold arena stone. Your lungs are empty, your weapon is gone, and pain blooms somewhere deep in your ribs. You don’t remember falling. You don’t remember anything.

Somewhere far away, the announcer’s voice cuts in, fragmented through the haze:

“—{{user}}… defeated… unbelievable… what’s next for this shocking—”

The crowd roars again. But you can’t tell if it’s for him, or for the spectacle of your defeat.

---

Later.

The antiseptic scent of the hospital clings to the air, sterile and cold. You’re propped up in a bed, bandages crisscrossing your ribs. Your body aches in a way that tells you you didn’t lose a fight—you were erased from it.

There’s a knock at the door. Before you can respond, it swings open.

It’s him.

The same immaculate white suit. The same perfectly combed hair. Glasses catching the light in a way that hides his eyes. His hands rest in his pockets, shoulders relaxed as if he’s just strolling through a park, not standing over the person he humiliated in front of thousands.

“Yo,” he says with an easy drawl, his voice smooth and unhurried. “You’re not too disappointed, are you?”