The sound of water dripping from Suzuki's hair filled the quiet room as he stepped out of the bathroom, a towel loosely draped over his shoulders. Steam from the hot shower still lingered in the air, softening the edges of the bare walls and simple furniture.

He wiped his face dry with one hand, his other already reaching for his Bluetooth headset on the desk. As he slipped it on, a soft chime signaled the incoming call.

James.

Suzuki sighed and picked up his school uniform: a white shirt, a blue-striped tie, and black pants. He moved efficiently, pulling on the pants as James' smooth, familiar voice flowed through the headset, sounding like it was dripping with charm even without an audience.

"Ah, Suzuki! Happy birthday, my boy," James' voice practically purred in his ear. "Seventeen, already? Time truly does fly when you're—well, you know—conquering virtual kingdoms and all that."

Suzuki remained silent, buttoning up his white shirt with deliberate motions. His cold, reserved demeanor clashed starkly with James' overflowing enthusiasm.

"You didn't answer my last message," James continued, unbothered by the silence. "Does that mean our talented Demon King has decided to abandon his throne for good? Quite the decision, I must say. Genaco Entertainment will miss your spectacular performances. The footage of your Razznik was, frankly, a masterpiece."

Suzuki pulled the tie around his neck, his fingers working the knot with a practiced ease. He glanced at the television across the room, where the morning news anchor was speaking.

"...and today marks the thirty-fourth anniversary of the infamous Meteor Fall. Pieces of the massive meteor shower struck our oceans, changing the world as we know it..."

He tuned it out. The anniversary was background noise to him—something distant and irrelevant, unlike the man currently prattling on in his ear.

"I'm done with the game for a while," Suzuki said finally, his voice clipped, each word precise. He reached for his black hooded jacket, pulling it over his uniform. "Got other things to focus on."

"Ah, yes, school. You're a senior, now. You've got to worry about finals and all that," James replied with a dramatic sigh. "How terribly mundane. But I suppose even a demon king needs to brush up on his algebra and history now and then. Can't be ruling worlds with poor math skills, now can we?"

Suzuki said nothing, pulling up the zipper of his jacket. He wasn't in the mood for James' usual long-winded chatter, but cutting him off never worked. James had a way of stretching conversations no matter how much resistance he faced.

"And school on your birthday, no less! How cruel life can be," James continued, his voice full of mock sympathy. "But don't let the drudgery of it spoil your day. I do expect you to join me this evening after your classes. We need to wrap up some legalities regarding your account and that generous payment we owe you. Not to mention your formal resignation, if you're serious about stepping away from the gaming world."

Suzuki picked up a wallet from the dresser, and briefly glanced at a picture saved inside. A faded picture of a chocolate-skinned man, a smiling young woman, and a child dressed in a black belt karate gi. The TV's news interrupted the young man's thoughts. The news had moved on to footage of the impact sites, enormous craters now turned into industrialized zones. "...many believe the fallout from Meteor Fall continues to affect global weather patterns and ocean levels to this day..."

"Evening. Got it," Suzuki muttered, stuffing the wallet in his inner jacket pocket while grabbing his bag from the floor. He was tired of talking, and the reminder of his birthday had only added a dull weight to his mood.

"Good boy," James replied with a chuckle, the approval laced with that same mischievous charm. "You'll be legal soon enough. Seventeen today... time flies, as I said. But don't worry—I'll take care of everything, as always."

Suzuki slung his bag over his shoulder, one hand resting on the door handle. He closed his eyes for a moment, the coldness in him still steady, unmoved by James' honeyed words.

"I'm counting on you." His tone was curt, signaling the end of the conversation.

"As you should, dear Suzuki, as you should," James said, his voice lilting with amusement. "I look forward to seeing you tonight. Don't keep me waiting too long—I'm not known for my patience."

The call ended with a soft chime, leaving Suzuki in silence save for the faint buzz of the television.

"...and thus, Meteor Fall remains a critical turning point in human history..."

After Suzuki ended the call, he let out a quiet sigh, pulling himself out of his room and into the kitchen. The apartment was silent, save for the soft hum of the refrigerator. It was small—barely big enough for one person—and sparsely decorated. There were no family pictures on the walls, only a couple of landscape paintings, and the few photos on the fridge revealed no smiling faces or moments of joy. Just Suzuki, alone in every shot–none in which he faced the camera.

He opened the refrigerator, scanning its contents with cold efficiency. A carton of eggs, a loaf of whole wheat bread, a few vegetables, and some lean protein. He grabbed what he needed and set it on the counter, eyeing the food with the same precision he applied to everything. Suzuki didn't just eat to live; he ate with purpose. His body was his temple, and every calorie mattered.

Three eggs. 210 calories. One slice of toast. 80 calories. Half an avocado. 120 calories.

Each item was mentally cataloged, and every calorie counted. It was the same every morning—lean, balanced, fueling his muscles, maintaining his peak physical condition.

As he cracked the eggs into the pan, the sizzle of oil hitting the heat filled the quiet apartment. His movements were mechanical, and precise. The toast went into the toaster, and while it browned, he sliced the avocado with care.

Once his meal was prepared, Suzuki set it on the table and sat down, his back straight. He ate silently, barely savoring the texture and flavor. Each bite fueled his body, each calorie serving a purpose. This wasn't indulgence—it was necessity. By the time the plate was clean, Suzuki had mentally tallied up his breakfast, knowing it was precisely what his body needed.

When he finished, he cleared the table with the same focus, washing and drying his dishes immediately. He glanced at the clock, noting the time. Everything was on schedule, as it always was.

Once finished, Suzuki grabbed his bag, slipped on his shoes by the entrance, and stepped outside. The air was crisp, the sky a dull gray with the sun barely peeking over the horizon. His apartment complex was quiet, save for the occasional sound of distant traffic. The building itself was old but sturdy—simple and unassuming, just like its lone resident. He glanced up at it for a moment before making his way down the narrow staircase to the street below.

As he walked to the train station, the city slowly woke up around him. The morning rush was beginning to fill the streets, people moving with purpose to their destinations. By the time he boarded the train, it was packed with commuters. He found a spot near the door, briefly tapping his Bluetooth headset to turn on the music at a low volume as the train doors closed behind him.

The usual murmur of conversation filled the air, but today, one topic dominated everything: Razznik.

"Did you see the final battle? That light arrow—man, it was insane!" "I still can't believe Razznik's dead. I mean, he was unbeatable. Who else could take him down like that?" "They really got him in the end, huh? He'll go down as the greatest boss in history, no question."

Suzuki leaned against the wall, hands in his jacket pockets as he listened, the conversations swirling around him like background noise. They were talking about Razznik. About his defeat. About how unforgettable it was. The excitement in their voices was almost tangible.

For a moment, Suzuki's cold eyes flickered with something—just a flicker of acknowledgment.

They remembered him.

Razznik's dream had come true in the end. He was no longer just a character in the game. His name, his legend—it would live on in the minds of everyone who had watched that final battle. In the world of Genaco's virtual reality, he had left a mark that would not fade.

But Suzuki... Suzuki wasn't Razznik.

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the clattering of the train fill his thoughts. Razznik was someone else—a creation, a fantasy, something that lived in the game. That world was behind him now.

The train slowed as it approached his stop. As the doors slid open, Suzuki stepped out, the voices still echoing behind him, but growing fainter with each step he took. He blended into the flow of students making their way to school, though he always seemed slightly apart from the crowd. His black hooded jacket hung loosely over his uniform, adding to the air of quiet intimidation that surrounded him. The other students gave him a wide berth, either out of fear or unease, none willing to meet his gaze for more than a second. It was a familiar routine, one he had grown used to.

Turning the corner onto a quieter street that led toward the school, Suzuki caught sight of a group of familiar faces loitering by a rundown convenience store. Five boys, dressed in baggy jackets and jeans, their faces rough and hardened, looking more like gangsters than students. The air was thick with the scent of cigarette smoke, and they had the kind of swagger that screamed trouble.

As Suzuki walked by, they straightened, their earlier laughter dying down. The tallest of the group, a boy named Haruto with a scar running across his cheek, stepped forward. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets, and though he tried to look casual, there was a stiffness in his shoulders.

"Oi, Suzuki," Haruto called out, voice low but firm, trying to assert dominance in front of his friends. The others fanned out slightly as if to corner Suzuki. "You still comin' after school today? For the 'Fate Battle'?"

Suzuki stopped, his cold eyes locking onto Haruto's without a hint of emotion. The brief silence that followed was heavy, and despite the group's best efforts to seem intimidating, the atmosphere shifted. The bravado in their stances faltered, and the nervous energy in the air became palpable.

Haruto's face twitched ever so slightly. The others, who had initially puffed up their chests, now seemed to shrink back, though they tried to hide it behind poorly maintained poker faces. None of them were brave enough to hold Suzuki's gaze for long, their eyes darting anywhere but directly at him.

In that moment, Suzuki understood it well—they weren't here to pick a fight. Not with him. They were too afraid, even if they didn't want to admit it. He could see it in the way Haruto's fingers twitched inside his pockets, in the way their feet shifted restlessly on the pavement. They knew better.

Suzuki considered ignoring them and continuing on his way, but the mention of the 'Fate Battle' caught his attention. He had almost forgotten about it.

Haruto coughed awkwardly, trying to fill the silence. "Uh... You know how important this is for our school. We'll control everything for one whole semester if we win this. Everyone's expectin' you to be there." He paused, the tension thick. "You...you gonna show up?"

Suzuki's eyes narrowed slightly as he thought of his meeting with James after school. Genaco Entertainment, Razznik, the finalities of his contract—it was all supposed to be handled today. But frankly, he didn't care about making James wait. The bastard could sit and twiddle his thumbs for all he cared.

"Yeah," Suzuki muttered, his voice low, calm, and cold. "I'll be there. It'll be my last one."

Haruto visibly relaxed, a wave of relief washing over him, though he tried to cover it with a forced grin. "Good, good. We'll see ya there, then." He tried to sound confident, but there was still a nervous edge to his tone. "Wouldn't be the same without you."

The others muttered in agreement, but none of them dared speak up. They simply nodded, glancing at Suzuki as if seeking confirmation that the conversation was over.

Suzuki gave a slight nod, his expression unchanged. Without another word, he turned and walked away, leaving the group behind. As soon as he was out of earshot, he heard them let out a collective breath, muttering among themselves as they quickly shuffled off in the opposite direction.

Walking toward the school, Suzuki's mind shifted back to the 'Fate Battle.' It had been a while since he'd cared about something as trivial as those underground fights, but if today was to be his last, maybe it would be worth going out with one final show.

And as for James? He could wait. The man enjoyed playing games, so making him wait was a small victory in itself.

The sound of footsteps and chatter around him grew louder as the school gates came into view, but Suzuki's thoughts remained elsewhere. The world of Razznik may have been a game, but here, in the real world, it seemed people were still desperate to prove themselves in one fight or another.

As Suzuki approached the school gates, his eyes flickered with recognition as he noticed a girl standing by the fence. Her posture was regal, almost statuesque, with an air of elegance that was impossible to ignore.

Adachi Ayumi stood with her arms folded across her chest, waiting. Her long, jet-black hair, tied securely into a ponytail, cascaded down her back, nearly reaching her waist. Even through her pristine uniform, the subtle definition of her toned muscles was visible, a testament to her rigorous training and discipline.

Ayumi's cold, distant expression softened slightly when her sharp eyes caught sight of Suzuki. Though she maintained her usual aura of composure, there was something in her gaze—something guarded, as if she was preparing herself for the conversation to come.

Suzuki stopped in front of her, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets. His face betrayed no emotion, the same impassive, indifferent look he always wore. He gave her a slight nod in acknowledgment.

"You're late," Ayumi said, her voice calm, yet there was an underlying tension in her tone. She pushed herself off the wall and fell in step beside him as they walked toward the school entrance.

"I wasn't rushing," Suzuki replied curtly, not breaking his stride.

A moment of silence followed. The school courtyard was beginning to fill with students, the murmur of morning chatter growing louder around them. Despite the bustle, a bubble of isolation surrounded Suzuki and Ayumi as they moved through the crowd, unnoticed by most.

Ayumi glanced at him from the corner of her eye, studying his expression—or lack thereof. Her lips tightened slightly, a subtle sign of the inner conflict she was trying to hide.

"So," she began carefully, her words deliberate, "Razznik. He's... gone."

Suzuki glanced at her from the corner of his eye but said nothing at first. He knew what she was getting at. He was Razznik—or rather, Razznik had been a part of him. The infamous Demon King, feared and hated by millions, was gone now. Dead. And yet, Suzuki felt nothing.

Ayumi continued, her tone still measured. "I mean, after all the time you spent as him, I thought... you'd feel something. It's not every day a world remembers a villain."

Suzuki's gaze remained forward as they walked, his voice cold and flat when he finally replied. "Razznik wasn't me. He was... someone else."

Ayumi's lips pressed into a thin line, her expression unreadable, but Suzuki could feel the weight of her scrutiny. She was probing him, trying to understand, trying to find something in him that wasn't there.

"Right," she said softly, as if considering his words carefully. "But still... it's strange, isn't it? I was there, too, you know. Aileera." She glanced sideways at him, watching for any flicker of emotion. "We fought side by side for so long. To me... it felt real."

Suzuki said nothing. He could sense the emotion she was hiding beneath her calm exterior. To her, Razznik's death was more than just the end of a game. It was the death of a friend, a part of him that had been larger than life.

But for Suzuki, Razznik was already a distant memory. He had moved on before the final blow had even landed. "He got what he wanted. They remembered him."

Ayumi's brow furrowed slightly, her grip on her school bag tightening. "And that's enough for you?"

Suzuki shrugged. "It's enough."

They reached the school entrance, and the flood of students became thicker. Ayumi slowed her pace slightly, glancing at him again, this time more serious. "Are you going to the 'Fate Battle' after school? It's dangerous. You know that."

Suzuki didn't hesitate. "Yeah. It'll be my last one."

Ayumi stopped in her tracks, forcing him to halt as well. There was a moment of silence between them as students streamed past, oblivious to the gravity of their conversation. Ayumi's eyes searched his face, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Are you trying to get yourself killed, Suzuki?"

For a second, their gazes locked, her intense eyes boring into his. Suzuki could see the concern there, but he didn't answer. Instead, he looked away, his expression unchanged, cold as ever.

Ayumi sighed, the tension between them easing slightly as she realized he wasn't going to give her an answer. She adjusted her bag over her shoulder, her usual composure returning. "Fine. I'll be there to watch, then."

Suzuki gave a slight nod, acknowledging her words but saying nothing more. Together, they walked through the school gates, blending into the tide of students heading toward their classes.

The morning passed in a blur of lessons that Suzuki barely registered. He had already gone over the material a hundred times before, and the teachers' voices droned on like background noise. He sat at his desk, going through the motions of note-taking, but his mind was elsewhere, far removed from the mundane routines of school life.

From mathematics to history, none of it was new to him. He had already mastered the subjects, understood the concepts, and memorized the formulas. The other students chatted excitedly about the upcoming club activities, but Suzuki remained silent, uninterested. His only thoughts were of the meeting with James later in the evening, and the finality of the 'Fate Battle' waiting for him after school.

As the bell rang to signal the end of the day, the classroom erupted into chaos, with students rushing out to join their clubs or meet up with friends. Suzuki, however, was already on his feet, his bag slung over his shoulder as he made his way to the door. He had no interest in the usual after-school activities.

Ayumi caught his eye as she passed by, offering a brief nod before disappearing into the crowd. She would be there later, as promised, but for now, Suzuki had his own plans.

Ignoring the hustle and bustle of the school around him, Suzuki headed straight for the gates, slipping out into the cool evening air. The sun was beginning to set, casting long shadows across the pavement. His mind was already focused on the fight ahead.

Suzuki walked in silence, his steps' rhythmic beat blending with the city's distant hum. The air grew heavier as he neared a run-down school compound—a forgotten relic of an older time. Cracked walls covered in graffiti surrounded the open field where the event would unfold. The windows of the abandoned building shattered and covered in grime, seemed to watch over the proceedings like hollow, judging eyes.

A crowd had already gathered around the field, a sea of students from various schools, their uniforms a chaotic patchwork of colors and styles. Conversations buzzed in the air, excitement mixing with apprehension as they prepared for the spectacle. Yet above the murmurs of the teenagers below, there was another presence.

A group of men sat on the rooftop of the dilapidated building, silent and brooding. Their attire was sharp, out of place amid the decrepit surroundings—sleek black suits tailored to perfection, shoes polished to an unsettling shine. Some wore dark sunglasses, despite the fading evening light, while others smoked casually, the glowing embers of their cigarettes the only illumination against the gathering dusk. The way they lounged, completely at ease while observing the chaos beneath, exuded an air of controlled danger. Some had slicked-back hair or arms inked with intricate tattoos that snaked up their sleeves, disappearing beneath the fine fabric. Their mere presence commanded attention, yet they remained still, like predators waiting for the right moment to pounce.

The crowd around the field parted as Suzuki approached, all eyes turning toward him. A ripple of silence spread through the students, their casual conversations dying out as fear and respect filled the air. Their stares were a mixture of awe and dread as if they were in the presence of something both revered and feared. A few students exchanged nervous glances, and some even looked like they wanted to lunge forwardl—but none dared approach him directly. The silence was broken only by faint whispers.

"Is that... Mato?" one of them muttered under their breath.

"Yeah, he's here. I told you he'd show up."

"If only he wasn't such a stuck-up... We could've—"

"Shut it. You wanna end up like the last guy who talked back to him?"

At the front of the gathering, a young man dressed in a fitted black jacket and slacks—still clean despite the chaos—was addressing the crowd. He had the fresh look of someone who had just graduated, his face still boyish but with a hard edge to his smile. A silver chain dangled loosely around his neck, and a small scar nicked his eyebrow, giving him an air of experience. His voice carried easily over the crowd.

"Welcome to the *Fate Battle*," he said, the words rolling smoothly off his tongue. "This is where we settle things the right way—no more stupid fights in alleyways where kids end up dead from broken bottles. Whoever wins here today decides who controls this district for the semester." He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, as the students exchanged anxious glances.

As the gathered crowd began to buzz once more with excitement, the boy's sharp eyes flicked over to Suzuki's approaching figure. He straightened up slightly, recognizing the shift in the atmosphere. "Ah, looks like the man of the hour has arrived," he added, his voice taking on a sly edge as the crowd's attention shifted fully to Suzuki.

Suzuki's cold gaze swept over the field. The challengers from the challenging school were already stepping forward, five of them in total. The first two were high schoolers, their faces set in determination despite the nervous tremor in their stance. But it was the last three that caught Suzuki's attention. One was older, his face hardened by years of fighting, his knuckles scarred and calloused. The next was even larger, his build burly and intimidating, his muscles straining against his jacket like a seasoned brawler. The final one, towering over the rest, had a bulk that suggested far more experience in street fights than any schoolyard brawl could offer. His eyes, cold and calculating, bore into Suzuki with thinly veiled menace.

"I'll go alone," Suzuki stated, taking off his headphones and jacket, and folding them into his bag. He briefly glanced at a pair of sticks in the bag but then shook his head, zipped up, and placed the bag on the ground before taking a step forward.

Behind Suzuki, Haruto and three others from his school stepped forward, ready to join the fray. Haruto leaned in, his voice low and urgent. "Suzuki, you can't be serious about going alone. We've got a plan. You go last, we wear them down, and then—"

But Suzuki wasn't listening. His cold, detached expression never wavered. With one sharp look, he silenced Haruto and the others. Without a word, he stepped forward, his decision final. Haruto bit back his protest, reluctantly stepping back.

The announcer smirked, eyeing the tension in the air. "Alright, then. Looks like Suzuki's going solo again. Let's get this started."

The first challenger stepped up, bouncing on his toes, fists raised, eyes locked onto Suzuki as he closed the distance. Without hesitation, he lunged forward, throwing a barrage of rapid punches aimed at Suzuki's head. Suzuki barely moved, his eyes calmly tracking the boxer's movements. Then, in one swift motion, Suzuki sidestepped the attack, planting a quick kick to the boxer's shin. The boxer stumbled, his balance faltering. Before he could recover, Suzuki's fist connected with his jaw, dropping him to the ground in a heap.

The crowd barely had time to react before the second fighter stepped forward. His stance was low and solid, his eyes calculating as he moved in for a grab. Suzuki stood still, his expression unreadable, as the child lunged at him, aiming to throw him to the ground. But Suzuki was quicker. Just as the judoka's hands reached him, Suzuki twisted, reversing the grip and slamming the judoka into the ground with a thunderous impact. Before the judoka could even groan in pain, Suzuki delivered a precise blow to his temple, knocking him out cold.

The third challenger was taller, thinner, and moved with a strange, serpentine rhythm, his steps light and unpredictable. He darted around Suzuki, keeping his distance, throwing quick jabs and feints. His reach gave him an advantage, and he seemed to be testing Suzuki, waiting for an opening. But Suzuki's patience was endless. He watched, waited, and then, when the moment came, he struck. As the lanky fighter lunged in with a wide hook, Suzuki ducked under it, closing the distance in an instant. His elbow drove into the fighter's ribs with a sickening crunch, followed by a sharp kick to the side of the head. The lanky fighter collapsed in a heap, unconscious before he hit the ground.

Just as Suzuki dispatched his third opponent, a sleek black sedan pulled up in the distance. The door opened, and a sharply dressed butler stepped out, offering his hand to Ayumi as she exited the vehicle. She stood at the edge of the field, her presence commanding, but her expression unreadable as she watched the fight unfold.

The fourth opponent was a kickboxer, his body lean but muscular, his movements quick and powerful. He launched into the fight immediately, delivering a flurry of kicks and punches that forced Suzuki on the defensive. Suzuki's smaller frame struggled to withstand the onslaught, the impact of each strike reverberating through his body. But he stayed calm, refusing to give in.

The kickboxer lunged forward with a powerful roundhouse kick aimed at Suzuki's torso, but Suzuki anticipated the move. He sidestepped at the last second, his cold gaze never leaving his opponent. As the kickboxer's balance shifted, Suzuki struck. His knee came up in a devastating blow to the kickboxer's chin, sending him flying back. The kickboxer crumpled to the ground, knocked out before he even hit the dirt.

The crowd murmured in awe, their fear and admiration for Suzuki deepening. Above them, the men in suits watched silently, their expressions unreadable, though a few exchanged quiet, knowing glances.

The tension thickened as Suzuki squared off against his final opponent—a seasoned fighter, far older and more experienced than the others. The man was a beast, his hulking frame covered in layers of muscle. His eyes were hard, and his body moved with the assurance of someone who had survived more than a few street brawls. Every scar on his body seemed like a badge of honor, a testament to his endurance. The air between them buzzed with intensity, as though the fight had already begun before either of them moved.

Suzuki circled cautiously, his movements light and deliberate, eyes fixed on the man's every twitch. But his opponent wasn't as restrained. With a roar, the man charged, fists swinging wildly in a brutal, frontal assault. The crowd gasped as Suzuki weaved and dodged, his smaller frame barely avoiding the massive blows. The first few punches missed their mark, but then the man adjusted. A powerful hook clipped Suzuki's side, knocking the wind from his lungs. Another blow, a vicious knee, slammed into his ribs, sending him stumbling back.

This guy was different.

Most of Suzuki's strikes did little to faze the man. His fists connected with the brawler's body, but the thick wall of muscle seemed to absorb the hits like they were nothing more than irritations. Even a sharp kick to the side of the knee barely slowed him down. Instead, the man grinned, blood trickling down his lip from a previous strike, and lunged forward again, grabbing at Suzuki with both hands.

Before Suzuki could react, he was caught in a chokehold, the brawler's thick arm wrapping around his neck like a vice. The crowd held their breath as Suzuki's feet lifted off the ground, the world closing in on him as the pressure tightened around his windpipe. Spots danced before his vision. His lungs screamed for air.

But just before the darkness swallowed him, a flash of fury ignited in Suzuki's chest. His hands, trembling from the lack of oxygen, shot up, grabbing at the man's arm. And then, without hesitation, Suzuki bit down hard, sinking his teeth into the man's flesh. The taste of blood filled his mouth as his teeth tore into skin and muscle.

The brawler howled in pain, instinctively releasing his grip as he recoiled, clutching his wounded arm. Suzuki, gasping for breath, stumbled back. But he wasn't done. He quickly scooped up a handful of sand from the ground, throwing it with deadly accuracy into the man's eyes. The brawler cursed, his vision blurred, and that was all the opening Suzuki needed.

Rage coursing through his veins, Suzuki unleashed a flurry of wild, desperate strikes. His fists flew without care for form or grace, each blow driven by the primal need to win. He punched, kicked, and slammed into the blinded brawler, ignoring the throbbing pain in his own body. His fists connected with the man's jaw, ribs, and gut, each impact accompanied by the dull thud of flesh against flesh.

Now roaring with rage, the brawler swung blindly, managing to connect with Suzuki's side again. But he was disoriented, stumbling under the weight of the relentless assault.

Suddenly, one of the onlookers on the roof tossed something down into the fray—a wooden bat. The brawler, still wiping sand from his eyes, reached for it, his fingers curling around the handle with a sinister grin. He swung it in a wide arc, aiming straight for Suzuki's head.

Suzuki's hair stood on end, sensing true life-threatening danger, and the world suddenly seemed to slow to a crawl. For a brief moment, he saw everything. The bat's trajectory; splinters on the bat's surface from past battles; the brawler's veins tightening around the brawler's hands and traveling up his arms as he exerted maximum force into the swing.

Suzuki was no stranger to this feeling. Razznik often entered 'the zone,' a state of hypersensitivity when his brain suddenly processed information at far accelerated speeds.

Unfortunately, unlike Razznik, Suzuki's body could not react to match his brain. He had no option but to take the safest option, leaping back, and bringing his arms up to shield his head.

The blow connected, the wood crashing into his forearms with brutal force. The impact rattled through his bones, but by jumping back, he'd avoided the worst of it. Pain seared through his arms, and the hit snapped him out of his frenzied state, clarity flooding back into his mind.

Breathing heavily, Suzuki reached for his bag. From it, he pulled out two short sticks and, with swift precision, screwed them together into one long staff. The sight of the weapon in his hands immediately shifted the energy in the air.

Suzuki's aura completely changed, his eyes growing even colder and his lips setting into a tight line.

Watching from the distance, Ayumi leaned slightly forward. "It's over," she said quietly.

Her butler, standing beside her, raised an eyebrow. "Over? He's barely holding up, and the other guy just got a bat."

Ayumi's eyes never left Suzuki. "There's a chasm between an unarmed Suzuki and one with a weapon in hand. He won't lose."

Back in the field, the brawler, bat in hand, had finally cleared the dust from his eyes. With a snarl, he raised the bat and charged at Suzuki again, but Suzuki didn't give him a chance to close the distance. With the superior reach of his staff, Suzuki struck first—a sharp blow to the man's shoulder that forced him back. Then another, this time to the ribs, followed by a third strike to the man's knee.

The brawler swung the bat wildly, but Suzuki's staff snapped against his hands, causing him to drop the weapon with a pained grunt. Suzuki didn't let up. The staff became a blur as he moved with lethal precision, delivering strike after strike. Each hit was perfectly placed—one to the head, another to the side of the neck, then to the solar plexus. Every time the man tried to get close, Suzuki struck again, keeping him at bay.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as the fight quickly shifted. The brawler, who had seemed so dominant moments before, was now reeling, struggling to even stand under the relentless assault.

With one final sweep, Suzuki knocked the man's legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. And then, with a cold, calculated move, Suzuki brought the staff down on the man's chest, the impact echoing in the field. A sickening crack filled the air as ribs gave way. The brawler gasped, his body going limp as the pain finally overwhelmed him. He passed out.

The field was dead silent.

Suzuki unscrewed the staff back into two pieces, placing them calmly back into his bag. Blood trickled from his nose and temple, staining his white shirt, but he didn't seem to notice—or care. The announcer stammered out the result. "S-Suzuki's school... wins."

Haruto and the others began cheering, but Suzuki was already walking away, turning his back on the field without so much as a glance at the fallen brawler. As he passed Haruto, he said quietly, "This was my last one."

Haruto blinked in surprise but didn't have time to reply.

Without waiting for a response, Suzuki made his way to Ayumi, who stood at the edge of the field, watching him with her usual composed expression. Bloodied and battered, Suzuki didn't say a word. He just nodded to her, acknowledging her presence as they locked eyes.

Ayumi watched as Suzuki approached, bloodied but still standing tall after the brutal fight. Her eyes lingered on the crimson streaks staining his shirt, but her expression remained unreadable—cold, elegant, like always. As Suzuki neared her, she tilted her head slightly and allowed a small smirk to tug at the corner of her lips.

"You cheated," she teased, her tone light but laced with affection.

Suzuki gave her a sidelong glance, his eyes as cold and unflinching as ever. "There's no such thing in a street fight. Survival's all that matters."

She chuckled softly and handed him a bottle of water, her fingers brushing against his knuckles as he took it. "Touché. You need anything else?"

Suzuki downed half the bottle before replying. "Probably got a broken rib or two," he said as casually as if commenting on the weather. "Should probably hit the hospital later, but I've got an appointment at Genaco first."

Ayumi's brow furrowed slightly. "You're ridiculous. You should be going straight to the hospital, not some pointless meeting with him."

Suzuki wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, showing no concern for the deep ache in his ribs. "I can be late to piss James off, but I'm not skipping it. Besides, the damage isn't that bad. Hospital can wait an hour or two."

Ayumi sighed, knowing there was no arguing with him. "Fine. At least let me take you in the car. You're not walking like this."

He didn't object, and that was as close to a victory as she'd get. Ayumi signaled to her butler, Hayato, who quickly opened the car door. Suzuki slid in first, wincing slightly as his ribs protested, but he hid it well enough. Ayumi followed, her movements smooth and practiced, as if she were born to this life of elegance and command.

"Thanks, Hayato," Suzuki said, nodding to the older man.

"Thank you," Ayumi echoed softly, her tone more formal.

Once they were both seated, Hayato closed the door behind them and climbed into the driver's seat. As the car pulled away from the abandoned schoolyard, they drove in silence for a while, the outskirts of the city passing by in a blur of deteriorating buildings and neglected streets. The tension from the fight began to fade, replaced by the steady hum of the car's engine.

Ayumi broke the silence first. "So, if you're really quitting gaming... what do you want to do with your life?"

Suzuki stared out of the window, watching the world morph from the suburban decay into the sleek, modern lines of the city. Neon signs blinked in the distance, and above them, giant holographic billboards cast shifting shadows. "I don't know," he admitted. "But I've got a year to figure it out."

Ayumi didn't press further. She leaned back into the leather seat, her gaze softening as they drove deeper into the heart of the metropolis. Their car passed by holographic 3-D advertisements that loomed large in the skyline. One particularly vibrant display showcased the familiar sight of a Nesla Coil—a cylindrical container encasing a glowing atom-like core. The hologram spun slowly, almost reverently, as if displaying something sacred.

Ayumi glanced at her phone. "I still don't get why they bother advertising those things. Nesla Coils are already in everything."

Suzuki shrugged, his attention drifting back to the massive hologram. "Probably for fun at this point. Anything that can power a Mechaframe doesn't have much competition in the energy market."

"True." Ayumi crossed her arms, eyes narrowing as the billboard flickered to another animation of the coil, showing its capability to power a variety of machines. "King's Journey and their upcoming game... probably loss leaders to pull more people into Genaco's ecosystem. Once people are hooked, they'll need more Coils. More Coils means more control."

Suzuki's lips twitched in agreement, though he didn't respond. He gazed out the window as the car approached the city center, where Genaco's massive skyscraper loomed over the rest of the metropolis like a giant casting its shadow across the land. The building's sleek design was unmistakable, its glass walls shimmering in the afternoon sun, reflecting the sprawling city below.

Ayumi sighed, her mind clearly turning as they neared their destination. "You're really set on this meeting, aren't you?"

Suzuki glanced her way, the familiar stoic expression returning to his face. "I don't go back on my word."

She didn't say anything more, knowing there was no swaying him. The butler, Hayato, drove on in silence, the car slipping seamlessly into the fast-paced flow of traffic, drawing closer to the towering headquarters of Genaco Entertainment.

The car rolled to a stop in front of Genaco Entertainment's towering skyscraper, the massive structure gleaming under the city's afternoon sun. Ayumi and Suzuki stepped out, greeted by the subtle whir of passing cars and the distant hum of city life.

"Guess this is where we part ways," Ayumi said, a hint of reluctance in her voice. "I've got a meeting with my father."

Suzuki, in his usual detached manner, gave a small nod. "Give the retired general my regards."

She snorted, rolling her eyes at his dry remark, but the corner of her lips twitched upward. "I'll tell him you said 'hi.' See you later, Suzuki."

He nodded, and with a final glance, Ayumi slipped back into the car. Hayato closed the door with a quiet click, and they were gone, merging smoothly into the stream of traffic, leaving Suzuki standing in front of the looming Genaco building.

Taking a deep breath, Suzuki adjusted his jacket, though the bloodstains on his shirt and the bruising on his temple were far more noticeable. Stepping inside, he immediately felt the eyes of the lobby staff on him. The pristine marble floors reflected the overhead lights, and the air was crisp with the scent of freshly brewed coffee and polished glass. His disheveled appearance earned a few raised eyebrows at first, but as he casually ran a hand through his long, messy hair, the gazes shifted away. They were used to this by now.

"Who's that?" someone whispered near the reception desk.

"That's Suzuki," another answered, in a hushed tone. "The CEO's golden boy. Shows up like this all the time. No one cares anymore."

Without a word, Suzuki made his way to the elevator, stepping inside as the doors slid shut. He pressed the button for the top floor and leaned against the wall, his eyes closed as he felt the gentle rise of the elevator. When the doors opened, the polished corridor led him straight to the executive office.

James Shouyou stood at the window, as always, his back turned to the door, surveying the city beneath him. The skyline glimmered with neon lights against the darkening sky, an almost surreal contrast to the soft, warm glow from the office lamp.

"Suzuki, my boy!" James called without looking back, his voice dripping with mischief. "What a charming look you've brought with you. Bleeding and bruised—do you enjoy tarnishing my reputation?"

"Couldn't care less," Suzuki muttered, walking over to the large desk.

James turned around, his usual charming smile firmly in place. He chuckled, tossing a cold bottle of water toward Suzuki. "Figures. The documents are on the table, in case you're interested in reading through them." He waved a hand toward the stack of papers.

"I'm good, thanks," Suzuki said as he caught the bottle. Still, to be polite, he took a small sip, wincing as his body ached, the familiar sting of broken ribs reminding him of the earlier fight. But he'd survived worse. As he set the water down, he picked up the documents, skimming them with little interest.

Meanwhile, James leaned against the desk, his blue eyes gleaming with a dangerous edge behind their usual charm. "It's such a pity, you know. You're throwing away your talent. To be mundane? Someone like you belongs out there—on the battlefield. Not here, wasting away in the daily grind."

Suzuki paused, his hand freezing over the page. He stared at James, the older man's words causing a ripple of unease. With a frown, he actually began to read the documents carefully.

His eyes widened. The papers had nothing to do with remuneration. They were an employment contract—binding him to Genaco for a minimum of two years before he could even think about quitting.

"What the hell?" Suzuki muttered, looking up sharply.

James sighed, his smile never quite fading. "You really should've finished your water."

A wave of dizziness hit Suzuki like a freight train. His vision blurred at the edges, and his body felt unnaturally heavy, though he remained conscious—just barely. He hadn't finished the entire bottle, and it was the only reason he wasn't completely out yet. But he was weakening fast.

The door to the office creaked open, and two figures stepped inside—a man and a woman, both dressed in black suits, their expressions cold and professional. They moved in sync, ready to act. Suzuki knew what was coming.

He tried to push through the fog clouding his mind, launching himself at the duo with a flurry of swift punches. The man blocked his first strike, but Suzuki managed to deliver a sharp kick to the woman's side, sending her stumbling back. Despite his dizziness, his body moved on instinct, trained to survive. But his weakened state gave the duo an edge.

The woman recovered quickly, charging at him. Suzuki dodged to the side, landing a strike on her ribs, but the man closed in, delivering a punishing punch to Suzuki's stomach. The wind was knocked out of him, and before he could catch his breath, the woman swept in, kicking him hard in the ribs. The pain exploded through his chest, and he staggered, gasping.

That moment was all the man needed. He grabbed Suzuki in a chokehold, locking his arms around his neck, and tightening his grip.

Suzuki struggled, his vision going darker by the second, but the drug in his system sapped the last of his strength. He couldn't fight anymore.

Everything went black.

The cold wind hit Suzuki's unconscious body as the two agents hauled him onto the rooftop. The night sky was painted in deep purples and grays, and the whir of the waiting VTOL aircraft filled the air. They unceremoniously carried him aboard, his limp body slung over the man's shoulder.

James followed them out onto the helipad, standing there with his hands in his pockets as the VTOL's engines hummed. His usual charming smile was absent, replaced by a solemn expression. As the aircraft began to rise into the night sky, he waved a small goodbye.

The light-hearted whimsy vanished from his face, leaving behind a heavy, almost regretful weight. His blue eyes clouded over with something darker, and his voice was soft, barely audible against the roar of the VTOL.

"Forgive me, Suzuki," he whispered, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "The world depends on the sacrifice of a few."