Chapter 1: Raiden Kuroshi

The underground fight club was a cacophony of noise—shouts, cheers, and the steady pulse of bass-heavy music vibrating through the damp, dimly lit basement.

The ring, a simple square of stained mats surrounded by a metal railing, was the centerpiece of this crude coliseum. Smoke hung in the air, mixing with the stale scent of sweat and blood. The crowd was wild tonight, pushing and jostling against each other to get a better view of the action.

At the center of it all stood Raiden Kuroshi, a man whose name echoed like a thunderclap in the underground circuit. He was tall and lean, with a wiry frame that belied the explosive power behind his strikes. His sharp cheekbones and piercing dark eyes gave him an air of untouchable confidence—no, arrogance.

His signature long black hair was tied back in a messy ponytail that swayed with each movement, a detail that only made him more infuriatingly cocky to his opponents.

Raiden didn't just win fights. He dismantled opponents. He broke them down physically, mentally, and emotionally. He used their own martial art specialities against them. And he reveled in it.

"Is that all you've got?" he sneered, wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His opponent lay crumpled at his feet, gasping for air, his ribs surely cracked from the last brutal kick.

Raiden stepped over the man like one might step over a puddle on the street. He turned to face the roaring crowd, arms outstretched, basking in their conflicting cries of admiration and loathing.

"You all see this?" Raiden shouted, his voice cutting through the noise like a knife.

"Another wannabe warrior brought down by sheer perfection. Go ahead, clap for me. Boo me. Do whatever you want. The fact remains: no one in this dump can touch me!"

The crowd's response was a mix of cheers, jeers, and curses, but Raiden's smirk only grew wider. He thrived on the animosity. It was fuel for his fire.

From the edge of the ring, a hulking figure stepped forward, the veins in his neck bulging with fury. The man was a beast, towering over six feet with muscles that looked like they were carved from stone. His name was Boro, and he had a reputation of his own. But Raiden didn't care.

"Raiden!" Boro's voice was a deep rumble, barely masking the venom in his tone. "You think you're untouchable, huh? How about stepping into the ring with me next?"

Raiden tilted his head, feigning consideration. "Boro, Boro, Boro," he drawled, shaking his head mockingly.

"Didn't I already beat your sorry ass last month? You're still limping from that, aren't you? You want me to break the other leg this time?"

The crowd erupted in laughter, and Boro's face turned a deep shade of crimson.

"You've got a big mouth, Raiden," Boro snarled. "But let's see how big it is when I shove my fist down your throat."

Raiden laughed—a sharp, cutting sound that only stoked Boro's rage. "Oh, I'm trembling," he said, holding up his hands in mock fear. "Tell you what, big guy. You want another shot at me? Get in line. I've got to finish mopping the floor with these amateurs first."

The words were barely out of his mouth when Boro lunged at him, vaulting over the ropes and charging like a bull. The crowd gasped as Raiden sidestepped with ease, tripping the larger man and sending him sprawling face-first onto the mat.

"See?" Raiden said, spreading his arms theatrically. "All brawn, no brain. Typical."

But as Raiden turned to face the crowd again, he noticed something. Boro wasn't alone. From the shadows emerged a group of men, each armed with weapons—bats, chains, and, most concerningly, knives.

"Well, this is new," Raiden muttered under his breath, his smirk faltering for the first time.

Boro pushed himself to his feet, a sinister grin spreading across his face. "You didn't think I'd come alone, did you, Raiden? You've humiliated me for the last time."

The gang moved to surround him, and the energy in the room shifted. The crowd, sensing the danger, began to back away from the ring. The once-loud cheers and jeers quieted into a tense murmur.

Raiden's heart pounded, but he refused to show fear. He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck as he assumed his stance. "Bringing a gang to a fistfight? That's low, even for you, Boro. But hey, I get it. You need all the help you can get."

The gang charged.

Raiden moved like lightning, his years of martial arts training taking over. He dodged a bat swing and delivered a spinning kick to the attacker's jaw, sending the man crashing to the ground. He grabbed another's wrist, twisting it until the knife clattered to the floor, then landed a devastating elbow strike to the man's temple.

But no matter how skilled he was, the numbers were against him. For every man he took down, two more seemed to take their place. A chain whipped across his back, drawing a grunt of pain, and a bat clipped his shoulder, sending him stumbling.

Still, Raiden laughed—a wild, almost maniacal sound. "Is this all you've got? I've fought children tougher than you!" he spat, blood dripping from his split lip.

The gang hesitated for a moment, unnerved by his arrogance even as he bled. But then Boro stepped forward, a long blade gleaming in his hand.

"End of the line, Raiden," Boro growled.

Raiden straightened, his breathing labored but his grin unyielding. "You think a blade scares me? Come on, Goro. Show me what you've got."

Boro lunged, and Raiden sidestepped, delivering a swift kick to his ribs. But this time, Boro was ready. He spun with surprising agility for a man his size, driving the blade into Raiden's abdomen.

Time seemed to freeze.

Raiden's eyes widened as he staggered back, the blade buried deep in his stomach. Blood blossomed across his shirt, dark and warm. He stumbled, his legs suddenly weak, and fell to his knees.

The room was silent, the crowd too shocked to make a sound. Boro loomed over him, a triumphant sneer on his face.

Raiden looked down at the blade, then back up at Boro. And then … he laughed. A deep, genuine laugh that echoed through the room.

"Never … liked swords and blades," he choked out, his voice raspy but defiant. "They suck."

He collapsed onto the mat, the fight finally leaving his body. But even as his vision blurred and the world faded around him, his smirk remained. Raiden Kuroshi, the arrogant martial artist who mocked death itself, died as he had lived—unapologetically bold, infuriatingly cocky, and undeniably unforgettable.

The crowd dispersed in silence, the air heavy with the weight of what had just happened. Raiden's body lay still in the ring, his blood seeping into the stained mats. And yet, for those who had witnessed his final moments, one thing was clear: Raiden Kuroshi may have died, but his legend would live on.

Well, Technically it was true. His legend would live on in another world.