A legacy of blood and iron

The first breath that filled his lungs was heavy, like a stone pressing against his chest. Niran opened his eyes and saw the familiar ceiling of the dojo. The old wooden beams, darkened by time, looked more imposing than he remembered. Pain still pulsed in his side, but the crushing sensation of blood draining away was gone.

He tried to move. Every muscle protested. The wound was still there, barely closed by his accelerated regeneration, but his body bore the weight of it. Then, the hunger hit, a deep, gnawing emptiness in his stomach that made his vision blur for a moment.

"If I don't eat soon, I'll collapse again."

Moving slowly, he sat up, breathing carefully to avoid tearing the wound open again. The dojo was silent, too silent, as if time had stopped. He pushed himself to his feet, leaning against one of the wooden pillars, and made his way to the small storage area his master used.

His eyes lit up when he found a sack of rice, some dried meat, and a few medicinal roots. Nothing luxurious, but enough to restore his strength. With trembling hands, he lit the small stove and started cooking the rice, mixing in the dried meat for flavor.

He ate in silence, letting the warmth of the food push back the weakness in his limbs. And that was when he noticed it.

He was not alone.

There was a presence. A breath that wasn't his own.

"Who's there?"

The answer came immediately.

"Someone who can't stand watching you eat like a starving stray."

The voice was deep, filled with disdain and amusement.

"You're slow. You chew like an old man with no teeth. If you really want to live, start acting like a warrior."

Niran froze, the spoon halfway to his mouth.

That voice... was inside his head.

After eating, his body began to feel more responsive. The exhaustion didn't vanish completely, but a strange clarity settled in its place.

He looked around, seeing the dojo with new eyes. This had been his home, but now it carried a different weight. Without his master, it was just an empty shell.

He moved through it slowly, running his fingers across the walls, the old tatami, the scars left behind from countless training sessions. Then, he stopped in front of an old wooden shelf where his master kept personal belongings.

One of the panels seemed slightly misaligned.

Following a gut feeling, he pushed against it. With a soft click, a hidden compartment slid open, revealing a small black wooden chest.

He lifted the lid carefully.

Inside, there was a handwritten manuscript, a personal record from his master, and beside it, something unexpected: an old iron armband, worn with time, covered in faded engravings.

His fingers brushed the manuscript, heart pounding. But before he could read, the voice in his head spoke again.

"You find a treasure, and instead of taking it, you just stare? Pathetic."

Niran tensed.

"Who are you? Show yourself. If you want to talk, do it face to face."

"Oh? Tired of just hearing me? Fine. Brace yourself."

A wave of cold washed over him. The dojo vanished in an instant, replaced by an empty void.

A man stood before him.

He was tall, at least 1.85 meters of raw muscle and scars. His long black hair was tied back in a warrior's knot. His eyes burned with a deep red glow, like embers beneath ash. Golden bands wrapped around his wrists and ankles, and his very presence felt too vast for the space around him.

"So we finally meet."

His gaze carried a strange mix of disdain and curiosity.

"You're weak. But at least you have the guts to look me in the eyes."

Niran clenched his fists. "Who are you?"

The warrior tilted his head slightly, as if amused by the question.

"Sakchai. Though maybe you know me by another name, the God of War."

Niran's blood ran cold.

"Sakchai… The world Muay Thai champion? But you died over three hundred years ago."

For the first time, the warrior's expression changed.

A flicker of something, shock? disbelief?crossed his face.

"Hah. You know my name?" His voice dropped, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Niran. "I was sure I had been erased."

His eyes locked onto Niran, sharp as a blade.

"Tell me, kid, how do you even know of me? I've seen fragments of your memories. Muay Thai… it's broken. Weak. Almost extinct. The few dojos that remain don't even teach the real thing. My name should be nothing but dust."

Niran took a slow breath. "My master still spoke of you. There are a few dojos left, hidden… but even there, you're barely a whisper."

Sakchai was silent for a long moment. Then, he laughed, a low, humorless chuckle.

"So that's how far it's fallen."

His expression darkened.

"I was killed in 2100. Erased. Now I wake up in 2480 to find that my art, my legacy, is nothing but a dying echo. Tch. Pathetic."

His gaze returned to Niran, colder than before.

"And you? You want to fight with this weak, incomplete version of Muay Thai?"

Niran stood his ground. "I don't have a choice. It's all I have."

Sakchai took a step forward.

"No. Not anymore. If you're carrying my name in your head, then you'll learn the real thing. But first…"

His hand flicked out, a single finger striking Niran's chest.

Pain exploded through his body, a force like a hammer crushing his ribs.

"I want to see if you're even worth my time."

Niran gasped, struggling to stay on his feet.

"If you're really Sakchai… then teach me. If I'm stuck with you, at least make me stronger."

For the first time, Sakchai truly smiled.

"Oh? You want me to forge you into a warrior? Fine. But you're not going to like it."

He turned, gesturing to the empty void around them.

"Tomorrow, we begin. I'll break you. Rebuild you. And if you survive…" His grin widened. "You might become something interesting."

Niran nodded, adrenaline surging through his veins.

But his body had reached its limit.

His vision swam, exhaustion crashing down all at once. He barely made it back to the tatami before sleep took him.

"First… rest. Then… hell."

And he closed his eyes.