The Last Breath

The sound of boxing gloves hitting the punching bag echoed in the air, over and over again. The training room was a cramped space, its walls lined with cracked mirrors and sweat stains marking the floor—remnants of countless grueling sessions. In one corner, a small fan spun lazily, doing little to relieve the stifling heat.

The young man in the midst of training was drenched in sweat. His expression was serious, almost unyielding, as he delivered quick, precise punches, each strike carrying a weight of determination. The room was empty except for him; most of the other trainees preferred the company of groups, but he was different. Solitude was a constant companion—one he had long grown accustomed to.

He was 18 years old, and though his body was youthful, traces of boyhood lingered in his face: a slightly rounded jawline, eyes a touch too large. Yet, those eyes held something rarely seen in someone his age—determination. A burning desire to be more, to become someone capable of facing the world head-on, no longer the fragile boy who had been crushed by others.

He had been a quiet child, an introverted youth who found solace only in physical training. Life before martial arts had been unkind. As a child, he had been mocked, bullied, ignored. He wasn't like the others. His parents had abandoned him when he was young, leaving him to be raised by his grandparents—who had passed away when he turned 15. Loneliness had struck early, and he had taken refuge in the grueling world of martial arts.

Boxing, karate, taekwondo, jiu-jitsu—he tried them all, seeking something that pushed his limits, something that made him stronger. But what surprised him most was how naturally his body adapted to each technique. A strike that took others weeks to master came easily to him. Agility, endurance, strength—his body seemed to know these things instinctively, as if guided by an unseen force.

As he trained, a faint smile of satisfaction appeared. He was no longer that weak, helpless boy. Even the trainers watched him with astonishment—his prowess undeniable.

"How long are you going to keep this up, training like it's all you've got left?" his trainer once asked—an older man with a stern tone and warm eyes. "There's more to life than fighting. You need to break out of your shell one day."

The young man had dismissed the advice, but the words lingered. Break out of his shell? It wasn't that simple. The world had been cruel, and only through training had he found something that made him feel useful, something that kept the crushing loneliness at bay.

Finally, noticing the worn-out state of the punching bag, he stopped. He took a deep breath, exhaling the heavy air. Exhaustion clung to his muscles, but he couldn't afford to rest. Stopping felt like losing everything he had achieved.

He removed his gloves and walked to the gym's edge, glancing at the wall clock. It was late, nearly dusk. "I need to get going," he thought. "The city won't wait."

But just as he was about to leave, a noise interrupted him. He turned to see a group of young men entering the gym. He didn't recognize them, but their expressions were far from friendly. The same troublemakers who always seemed to find him when the situation was right. They exchanged sneers and looked at him like a prey cornered.

"What's up, champ?" one of them sneered, stepping closer with a mocking grin. "Think you can train alone and be the best? You're a joke."

He didn't respond. Fighting them wasn't worth his time. He just wanted to leave. But they knew he was different—an easy target to bully. One of them shoved him to the floor. "Get up, loser!" they yelled. He stood, silent, but the taunts continued. They circled him, pushing him back and forth, laughing.

But when one swung a punch, something inside him snapped. Instead of retreating, he blocked the blow with impossible speed, twisted the attacker's wrist, and floored him in a single move. The others hesitated but didn't back off. The one on the ground scrambled up, fury clouding his judgment as he pulled a knife.

"Don't mess with us!" he screamed, lunging forward. The young man tried to evade, but the blade found flesh—once, twice, and again. The pain was blinding. "Is this how I die?" he thought as darkness encroached. "I haven't done anything... I can't end here."

The world faded as laughter and pain mingled into oblivion. But then, with a gasp, he awoke. The agony was real, intense, but different. No stabbing wounds, no hot blood trickling down his back. Instead, his face throbbed, his lips swollen and split, the taste of iron on his tongue.

He struggled to move, a sharp pain stabbing through his ribs. A groan escaped as he clutched his side—his right arm swollen and bruised, barely able to lift it. Every muscle screamed in protest.

Blinking rapidly, he forced his vision to focus. The world was a blur of green shadows. Gradually, shapes emerged—trees with moss-covered trunks, gnarled roots, and dry leaves scattered on the ground.

"What... is happening?" he murmured, his voice raw.

He sucked in a breath of crisp air—earthy and damp, unlike the urban stench he knew. Forcing himself upright, he leaned on his uninjured arm. His legs trembled, and his ribs screamed with pain.

He looked at his hands—scraped and bruised, but not bleeding. The pain was real, but there were no stab wounds. "I'm not injured? But then why does it hurt so much?"

His breathing quickened as the memories surfaced—stabbings, blood, the struggle. But the pain he felt now was different. Beaten, not stabbed.

Panic crept in as he glanced around. The forest was alien yet eerily familiar. The rustling leaves whispered in an unknown language.

Then he saw it—a shadow soaring high. A massive bird with jet-black feathers and eyes that glowed like molten gold. It glided across the sky with regal grace, its mere presence suffocating.

"Where... am I?" he whispered. But only the wind answered, carrying his voice away as fear settled deep into his bones, leaving him stranded in an unknown and dangerous world.