Wounds that taught us to kill

Hearts That Never Forget

Two days after the fight

Port of Osaka – Cubicle 17

Temperature: 8°C. Overcast sky.

True's body still throbbed.

Bandages covered his ribs, eyebrow and the side of his head. He breathed slowly, sitting on the cold floor, his knees raised, sweating despite the cold. The blood had already dried. The pain had not.

Outside, the port roared with the sound of machinery and steel.

Inside, only silence between heartbeats.

True remembered the fall, the blood in his eyes, Mutesouri's words — and Yuchagashi's voice in his ear:

"You lost… But you passed."

It ate at him. The fact that he had been accepted not for victory, but for resistance.

He hated losing.

But he hated the idea of ​​being weak even more.

That afternoon, Boris came in.

Without saying a word, he left a bowl of rice and fish on the floor. True looked at it, but did not eat.

"Are you punishing yourself?" Boris asked, lighting a cigarette.

"No," True replied hoarsely. "I remember."

A thick silence formed.

"Get up," Boris said.

"What for?"

"Let's train."

The Training

They went to Warehouse 3 again. But this time, without spectators.

Just Boris and True, and the echoes of their stories.

Boris handed over heavy leather gloves. They were his, from decades ago.

— "You know my style. Straightforward. Dirty. No nonsense."

True didn't answer.

He pulled on the gloves, feeling the old leather that had already stained a lot of blood.

Boris raised his guard. Slowly. But firmly.

— "Don't hold back your punches."

True hesitated.

Then he advanced.

Small Fight – True vs Boris

True threw the first punch. Fast. Straight to the abdomen.

Boris blocked. But his arms creaked.

At 42, he was still strong… but time had taken its toll.

— "You're slower," True said, spinning and landing a left hook.

— "You're sharper." — replied Boris, stepping back and counterattacking with a jab to the chin.

FLASH!

True staggered.

For a second, he saw the past.

Flashback: When they met

True, at 11, alone in the harbor, tried to lift a heavy box.

He fell.

The adults laughed.

Boris didn't.

He just looked and said:

— "Get up. Again."

True tried.

He fell.

He bled.

And Boris said:

— "You're not trash. You're steel. You just haven't been forged yet."

Back in the present, True advanced with contained anger.

Sequence: a straight punch – a hook – an uppercut.

Boris blocked two. But the third one went through.

CRACK.

His nose bled.

He smiled.

— "There you are. That's you."

True was panting, sweating. But still attacking.

— "Why do you help me?"

— "Because… I wish I had been saved by someone like you."

The fight stopped.

The two stared at each other.

The old master and the boy without a past.

— "You still have to learn to fall… without losing your pride." — Boris said, wiping the blood with his forearm.

— "And you… should stop pretending you've given up." — True replied.

At the top of the warehouse, the late afternoon light invaded the space through cracks in the ceiling.

Outside, the world went on.

Inside, a warrior was beginning to be born again.

The Rules of the Killing

Three days after the fight against Mutesouri

Shed 3 – 6 a.m.

Temperature: 11°C. Cloudy sky.

The sound of rain beat on the zinc tiles like impatient fingers. The inside of the shed smelled of dried sweat, grease, and rusty iron.

True was doing push-ups on his bloody fists. He was no longer shaking. His body reacted naturally to the pain.

Boris watched from afar, sitting on a box, arms crossed, smoking the last cigarette of the night.

It was then that the side door opened. Without creaking.

Yuchagashi Rando walked inside, like a polite shadow.

He was wearing the same black overcoat. The raindrops evaporated on his shoulders before touching the ground. His steps were precise.

Cold eyes. Hands clasped behind his body.

True stopped.

— "Have you come to fulfill your promise?"

Yuchagashi merely nodded and began to speak with the precision of a judicial verdict:

— "The main CAGE tournament will take place in international waters. Away from laws. Away from cameras. Away from any God."

— "Before that, 500 names were selected to participate in the Qualifiers."

— "Only 32 will be accepted into the final tournament."

Boris whistled dryly.

— "Five hundred?"

Yuchagashi continued:

— "They will come from prisons, gangs, deserted military forces, secret organizations and, yes… from the sewers of society. Each with their own style. Each with a history of blood."

He pulled out a small controller and pressed a button.

On the floor, a hologram projected itself: a gigantic cargo ship, adapted as a floating battlefield. There were several iron cages, suspended platforms, containers like mazes.

— "The Qualifiers will take place on these ships."

— "No judges. No time. No mercy."

True stepped closer.

— "What if someone kills?"

Yuchagashi smiled slightly, almost as if he appreciated the question.

— "The only rule is: survive."

He then turned to leave, but before he did, he said one last sentence:

— "The ship leaves in a week. Be ready."

And he disappeared as silently as he had appeared.

The Training of the Veiled Fist

After a long silence, Boris stood up.

— "A week… isn't enough."

— "But I can teach you something I've never taught anyone."

True looked at him curiously.

Boris took off his gloves. He showed his hands: deformed knuckles, deep scars on the phalanges.

He walked over to one of the hanging sandbags and stood in front of it.

— "This… is what kept me alive for years in the underground fights of Eastern Europe."

He positioned his body. Closed stance. Shoulders hunched. Feet still.

And then he threw a punch…

sharp. Short. Devastating.

The bag exploded.

Sand flowed like blood.

— "I call it the Veiled Fist."

— "A style of boxing that focuses on reducing movement, compressing force, and nullifying reaction time. Every strike is an ambush."

He turned.

— "It's boxing for killing, not scoring."

True smiled slightly.

— "So this is what you used when you were still fast?"

Boris laughed.

— "Kid… even when I'm old, I'll still break your teeth."

Over the next few days, the warehouse became a brutal training ground.

True learned:

How to hide your shoulder before striking.

How to rotate your hips without warning your torso.

How to compress the time between thought and punch.

How to let your enemy think it's safe… until it's not.

At the end of the fifth day, Boris looked at the boy training on the new bag — the third he had destroyed that week — and muttered to himself:

— "This kid is going to crush bones with his eyes soon…"

And for the first time, Boris was afraid.

Not of the world.

But of what he was creating.

The Sound of Broken Pride

Two days after the defeat

Osaka — City center

9:32 p.m.

Weather: Dry cold, 13°C

David Hoshima walked through the city as if he were dragging invisible chains. His hands were bandaged, his eyes sunken, his expression empty.

The defeat against Mutesouri didn't just hurt his body.

It had corroded something deeper: his conviction.

— "How can I enter the CAGE if I haven't even passed the first obstacle?" — ​​he thought.

Every step through the city was a memory. The movement of his blocked elbow. His blurred vision. The spinning ground.

The final blow.

"Dead Man's Reversal"... the name of the technique still echoed like a hammer in his mind.

Aimlessly, he entered a small restaurant. Typical. Sliding doors, yellowish light, the smell of miso and frying in the air.

—"Large miso. And sake." — he said, sitting down on a bench.

The place was almost empty.

Until the door creaked violently, as if it had been ripped off its track.

All eyes turned.

Silence.

There he was.

Loukade Vou Dick.

3.30 meters tall.

Estimated weight: over 290 kg.

Body sculpted by wild instinct.

Tanned skin covered in scars.

Thick black hair, tied in a high bun. His shoulders were as broad as a double door. The square jaw, the flat nose — he looked like a creature out of the forest.

He wore loose brown leather pants, no shirt, and a furry black cape made of real bear skin, dragging on the floor. His bare feet left deep marks on the wooden floor.

"That's him… Loukade…" a customer whispered.

Rumor had it that Loukade had been abandoned in the forest as a baby.

And that, instead of dying, he was adopted by a family of Himalayan bears.

They said he learned to fight by watching bears fight for territory.

He grew up eating raw meat, sleeping in caves, growling at the wind.

For years, he was a legend.

Until, at 21, he was found by an eccentric professor named Poute, who saw in Loukade a mind still virgin, capable of absorbing knowledge like fertile soil.

Since then, Loukade learned to speak.

To think.

To philosophize.

But he never abandoned his animal instinct.

He approached the counter.

Everyone moved away, except David.

— "Sake," Loukade said in a deep, thick voice.

When he sat down, the chair groaned as if it were about to die.

David couldn't stop staring.

Something about that man's size aroused hatred. Frustration. Fascination.

Loukade noticed him.

— "Are you measuring me, little one?"

David stared, still silent.

— "Do you know me?"

Loukade sniffed the air, literally.

— "You smell like dried blood. Recent defeat. Broken pride."

David clenched his fists. The bandages trembled.

— "What do you want?"

Loukade gave a crooked smile.

— "Height."

David blinked, confused.

— "Height?"

— "Yes. That's all that matters. I want to be the tallest human being on Earth. Every inch I conquer is a trophy. You... you have no size."

David was silent.

But inside, something was being born again.

— "Are you going to the CAGE?"

Loukade drank the sake in one gulp.

Then he licked his teeth.

— "Sure. And when I crush everyone there... maybe my soul will grow another inch."

That night, in the restaurant, two paths crossed.

David, the man who lost everything.

Loukade, the man who never had anything... but grew by instinct.

Both would meet again.

Not as strangers.

But as rivals.

Open Wounds Don't Heal

Five days before departure for the CAGE ships

Unknown location, on the outskirts of Osaka

The sound of iron hitting iron echoed inside an old abandoned gym. The place had been closed after reports of illegal fights... but for David Hoshima, it was now his new home.

He no longer slept.

He didn't eat properly.

He trained. And that was it.

His body sweated blood.

His eyes carried only one name: Mutesouri.

David hit punching bags with iron knuckles, wrapped in ropes. Each punch was a swallowed scream, each kick, a reminder of his weakness. He trained with chain resistance, with weights tied to his ankles, with stones on his shoulders.

— "One more time…" — he muttered, his teeth clenched.

— "Again…"

— "I won't fall again…"

FLASHBACK

Years ago – Kanazawa neighborhood, Yokohama's marginal area

David was 14 years old. A cut on his eyebrow, running through alleys. He laughed loudly. His hands were covered in blood that wasn't his.

— "Come back here, you worm!" — a police officer shouted behind him.

David jumped over a gate, disappearing into the alleys.

Back then, he was just another street delinquent, leader of a gang called Black Kiba. He didn't fight for honor, or for dreams.

He fought for ego. For chaos. For fear of being forgotten.

He was the kid who broke ribs just to impress other lost teenagers like him.

But one day… that changed.

FLASHBACK END

Back in the present, David was punching a concrete post.

Without protection.

His knuckles were bleeding in torrents. But he didn't stop.

— "You are wild elegance… Mutesouri…"

— "I am error molded in steel."

In the back of the gym, a broken mirror reflected his image.

David looked at himself and saw two men:

The boy who enjoyed violence for attention.

And the man who now wanted redemption through the same path.

He trained ancient pankration techniques, mixed with dirty street fighting blocks: short elbows, takedowns, chokes.

But more than anything…

he trained hatred. Refined. Pure. Channeled.

— "When I see you again, Mutesouri…

— …I will break your bones until you forget your own name."

David Hoshima, the delinquent redeemed by trauma, was about to be reborn.

Not as a hero.

Not as a martyr.

But as a bent blade, forged by humiliation.

And soon, the floating ring of the CAGE would witness his return.

Steel Silence

Port of Osaka – 1 day before departure for the ships

Temperature: 10°C. Dawn. Dense fog.

The world seemed still.

In front of warehouse 3, True Hagai stood still, arms raised, hands clenched as if holding the sky itself. Sweat ran in threads down his forehead, down his chin and dripping onto the concrete floor. His muscles trembled, not from weakness, but from restraint.

He didn't blink.

He didn't take a deep breath.

He was just... there.

Alone. With the past.

Suddenly, something pulled him inside himself.

FLASHBACK

Year: 2015 – True, 8 years old

The rain fell on a leaky roof. The small house where he lived with his mother, Josefa Hagai, trembled with the night wind. Inside, the candles flickered. True, thin and with his eyes sunken with hunger, huddled close to the stove. Josefa, kneeling before him, touched his face with her cracked hands. "Do you know what your name means?" she asked, with a tired smile. "No," he said, his voice thin and frightened. "True… means true. Sincere. Pure. And Hagai… is the name of the blood that made me strong." She squeezed his hands affectionately. "You carry everything that came before you. The pain, the struggle… and the strength to start over." True didn't quite understand. But he felt it. He felt that his mother was trying to transform him into something greater than the poverty that surrounded them. "Is there food today?" he asked. Josefa looked at the floor. "Tomorrow. I promise." That night, they slept in each other's arms. Their stomachs were empty.

But their hearts… still warm.

END OF FLASHBACK

Back in the present, True let his arms fall.

His eyes were moist.

But his expression… unbreakable.

Then, another fragment of memory hit him — this time, a less gentle one.

FLASHBACK: The Humiliation

Year: 2017 — True at 10 years old

As he was leaving a market, three neighborhood boys surrounded him. They were wearing clean clothes. They were laughing loudly.

— "Hey, you're the kid from the port, right?"

— "You smell like dead fish!"

True didn't answer. He just stared at them with those empty eyes, as if he were looking at time.

An older girl walked by and laughed too.

— "He'll never have a real home. I bet he doesn't even have a father."

True remained silent. But inside, a layer of steel was growing.

He didn't fight back with punches. Not yet.

He fought back with presence.

His anger didn't make noise. It just built up.

END OF FLASHBACK

True knelt on the floor of the harbor. He looked at his hands.

And muttered to himself:

"I am what's left."

He stood up slowly.

He took a step.

Then another.

And then he began to train.

Punch after punch. Silence after silence.

As if he were beating down all the memories.

As if he were fighting against time.

The next morning, the CAGE ship would set sail.

And he would be ready.

Not because he was healed.

But because he was forged to never stop bleeding.

The Man Who Learned from Emptiness

Osaka — Kurogane District Alley

Time: 00:23

Temperature: 9°C

Light rain. Humid air.

Mutesouri Kant stood at the end of a narrow alley.

The shadows of the buildings cast distorted shapes on the damp walls. A streetlight flickered intermittently. The silence of the night was broken only by the sound of the footsteps of six men coming towards him.

One of them — thin, tattooed, and with hate in his eyes — pointed his finger.

— "Hey, brother… was that piece of shit the one who broke you last week?"

The other, with his face still swollen and his mouth sewn shut with hospital tape, just nodded angrily.

— "That idiot… humiliated me."

Mutesouri didn't move. He didn't even blink.

His amber eyes just took in the scene.

Then he replied, softly:

— "If your dignity depends on your older brother settling your quarrels… she was already dead."

The group scattered. A circle formed.

Mutesouri took off his shirt, exposing his body: old cuts, long muscles, each movement fluid as if dancing with gravity.

The first blow came from the tattooed man—a clumsy flying kick.

Miss.

Mutesouri turned his body and applied a counterattack with his heel straight to his opponent's knee.

Technique: Body Splitting—"Front Joint Explosion."

CRACK.

The sound was dry. The leg bent to the wrong side. The man fell screaming.

Two came from behind. Mutesouri spun with his elbows open.

Technique: Inner Whirlwind—"The Blow of Bones in the Wind."

The elbows hit the jaw and temple simultaneously.

Two bodies fell with soft cracks.

The fourth pulled out a knife.

Mutesouri stepped forward.

Technique: Prison Disarm — "Triple Finger Break."

Three snaps. The blade fell to the ground. The man fell soon after.

The fifth tried to retreat. The sixth froze.

Mutesouri walked towards them.

Unhurriedly.

The fifth fell to his knees and muttered:

— "Sorry… I didn't know…"

Mutesouri looked at him.

He slapped him with the back of his hand.

Technique: Soft Cut — "Slaps Break Pride."

The man fainted on his feet.

The last one ran away.

Mutesouri was left alone among the groaning bodies.

The streetlamp continued to flash.

He looked up at the sky.

The rain beat down on his face.

He closed his eyes.

And then the memories came.

FLASHBACK: MUTESOURI — THE CHILDHOOD OF HATE

Year: 2000. Inside Syria. Field of ruins.

Mutesouri was still a child. His father — a war commander and cold-blooded killer — made him watch executions. He forced him to repeat the phrases:

— "Pity is weakness."

— "Fear is a diversion."

— "The body is a tool. The soul is an obstacle."

When Mutesouri was 10 years old, he saw his own mother being beaten to death.

He did not cry.

He simply stopped feeling.

At 17, he was exiled.

At 19, he was admitted to a clandestine psychiatric hospital.

At 24, he ran away.

And disappeared.

MUTESOURI'S PHILOSOPHY

"Human beings are born to survive… but some of us evolved to kill."

"Strength is not morality. Strength is not justice. Strength is language."

"In CAGE, I don't want to win. I want to find someone who will break me. Who will prove that pain can still teach me something."

Back in the alley, Mutesouri was still looking at the sky.

Blood was dripping from his hands.

And in his mind, a single phrase whispered:

— "True Hagai…"

— "Are you the void that will fill me?"

One Fist, Two Lives

Port of Osaka – Last day before boarding the ships

Shed 3 – 5:42 p.m.

Constant wind. Gray sky.

The sound of the cranes in the background was swallowed up by something more serious: the weight of farewell.

True was finishing his last series of punches on a pillar. His fists were bare, swollen, open. Blood and dust mixed together.

That was when Boris entered.

This time, without a cigarette, without laughter.

His face was heavy. His eyes… almost human.

— "Hey, kid."

True stopped. He took a deep breath. He turned his face away.

— "Are you going to train me more?"

Boris shook his head slowly.

He came closer. He placed a firm hand on the boy's shoulder.

— "No."

— "I've already given you everything I know."

There was a pause. Boris stared at the floor for a moment, as if swallowing something old and bitter.

— "But I have one last thing to tell you."

— "According to CAGE rules, each participant is allowed to bring one companion. Someone to serve as emotional support, observer… or witness."

True frowned.

— "And?"

Boris took a deep breath. His voice came out lower.

— "I'm going with you."

The silence between them was real. Thick.

True didn't answer right away. His eyes trembled slightly. Not with doubt…

But with something rare: surprise. And something almost forgotten… trust.

— "…Why?"

Boris stared at him firmly.

— "Because I saw you born… not from the womb, but from pain. And if you're going to die there… someone needs to remember who you really were."

Before True could answer, Boris turned and waved discreetly to someone at the door.

A girl came in.

Small, thin, covered by a coat two sizes too big for her. The hood hid her face, but her green eyes sparkled as soon as they met True.

— "This is my daughter… Mayotte Soure."

— "She's the same age as you. Fourteen."

Mayotte nodded shyly. Then she lowered her head.

Her presence felt like a calm wind in the middle of a storm.

— "She insisted on coming," Boris said with a half smile. "She said she wanted to meet the boy who broke three punching bags and his father's nose."

True frowned. She looked at Boris.

— "You have a daughter?"

— "Surprise."

Mayotte approached slowly. Her voice was delicate, almost a whisper.

— "H-hi."

True just nodded. He didn't know what to say. He was more used to punches than kindness.

— "You look older." — she murmured, looking at his arms.

— "And you look… smaller." — he answered, directly.

Her eyes widened. Then, she laughed softly.

Boris crossed his arms.

— "You two look like two injured cats learning to purr. It will be fun to see that on the ship."

Mayotte then held out a small handkerchief to True.

— "To… cover the wounds. My mother used to sew these when I was little."

True took it. She looked at the cloth between her fingers.

It took a few seconds before saying:

— "Thank you."

Boris then approached True once more, and spoke in a low voice:

— "Listen carefully, boy. My last lesson for you is simple…"

— "…no one is unbreakable. But those who learn to rebuild themselves… always come back stronger."

Outside, the sound of a ship's whistle tore through the late afternoon air.

It was time.

True, Boris and Mayotte… were ready to set sail.

Three stories, three souls, one destiny:

the cage.