Gaiijin

He lived a life no one would envy—a boy whose every breath was a curse. Bullied relentlessly through high school, betrayed by those he called friends, and abandoned by a society that turned a blind eye, he watched everything crumble: his dignity, his future, and ultimately, his family.

By the time he was fifty-nine, he was homeless, broken, and forgotten. His body was failing, but the rage in his heart had never cooled. In the dark, with blood in his throat and tears in his eyes, he died.

But death was not the end.

He awakens at fifteen. Same world. Same school. Same bullies. But this time, he remembers everything.

No longer the timid boy who once begged for mercy, he is calculating, cold, and driven by one purpose—revenge. He begins training under a reclusive, unhinged ex-MMA world champion with nothing to lose and fists like sledgehammers.

His body becomes a weapon. His mind, a battlefield. And this time, he’s not here to survive.

He's here to make them pay.

Each scream, each shattered bone, each broken smile—this time, they belong to them.

But the deeper he digs into the rot of his school and the powerful forces behind the cruelty, the more he realizes: this wasn’t just about bullying. This was a system. And he's ready to burn it to the ground.

Beneath the Burn

I hadn't been to the underground ring in a week.

Not because I was tired. Not because I feared it.

Devin Trask was finished. The fallout from the video had triggered a full investigation. Suspension was the minimum. Expulsion was on the table. His mask had cracked wide open—and behind it, there was nothing but rot.

So I went back to the only place that made sense.

He stood barefoot on the mat, arms folded, the faintest trace of something different in his eyes. Not approval. Not pride.

"You're getting sharper," he said.

He walked to the center of the floor and tapped a faded poster nailed to the brick wall.

A silhouette stood mid-air, knee driven toward an enemy's throat.

"The art of war," he said. "Precursor to Muay Thai. No gloves. No ropes. No mercy."

"Because what you've done so far? That's child's play."

It wasn't made for points or tournaments. It was made to break bones.

Eight limbs—fists, elbows, knees, shins.

The strikes were short, brutal. Meant to shatter ribs, collapse windpipes, crush jaws. There were no wasted movements. No flair. Only intent.

Ryker taught me the stance first—narrow, aggressive, always moving forward.

I spent hours being thrown to the mat.

My shins burned from conditioning drills—banging against heavy bags, scraping against wood poles.

My elbows ached from impact training.

My breath came in sharp, controlled bursts.

Every technique demanded violence—but refined violence.

A coiled viper, not a swinging hammer.

"Muay Boran," Ryker said, "isn't just about power."

"It's about message. Every strike tells your opponent: 'You die here.'"

Somewhere during our third round, the gym door creaked open.

But Ryker's eyes flicked toward the corner.

But after I landed a vicious elbow to his guard, and he reset, I heard something.

When Ryker dismissed me, I walked to the changing bench.

My shirt was soaked. My arms stung.

"You… you fight in there?"

Cale swallowed. "I saw you. You looked… different."

"Like you weren't you. Like you were made of fire."

I wasn't ready to explain ki. Or pain. Or purpose.

That scared me more than anything.

"I don't want you to disappear, Kai."

"I won't. But I need you to trust me."

"Just don't let it make you someone else."

I stood and placed a hand on his head.

And this time, I almost believed it.

The Art of Bone and Flame