Kagaryuu City buzzed with quiet life. Not loud, not violent — just busy, like the city was always holding its breath. On the 3rd floor of a cramped apartment, Akira Kaito woke before the sun.
He moved like clockwork — brushing his teeth with one hand, tightening his training vest with the other. The fabric was old, faded from use. But it was his.
"Leaving again already?" a small voice murmured.
He turned. His 14-year-old sister, Yuna, stood in the doorway of their tiny shared room, eyes still half-closed.
"Yeah. Tournament week," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."
"You didn't eat," she pointed out, frowning.
"I will," he lied.
They both knew he wouldn't.
The hospital hadn't changed either.
It was whitewashed and still. Too clean. Like it was trying to pretend it wasn't filled with people slowly breaking.
Room 304.
"Oi, you look like you lost a fight with a rice cooker," his dad grinned as soon as Akira walked in.
Daigo Kaito, once a known fighter in his prime — now bedbound by a rare illness born from a dormant bloodline. His body worked. He could talk, eat, laugh. But he couldn't leave.
Not since Yuna was born.
"I'm fine," Akira said, forcing a smirk. "You're the one stuck in bed."
"By choice," Daigo shrugged dramatically. "The nurses here are cuter than your sensei."
Akira chuckled, but the smile faded as he sat down.
"I signed up for another tournament," he said.
Daigo's face tightened, just slightly. "Akira…"
"It's prize money. I'll win this one."
"Son," Daigo's voice dropped, "you're already doing too much."
"Not enough," Akira said, sharper than he meant to. "If I was enough, you wouldn't still be here."
The silence was heavy. But Daigo reached over, placing a hand on his son's shoulder.
"She didn't die for this, you know."
Akira looked down. Their mother had passed giving birth to Yuna. Since then, their lives had folded inward — into survival. He was 10 when it happened. Old enough to understand loss. Too young to carry it.
"I just want to fix this," he said quietly. "All of it."
Soon he left.
Training grounds. Afternoon.
He was out of place.
Others had padded gloves, proper gear, even sponsors. Akira had duct tape, bruised knuckles, and weight in his eyes. But none of it mattered when he stepped into the ring.
A roundhouse kick sent his opponent crashing out of bounds.
"Winner: Kaito Akira!"
The referee barely raised his hand before moving on. No cheers. No applause. Just one more nameless fighter scraping for scraps.
Later that evening, he met Yuna at the school gates. She waved a bag of groceries over her head, smiling brightly.
"Discount hour haul!" she announced. "I even got eggs."
Akira couldn't help but grin. "You're dangerous with a coupon."
They walked home, side by side through the streets. No words were needed. This was routine — groceries, laughter, shared pain, shared hope.
They were poor. But not broken.
That night, emergency lights flickered across city billboards. Footage played of a gate breach on the city outskirts.
The Souka Guild, one of the four great forces of the nation, was already moving. The screen showed flashes of power — elite fighters leaping into the fray, weapons blazing, one of them glowing with unmistakable energy.
"A recognized bloodline has arrived on site," a reporter announced. "Please remain calm."
The city clapped, cheering from balconies and doorsteps.
Akira watched silently, Yuna beside him.
"Do you think they're really that strong?" she asked.
"They are," he said. "But they were born with it. People like us… we have to fight for it."
Yuna looked up at him. "But you'll still become one, right?"
Akira nodded. "Not for glory. Not for power. I just want one thing."
"To save Dad."
He didn't say it aloud.
He didn't need to.
As the crowd cheered the guild's arrival on-screen, Akira whispered to himself —
"One day, I'll be the one they call when it matters."