The Forge wasn't on any map.
No sign. No GPS pin. No official records. Just a time, an address, and a warning.
Reina Katsuro's voice echoed in my head as I stood outside the building, fingers tightening around the black card she had given me.
"Once you walk through that door, Kaito... there's no turning back."
I hadn't asked questions.
I hadn't hesitated.
The address led me to the edge of Tokyo's industrial zone a graveyard of rusted factories and half-abandoned shipping yards. The morning fog clung to the concrete like a shroud. The scent of diesel, wet metal, and distant garbage fires lingered in the air. Trucks rumbled in the distance, their low growls fading into the city's underbelly.
I stood in front of what looked like an abandoned slaughterhouse. Corrugated metal siding, paint peeling in flakes, and windows boarded so tight you'd think someone was hiding a war crime inside. The place radiated a quiet menace. I half-expected the door to be padlocked.
But it wasn't.
The steel door groaned open at my touch, protesting like a beast stirred from sleep.
And when it shut behind me, it slammed like a tomb.
The noise echoed, loud and final, through the cavernous space beyond.
Inside, everything changed.
The outer shell may have looked like decay, but the heart of the building pulsed with brutal, controlled life.
I stared, stunned.
A massive space stretched out beneath the warehouse a level cut beneath ground, reinforced with thick steel beams and concrete that looked military-grade. It was less of a gym and more of a bunker. No mirrors. No posters. No slogans.
Just pain.
The air was thick with the unmistakable cocktail of sweat, blood, chalk, and industrial disinfectant. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a cold blue-white glare that made everyone look paler, harder, hungrier.
In the center of the space sat a full-size MMA cage worn but solid, its chain-link fence patched with fresh welding and old bloodstains. Around it, heavy bags swung in slow arcs, assaulted by bodies that moved like machines. Rows of free weights and squat racks lined the far wall. A long stretch of mat space ran along the edge of the room, where pairs of fighters grappled in silence.
There was no music. No shouting. No hype.
Just the rhythm the metronome of fists slamming pads, the hiss of exhaled breath, the dull thud of bodies hitting the floor. Every movement was precise. Efficient. Ruthless.
These weren't dreamers. These weren't amateurs trying to get in shape.
They were killers in training.
I'd barely stepped forward when she appeared Reina Katsuro, sharp as ever.
Gone was the coat and heels from last night. Today she wore a tailored black tracksuit with crimson piping along the sleeves, clipboard in hand. Her hair was tied back, her expression as composed as ever.
"You came," she said. No warmth. No pride. Just acknowledgment.
"I said I would," I replied, trying not to let my nerves show.
She gave a single, curt nod. "Then let's see if you're worth the air in here."
I blinked. "What kind of assessment are we talking about?"
She didn't answer. Not right away.
Instead, she gestured to the cage.
A man had stepped inside while we were speaking tall, massive, with the kind of presence that made your instincts recoil before your brain caught up. His skin was a patchwork of scar tissue and faded tattoos. One eye was milky white, clouded over from an old injury. His neck was thick like a bull's, shoulders wider than the cage door itself.
He cracked his knuckles pop-pop-pop then stared directly at me. Not with aggression. Just… certainty. Like he already knew how this would end.
"This," Reina said simply, "is Kuma."
I swallowed hard.
I'd heard the name before. Kumagai Hiro former Pride FC legend, known for his brutal judo slams and a penchant for smiling while breaking bones. He'd disappeared from the public eye after a match that ended with his opponent in the ICU.
Now he was here.
"Five minutes," Reina said, as if she were discussing weather. "Last the round, and you'll have a place in The Forge."
I looked at her, blood draining from my face. "And if I don't?"
She tilted her head slightly, as if the question itself bored her. "Then you walk out. Or crawl."
Kuma said nothing.
Just raised his fists and waited.
My hands trembled as I stripped down to my shorts. No gear. No mouthguard. No coach whispering advice in my ear. I wrapped my knuckles myself, the tape barely holding together. My ribs still ached from yesterday, but adrenaline was flooding my veins, drowning the pain in fear.
I stepped into the cage.
The mat was cold under my feet.
The cage door shut behind me with a click that sounded a hell of a lot like a lock.
A digital clock on the wall ticked down.
Reina's voice rang out, loud and sharp.
"Begin."
The bell sounded.
Kuma didn't charge.
He didn't even raise his guard.
He walked forward, calm, methodical like a predator too experienced to bother with theatrics. His hands were low. His eyes never blinked.
I moved first.
A jab. Light, fast. Just to test the waters.
He didn't flinch.
I threw a leg kick, trying to keep distance.
Mistake.
He caught it effortlessly and before I could react, his fist drove into my sternum like a sledgehammer.
I flew backward, crashing into the cage wall. My spine rattled. Air fled my lungs in a single, gasping whoosh. I dropped to one knee, eyes wide, lungs on fire.
But I stood.
My ribs screamed in protest.
I took a shaky breath.
And I charged.
A flurry of punches desperate, wild. He deflected them with ease, his body a wall of trained reflex. Then he grabbed my shoulder, pivoted, and tossed me over his hip in a seamless judo throw.
The mat caught me like a slap to the soul.
Still, I rose.
Again.
And again.
The clock ticked.
Every time I moved, he dropped me. A liver shot. A leg sweep. A spinning throw that left me disoriented and coughing blood.
My vision blurred. My head rang.
But I kept getting up.
And somewhere, through the haze and hurt, Reina's voice echoed again in my skull:
"Just pain. Sacrifice. And the will to become something more."
Was this what she meant?
Was this the crucible?
I crawled to my feet again. My hands dangled. My legs trembled. My blood dripped onto the mat in soft, steady taps.
Kuma paused.
For the first time, his expression shifted not pity. Not concern.
Respect.
Then the bell rang.
I collapsed to my knees, chest heaving, lungs full of broken glass. Sweat poured from my skin, mixing with blood. My limbs didn't feel like they belonged to me anymore.
Kuma stepped back. Nodded. Just once.
A single motion, but it meant everything.
I had survived.
Reina walked up to the cage and looked down at me. Her expression unreadable.
"You lasted," she said. "Barely."
I wiped blood from my lips. "That means I'm in?"
Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. "You're not dead. That's enough."
She turned toward the rest of the gym, raising her voice. It carried without effort a crack of thunder in a place built for storms.
"This is Kaito Tanaka," she said. "He's your new punching bag."
A few heads turned. No one clapped. No one welcomed me.
Reina continued, her tone sharp as a scalpel.
"Until he becomes your replacement."
The silence that followed was heavier than any applause could've been.
They were already sizing me up.
Already imagining how they'd break me down.
The rest of the day was a blur.
I trained until I puked. Then I trained more.
Drills. Sparring. Conditioning circuits that felt like they were designed by sadists. One guy dislocated his shoulder during wrestling. No one stopped. Reina just called for someone to drag him off the mat.
The Forge wasn't a place you joined.
It was a place you survived.
That night, long after the lights dimmed and most of the fighters vanished into the Tokyo darkness, I sat alone on a bench in the locker room.
My reflection stared back at me from a cracked mirror battered, bloodied, bruised. My eye was already swelling shut. My lips split.
I didn't look like a champion.
Not even close.
But for the first time in my life...
I saw a fighter.
Not a dreamer.
Not a victim.
Not a punching bag.
A fighter.
And that?
That was enough to keep going.