Maybe... just maybe if Tyson had remained a low life, with no talent, his story wouldn't have turned out to be so epic. If he hadn't gained the inheritance of an ancient warrior I wouldn't have told his story, but he did. And then he became the baddest motherfucker on the planet.....
They said Tyson was born cursed. A merchant son with the bones of a beggar and the pride of a lion too stubborn to die quietly. He couldn't lift what others carried, couldn't hit with the same weight, and no matter how much meat he ate, his body refused to grow. In a city built by warriors and ruled by strength, Tyson was a walking joke, one dressed in fine clothes but shaped like he hadn't eaten in weeks. But he refused to break. He tried to join the Amirian army and today was sparring day.
Around the evening hours in Amira, one of the strongest cities under the control of the Karis Empire, the training grounds rang with the sound of fists striking flesh, boots thudding against sand, and breathless grunts. The air smelled like sweat, blood, and burning determination. This camp didn't raise boys or girls, no, it handcrafted weapons. Those who survived the training would have the chance to enter the Amirian army, a force respected across the entire Barsinsa region. It was a badge of honor, the kind that could rewrite a family's future.
Beads of sweat trickled down the backs of dozens of trainees, young men and women who dreamed of becoming melee fighters. They clashed in pairs across the grounds, eyes locked in combat, feet moving with purpose, minds sharp. Sai Chin was the core martial style of the empire, and every trainee here had to master it. But no amount of theory or practice could fix a body that wouldn't listen. Tyson had learned that the hard way. Off to the side, away from the others, Tyson sat alone on a small wooden stool, his shoulders hunched and his head lowered. His tall frame should've looked imposing. He had a strong jaw, sharp features, and a serious face that belonged on a statue, his hair was as long as a spear. Tied in a bun. But none of that mattered when you looked closer and saw how thin he really was, skin stretched over bones, arms like dry branches, muscles that never grew no matter how hard he trained. He looked like a stray dog in fresh clothes.
He used to think he was just slow. Maybe he didn't understand Sai Chin the way others did. So he studied the basics, memorized every stance and motion, drilled the patterns until he could recite them in his sleep. But still, he couldn't keep up. His strikes were lighter, his footwork slower, his body too fragile. The problem wasn't knowledge. It was him. So he did what no sane trainee would do. He looked for a different answer. Four months ago, Tyson spent every coin he had on a damaged copy of an ancient martial art— the Leechadori. It was older than Sai Chin, older than the empire itself. Once, it had built legends. Then it was discarded, locked away by those who deemed it unfit for usage in the army. It was too wild, too complicated, too dangerous. But that didn't stop him. He began combining the two. Piece by piece. Movement by movement. He tested his theory again and again, until he gave the hybrid style a name: Saidori. It was ugly, unstable, and sometimes left his body aching in places he didn't know existed, but it worked. Slightly. When the pieces clicked, he could move faster than before, evade strikes he shouldn't have been able to and hit with more precision. It wasn't perfect. But it was progress.
Now, he sat quietly, lost in thought, staring at the ground while the others sparred. His ribs still ached from the last session. He hadn't mastered Saidori, not even close. A flaw still lingered. An invisible wall where the two techniques clashed. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't solve it. And time was running out. The final test was two months away. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. Silence rolled across the camp like a wave.
Captain Jack had arrived.
He was a chubby man with a kind face and strict discipline. A man of few words and fewer second chances. Every recruit in Amira knew what his presence meant. The serious training had begun. One look from him and everyone dropped into formation. There was no need for an announcement.
The sparring sessions began.
First up were Chris and Becky. Despite her beauty, Becky was as dangerous as any man in the camp. Quick, smart, and strong, she had mastered Sai Chin with precision. Chris knew better than to underestimate her. He struck first, throwing a feint jab to her left, trying to distract Becky from his actual strike. Becky didn't move. She read him like a book. He twisted, lifted off the ground, and spun into a roundhouse kick. Becky blocked it, barely flinching. Then came his real attack, a second kick while upside down, using both arms to balance. But Becky was ready. She swept one of his arms from beneath him just as he attacked. Chris began to fall, only to take a crushing punch to the ribs that sent him rolling off the arena floor. The camp roared. Becky simply stood there, her stance firm and graceful. Captain Jack nodded once in approval.
Then came Brute.
He didn't need an introduction. A wall of muscle, tattoos covering his arms and chest, Brute looked like someone carved from iron. One of his opponents had already forfeited without throwing a punch. and now his second opponent stood in the ring with a slight sign of terror on his face, the internal struggle he was going through right then and there could clearly be seen on his face. He wondered if provoking Brute for a little of Captain Jack's favor was worth it, it was just a sparring session and he didn't want to break his bones over it, however he also didn't want to give up easily so that he wouldn't seem like a coward in front of his friends, he gathered himself, took a fighting stance and decided to fight. He rushed Brute letting out a torrent of punches, but with a basic hand defense stance Brute took all of his opponent's attacks like they were folded scraps of paper being thrown at him. Then he sent out a quick jab, the wind from Brute's punch made his opponent stumble back even though he had cleanly dodged the punch. Just as his opponent was in a disheveled state, brute took advantage of the moment and took another step forward, and delivered a second punch that made his opponent wince in pain and vomit his breakfast and lunch on the floor. He tried to stand up again but he was too dizzy, and the match was called off. After a few more matches it was finally Tyson's turn.
He rose from his stool and stepped into the ring. Laughter erupted across the camp. Twenty-seven trainees shouted insults, mockery, and doubt. It was tradition now. Tyson was the punching bag, the comedy relief. Captain Jack's face darkened, and with a sharp yell, he silenced them.
Across from Tyson stood Brute.
The difference in size was obvious. Tyson was six-foot-two, but Brute stood three inches taller and weighed twice as much. His muscles rippled under his tunic. He didn't see Tyson as a threat. Just an annoying stain. "I'd admire your guts," Brute said, stepping forward, "if you weren't so damn pathetic. You look like a beggar trying to fight a war god."
Tyson stared at him coldly just because he was constantly bullied it didn't mean he would bow, he responded. "Are we gonna fight or are you just going to keep talking trash? Honestly I thought I knew everything about you but I didn't know your mouth was as big as your brain."
Gasps rippled through the camp.
Brute's eyes narrowed. "Alright. You want pain? You'll get it."
Captain Jack shouted, "Begin!"
Brute lunged like a beast, trying to grab Tyson's throat. But Tyson wasn't the same boy they remembered. His feet shuffled in a strange rhythm. The Saidori footwork kicked in, blending old and new, making his movements unpredictable. Tyson dodged sideways just in time, twisted his neck to avoid the grip, and countered with a punch to Brute's gut.
It landed.
He darted behind Brute, threw three more quick punches to his ribs, then backpedaled five feet away before Brute could swing. The crowd was stunned. Even Brute seemed thrown off.
But the strikes did nothing. Brute's body absorbed them like water on a duck's back.
"You've been practicing," Brute sneered. "But you still hit like a child."
He rushed again, this time with a decoy punch. Tyson dodged and moved in for another hit. But Brute had been waiting. He snatched Tyson's wrist mid-punch and squeezed. A loud crack echoed through the camp. Tyson winced, teeth clenched. "Let go of me, you crooked-teeth tyrant!"
Brute grinned. "Save your breath. You'll need it to explain what happened to your mother."
He lifted Tyson into the air with the broken wrist. His feet dangling as if he was nothing but a stuffed bear. Then he pummeled Tyson's exposed ribs with three heavy punches.
One, two, three. The punches sounded like sandbags being thrown to the floor. Then he threw him aside like trash.
Tyson hit the ground hard, blood filling his mouth, ribs shattered, arm broken. His world went black.