Tokita Ohma stood shirtless in the center of the modest training room inside his new home. The air was thick with heat and sweat, the wood beneath his feet damp from relentless effort. His breath came heavy and deep, chest rising and falling like a piston struggling against its limits.
'This body is too weak…'
His fists clenched at his sides. He threw another flurry of strikes—controlled, precise, disciplined. A right hook. A palm thrust. A knee into the air followed by a quick elbow slash.
'The form is there. The technique is sound. But the power… it's lacking.'
Every movement was drawn from memory—echoes of his former life as a fighter in the Kengan matches. The Niko Style flowed through him like instinct, but this vessel, this new body, couldn't channel the intensity he was used to. The explosive acceleration of Flashfire. The seamless evasions of Weaving. The grounding force of Water Kata. All of it—muted.
Still, he didn't stop.
He moved into Water Kata. Slow, fluid steps. His breath matched the rhythm, his weight shifting between stances like water changing shape.
Step. Shift. Flow.
He visualized an opponent. Big. Fast. A savage brawler.
Weave left. Duck. Palm strike to the liver.
He executed the sequence, pushing his muscles to follow through, but the strain was real. His left shoulder trembled. His knee gave a slight twitch.
'Pathetic. I would've ended this fight in three moves before.'
Ohma gritted his teeth and launched into Flashfire—his burst-step technique that closed distance in an instant. His body jolted forward, and pain shot through his calves.
He stumbled.
He caught himself before falling and panted, eyes narrowed in frustration. "Tch."
A knock at the door broke the silence.
"Tokita," came the voice of a courier from the school. "Important announcement from the academy. Tournament in two days. For reserve positions."
Ohma's brow raised slightly.
'Tournament? Already?'
The note was slipped under the door. He picked it up, scanned it quickly.
"Martial Arts Academy – Reserve Position Tournament
Eligibility: All students not part of the current top 3.
Purpose: Choose 2 official reserve fighters for the upcoming National Championship Team."
Ohma folded the note, tossed it onto a pile of towels, and cracked his knuckles.
'A chance to test it… even if just a little.'
He had two days. It wasn't much, but it was enough for a push.
The next two days blurred into a cycle of relentless training. Ohma started at dawn. Basic conditioning, shadowboxing, breathing control. He forced his body to remember. He drilled Water Kata until his balance no longer wavered. Flashfire until the pain became familiar. He reviewed Redirection, breathing, body mechanics, the soft counters that could turn a brute's strength against him.
At night, he practiced alone behind the dorms. He focused on pain tolerance, on awareness, on tightening his techniques so that even his weaker frame could make them lethal.
By the time the tournament day arrived, his body hadn't fully caught up—but his intent had sharpened like a blade.
Inside the gymnasium, the crowd gathered. Students, instructors, even a few external scouts sat among the stands. The tournament wasn't just for fun—it was a chance to climb. To stand on a stage one step closer to national-level combat.
From the edge of the stage, a man observed quietly.
Daigo Tetsurou—head coach of the national team—stood with arms crossed, eyes scanning the participants. He had a thick frame, square jaw, and a gaze that weighed fighters like they were raw metal being evaluated for forging.
'Hm. Some decent potential this year. That red-haired kid's from the boxing club… those two from the jiu-jitsu side might cause trouble…'
His eyes settled on Ohma.
'…That one, though. Never seen his style. His stance isn't traditional. Not karate. Not judo. There's boxing in the way he shifts weight, but…'
Tetsurou's brows narrowed.
'…He's mixing in aikido? No… the angle of his palm. That's not a throw—it's a strike disguised as a redirection. And those steps… soft, like taichi but with intention.'
He glanced at his assistant.
"Who's that?"
The woman looked through her tablet. "Tokita Ohma. Transfer student. No recorded official bouts."
Tetsurou kept his eyes on the boy. "Then he's hiding something. Let's see what he brings to the mat."
The shift in atmosphere was immediate.
As soon as Ohma's energy surged, the temperature in the arena felt like it dropped. His posture had changed subtly—shoulders relaxed, knees slightly bent, chin down—but to the experienced eye, it was the stance of someone who had complete control over their body.
From the sidelines, Daigo Tetsurou narrowed his eyes. 'This isn't just talent… this is martial maturity. He's reading everything.'
The bell rang.
The Martial Warrior Intermediate launched forward, closing the distance with the confidence of someone used to dominating opponents. He opened with a downward elbow aimed at Ohma's collarbone.
But Ohma slipped just barely to the left. A movement like flowing water.
"Water Kata."
He twisted at the last second and let the elbow graze past him harmlessly. With his right hand, he redirected the enemy's momentum, using his shoulder to nudge him off balance. In the same fluid motion, he delivered a quick strike with his palm into the opponent's ribs.
The opponent staggered.
It wasn't powerful—but precise.
"What was that?" someone in the crowd whispered.
Tetsurou heard the confusion. 'They don't know. They've never seen this style before. It's not flashy… but it's lethal.'
The enemy recovered and came back with a spinning back kick, aimed low at Ohma's knee. A smart move—break the base.
But Ohma raised his leg at the perfect angle and absorbed the impact with his shin. He immediately stepped in.
"Weaving."
His upper body twisted to the right while his foot slid left. A clean dodge that led into a right hook—short, tight, and brutal. The enemy's head snapped back, and he staggered again.
Now there was hesitation in the Martial Warrior's movements. He was recalculating. Trying to understand.
"Your technique…" he said through gritted teeth. "What the hell are you?"
Ohma didn't respond. He adjusted his breathing, lowering his stance.
Tetsurou leaned forward. 'He's baiting him. He's using rhythm manipulation.'
The enemy came again, this time with a flurry—jabs to test range, then a sudden roundhouse aimed at the side of Ohma's head.
Ohma ducked under it, barely moving.
"Flashfire."
A sudden burst of speed. Ohma appeared behind the opponent.
Everyone blinked.
From that angle, he delivered a straight punch to the kidney.
Then another.
Then three more.
Each hit wasn't overly strong—but landed exactly where it hurt the most. The Martial Warrior grunted, spinning to defend.
Ohma stepped in.
"Ironbreaker."
His elbow smashed into the enemy's sternum. The sound echoed in the arena.
The Martial Warrior fell to one knee.
The crowd gasped.
Even Tetsurou, who had seen hundreds of matches, stood up.
'He's dismantling him. Bit by bit. No wasted movement, no unnecessary force. Just… perfect application.'
The enemy, panting, stood back up.
"You think I'm done?" he growled.
A faint aura of energy surged around him again.
But Ohma wasn't fazed. His eyes were calm. Focused.
'He doesn't need to talk. He doesn't need intimidation. He's letting his fists speak.'
The Martial Warrior charged in desperation. A wild hook.
Ohma parried it with the back of his forearm. Then countered.
A right cross to the chin.
The enemy's legs gave out.
Collapse.
Silence.
The bell rang.
Victory.
The announcer hesitated before lifting his mic. "Winner: Tokita Ohma."
Cheers erupted from some. Others remained stunned.
Tetsurou exhaled and sat down.
'We just found our wild card.'
He watched as Ohma walked off the stage, calm and unaffected, as if none of it had been difficult. His breathing was steady. His eyes sharp.
He looked like someone who hadn't even shown everything yet.
And Tetsurou knew exactly what that meant.
'He's still holding back. He's only scratching the surface of what that style can do.'