The last echoes of applause faded into the night sky as the tournament concluded for the day. Rudra stood at the edge of the arena, his eyes fixed on the departing figures of Yamcha, Tien, and the peculiar small fighter, Chiaotzu. He had watched them all fight—watched the sheer force in Tien's disciplined strikes, the unpredictable wildness in Yamcha's attacks, and the strange, uncanny abilities of Chiaotzu.
And in that moment of honesty, Rudra accepted the truth: he wasn't on their level. Not yet. Maybe not even close.
The realization didn't crush him. Instead, it lit a fire in his chest, a burning urgency that whispered: you need more time. More strength. More patience.
By the time he returned to the hotel that night, the city festival outside was still in full bloom. Lanterns swayed in the gentle breeze, vendors shouted cheerfully, and families laughed under the starry sky. But Rudra didn't celebrate. His heart was restless, caught between the brightness of the festival and the shadow of his own limitations.
---
The next morning, his path shifted once again.
Sam Hills, the businessman who had taken a liking to him, approached with an air of casual command.
"Rudra," Sam said, adjusting his expensive tie. "Today, you'll take on a new duty. My son, Jack, is going to meet Mister Satan. You'll serve as his bodyguard."
Rudra raised an eyebrow. Mister Satan… The name carried weight in the city, a self-proclaimed hero adored by the public. Rudra had little respect for such grandstanding, but duty was duty.
When he met Mister Satan later that day, the man lived up to his reputation—at least in theatrics. Loud, flamboyant, constantly flexing, and making speeches about "protecting the world" even in casual conversation. Jack listened with wide-eyed admiration, while Rudra stood silently behind, arms folded, watching the man's every exaggerated gesture.
Days turned into weeks. Rudra's schedule became suffocating: bodyguarding Jack, escorting him to meetings, standing guard at events, dealing with petty requests. Training—the one thing he longed for—slipped further and further away.
He endured it all in silence. But his spirit grew restless.
---
Finally, a break came.
On one rare week free of assignments, Rudra vanished into the wilderness. He chose a jungle area far from the city's noise, where the air was pure and the silence was absolute.
There, among tall trees and the whispers of wind, Rudra sat cross-legged in meditation. For days, he focused on his breath, feeling the rhythm of nature sync with his own heartbeat. The chirping of insects, the rustle of leaves, the crackle of fire at night—it all became part of his training.
But it wasn't easy. His mind often wandered back to the fighters he had seen. Yamcha's quick movements. Tien's relentless discipline. Chiaotzu's strange psychic power. He replayed their battles over and over, searching for a clue, a pattern, anything he could use to grow stronger.
When he finally returned to his bodyguard role, he carried with him a renewed sense of clarity.
---
One day, while accompanying Sam Hills as part of the security team, trouble found him.
A wealthy, arrogant businessman—one of Sam's partners—looked Rudra up and down with disdain.
"This is your guard?" the man scoffed, his voice dripping with arrogance. "He looks like a child playing soldier."
The insult didn't bother Rudra. He had endured worse. But when the man's henchmen stepped forward, puffing out their chests and mocking him, something inside Rudra snapped.
The first man swung a fist, expecting Rudra to retreat. Instead, Rudra's hand moved faster than their eyes could follow. One moment, the thug was upright; the next, he was crumpled on the floor, gasping for air.
The others attacked in unison, but Rudra was merciless. Every strike was precise, every counter ruthless. Within moments, the room was silent, littered with groaning bodies.
The arrogant businessman, now trembling, stumbled backward.
Sam Hills, however, only chuckled. He clapped Rudra on the shoulder, his voice amused. "Exactly what I wanted. Sometimes people need to be reminded what power looks like."
Rudra said nothing. But in his heart, he wondered if this was what he was meant to become: a weapon for others' ambitions.
---
Time flowed like water. A year passed.
Rudra continued his duties, but the money he earned piled up quickly. Enough to live without ever needing another contract. Enough to be free.
When Sam Hills offered him a new deal—a more permanent role—Rudra politely declined. He had other plans, plans far larger than serving as a guard.
Before leaving, however, he spent time with Jack. The boy had dreams of becoming a scriptwriter, but Rudra saw something else in him: potential, energy, curiosity.
"Why not shift toward art?" Rudra suggested one evening, handing Jack a sketchpad. "Stories are powerful, yes. But when you can draw them, you give them life."
Jack hesitated, then nodded, inspired. Rudra smiled faintly. The seed was planted.
---
Rudra's next step was audacious. He hired comic artists, presenting himself as a visionary writer. But in truth, he simply copied stories from his own world—Naruto.
The character designs were replicated down to the smallest detail. Ninjas, jutsus, rivalries—all brought into this world as if they were brand new. Within months, Rudra's comics exploded in popularity. Ten volumes circulated, and soon the youth of the city were obsessed with ninjas. Fans debated characters, practiced hand signs, and immersed themselves in Rudra's stolen creation.
Money flowed into his pockets. Fame, too. Yet beneath it all, Rudra's eyes were fixed on something greater.
Because no matter how successful the comics became, his true ambition remained unchanged: to grow stronger.
---
With his wealth, Rudra began ordering rare herbs—expensive, potent, said to amplify the body's energy. These herbs weren't mere medicines; they resonated with the very flow of life, strengthening the natural energy he had begun to cultivate through meditation.
Late at night, alone in his study, Rudra would crush the herbs into powders, mix them into bitter teas, and drink in silence. As the taste burned his throat, he closed his eyes, imagining the power slowly fusing with his body.
The world saw him as a rising star in the world of comics, a successful young man with money and influence.
But inside, Rudra was still that restless fighter—watching, waiting, preparing for the day when he could stand among warriors like Yamcha, Tien, and beyond.
And in the stillness of those nights, as the herbs coursed through his veins, Rudra whispered to himself:
"This is only the beginning."