It was night-time, and the full moon was glowing brightly in the sky. A 12-year-old boy was walking with some belongings in his left hand and his mobile phone in his right hand, scrolling through it as he moved.
"Should I read about sword immortals this time? Or maybe a story about someone reincarnating with heaven-defying talent?" Meng mutter under his breath, a smile tugging at my lips.
He loved those stories—fantasy realms where weak boys became heroes, where fate could be challenged, where a single person's will could rewrite the heavens. Compared to the gray, dull life he lived in, those novels felt like windows into brighter world.
As Meng turned into a narrow street close to his neighborhood, the growl of an engine shattered his daydreams. A sleek black car screeched to a halt right in front of him, its tires grinding against the pavement.
Meng froze, blinking in confusion. The car's tinted window lowered just enough for a pair of sharp eyes to study him.
The back door flung open. A tall man in a leather jacket stepped out, his shadow falling over Ming.
"Come with us, kid," the man said flatly.
Meng took a step back, panic flickering across his young face. "W-what? I think you—"
The man's hand shot forward before he could finish. In one swift motion, Meng was silenced, his mouth smothered by a rough palm. His belongings tumbled from his arms, scattering across the street.
He struggled with his small fists beating against the man's grip, but his strength was nothing against the iron hold that dragged him toward the waiting car.
A muffled cry escaped his lips as he was shoved into the backseat. The door slammed shut. The engine roared to life, and the black car sped away.
The ride in the black car felt endless. Ming's muffled cries went unheard, drowned by the roar of the engine. His wrists were tied, his body shoved against the seat like nothing more than cargo.
At last, the car stopped. The door opened, and rough hands dragged him out.
Before him stood an old warehouse, its windows barred, its walls stained with age. The air smelled of rust and smoke. Inside, the light was dim, shadows crawling along the cracked concrete floor.
The men hauled Meng into a wide room. At its center stood a table, and behind it sat a man. His hair was slicked back, his suit pressed and clean, but his eyes were sharp and merciless—eyes that belonged to a predator.
"So this is the boy?" the man said, his voice calm, almost amused. One of the gangsters shoved Meng forward. He fell to his knees.
"Who are you? Why did you drag me here?" Meng asked the man. His heart was beating fast because of fear but he was trying to calm down so he can read the situation.
The man lean forward clasping his hand together. "I am jonathan. Your father owes us money, a lot of money,boy. And because your father has died, naturally his sons would have to pay the money. But since you don't have any money, that's why you've been brought here to work for me."
Ming's eyes widened. He knew his father had taken a loan from someone, but he didn't know how much or from whom. He ask "what kind of work i have to do and how long."
The man says, "You will have to become a training partner for our Underworld fighter, and how long? six year if you do well".
"I don't know how to fight, why don't you give me another word to do?" Meng asked.
"Its okay everyone have to learn how to fight until then just become punching bag and you will eventually learn how to fight." The man said and give signal to tall man wearing leather jacket.
"What? Punching bag? No give me another wo—" Meng wanted say to give another work but the tall man dragged to another room, pushed him inside and close the door.
The room was small, with only a bed and a table. Meng sat on the bed and tried to calm himself. Meng lay on the narrow bed staring at the cracked ceiling above. But his mind was racing. 'How am I supposed to fight?' he wondered, gripping the thin blanket tightly. 'Tomorrow… what will happen tomorrow? Will they make me spar? Can I escape from here.'
Hours passed in silence. Meng's eyelids grew heavy, and slowly, the adrenaline drained from his body. Even as his thoughts twisted with worry, exhaustion claimed him, and he drifted into sleep.
Morning arrived far too quickly. The small room filled with the sound of the door sliding open. The tall man in the leather jacket loomed over him.
"Get up," the man barked. "Today you start training."
Meng's stomach knotted. He followed silently as he was dragged into a wide, dimly lit hall. There, a boy around fourteen or fifteen stood waiting, muscles tense, eyes sharp. Meng's heart thumped in his chest. He had never thrown a punch in his life.
The fight began. Meng's arms flailed, his legs stumbled, and each strike he attempted was weak and off-balance. The older boy's fists landed with crushing force. Pain exploded across Meng's body with every hit. He fell again and again, tasting blood and dust.
By the end of the first day, Meng was barely conscious, his body bruised and battered. The tall man dragged him back to his room, threw a meager plate of food at him, and locked the door. Meng collapsed onto the bed, every movement sending waves of pain through him.