Vietnam — International Airport Arrivals
The heavy, humid air of Vietnam greeted them as Masaki, Souta, and Raiga stepped out of the sliding glass doors of the airport entrance.
They stood near the curb with their travel bags, adjusting to the sudden shift in atmosphere.
Within moments, a sleek white luxury sedan pulled up smoothly in front of them.
The driver immediately stepped out, quickly making his way around the vehicle to bow deeply before them.
“Hello, sir,” the driver said respectfully.
“I was sent by Chief Executive Nanami Kujo to pick you up.”
Masaki offered a soft, acknowledging nod.
“Alright.”
The driver moved efficiently, taking the luggage from Souta and Raiga and loading it into the trunk.
The three Rankers slid into the comfortable interior of the car.
As the vehicle pulled away from the airport, Souta and Raiga stared out the tinted windows, quietly observing the bustling streets and the unfamiliar faces of the local people passing by.
Later — A Luxury Hotel Suite
The car had dropped them off at a high-end, towering hotel in the heart of the city.
As they walked down the plushly carpeted hallway toward their suite, Raiga looked around, letting out a low whistle of appreciation.
“Wow. This hotel is seriously top-tier.”
Souta, walking with his hands buried in his pockets, replied in a completely deadpan tone.
“Don’t get too excited. Just imagine how the food is going to taste.”
They reached the door to their room.
Masaki swiped the keycard, and the heavy door clicked open.
However, as the door swung inward, they froze.
Sitting comfortably on the sofa in the hallway of their private suite was a lone figure.
Instantly, Souta and Raiga’s expressions hardened into deadly seriousness.
Their bodies tensed, ready for combat.
Masaki stepped into the room from behind them, casually looking over their shoulders.
“Relax,” Masaki said, his voice perfectly calm.
“That’s Chief Executive Nanami Kujo.”
Souta and Raiga didn’t drop their guard.
They looked at each other, then back at the figure, answering in flawless, deadpan unison:
“Yeah. We know.”
Sitting on the sofa, Nanami rested his chin on his hand, looking at the two Rankers with a flat, unamused expression.
“Then why exactly are you two glaring at me like that?”
Souta and Raiga walked inside, plopping down onto the sofa opposite him.
Souta leaned back, crossing his arms.
“No reason. Just felt like it.”
Masaki sighed, taking a seat nearby.
He immediately shifted the conversation to business.
“Is everyone already here for the meeting?”
Nanami relaxed his shoulders, leaning back against the cushions.
“The advisors and politicians are already present. The Government President will be attending via video call.”
He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly.
“And lastly… Ryouichi Tamada is also here.”
The atmosphere in the room instantly grew heavier.
“It’s been exactly one year since he officially became a politician, right?” Masaki asked, his tone calculated.
“Yes,” Nanami confirmed.
“His son has completely taken over the management of their underworld business in his stead.”
Raiga leaned forward, his knuckles cracking as he clenched his fists.
“We need to stay completely on guard. Them being involved here changes everything.”
“After all… they are one of the 7 Royal Families.”
Masaki nodded in quiet agreement.
“You’re right.”
Having delivered his intel, Nanami stood up, brushing off his suit.
“I’ve informed you of everything I know. I’ll take my leave now.”
Without waiting for a response, he walked out of the suite, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
Elsewhere — An Abandoned Warehouse on the Outskirts
A pitch-black Mercedes drove slowly into the cavernous interior of an abandoned factory, its tires crunching over the gravel and debris.
The engine was killed.
A brief, heavy silence fell over the car.
The driver stepped out immediately, rushing around to open the rear passenger door without wasting a single second.
From the shadows of the backseat, a tall figure emerged.
His posture was immaculately straight.
His steps were measured and confident—as if walking into an abandoned, gritty warehouse was just another Tuesday for him.
He stepped deeper into the factory.
The interior was teeming with life, vibrating with pure, aggressive energy.
Men were lifting incredibly heavy iron weights—the metallic clanking mixing with harsh, controlled breaths.
Others were unleashing relentless, bone-crushing combos onto heavy punching bags—thud…
thud…
thud…
In a dusty corner, two fighters were locked in intense hand-to-hand sparring, their footwork sharp, their movements practiced and lethal.
Off to the side, a servant was silently wiping the grime off a shattered windowpane, treating the surrounding chaos as if it were a perfectly normal office environment.
Utterly calm.
Unbothered.
This was Ryouichi Tamada.
As he walked, no one stopped him.
No one dared to question him.
Everyone in the factory instinctively knew to step aside and clear a path.
Ryouichi headed toward a small, enclosed glass cabin built into the side of the factory wall and pushed the door open.
Inside, a man sat behind a large metal table.
The table was completely covered in thick bundles of cash.
The man’s fingers moved with blinding speed, perfectly and methodically counting the notes.
Standing alert near the door was Shima.
The moment Ryouichi entered, Shima snapped to attention, standing perfectly straight in deep respect.
“Hello, sir,” Shima greeted warmly, gesturing toward an empty seat.
“Please, have a seat.”
“…Yeah.”
Ryouichi offered a minimalist reply, stepping forward and taking his seat.
Shima didn’t waste time, getting straight to the point of the visit.
“I asked you to come here today so you could personally see how capable your men have become.”
Ryouichi leaned back, his tone cool and unreadable.
“By all means… show me.”
Inside the massive octagon, a thin swirl of smoke drifted under the harsh, neon lights.
The enclosed space reeked of stale sweat, adrenaline, and old leather.
Outside the cage, the ringside crowd was incredibly restless—hundreds of hungry eyes staring, whispers echoing, and phones raised to record the coming bloodshed.
Suddenly—
CLANG!
The heavy metal gate swung open.
Ryouichi stepped inside.
He wore a simple, pitch-black tracksuit.
His face was entirely calm, his walk measured and completely devoid of arrogance.
Yet, his mere presence was so overwhelming that the chaotic atmosphere of the arena instantly stilled.
Inside the cage stood 17 fighters.
They were a mix of lethal disciplines—a Muay Thai specialist holding a high stance, a heavily built street-brawler, a composed, calculating boxer.
But as Ryouichi entered, every single one of them stopped to look at him.
Ryouichi walked directly into the center of the group.
He stopped in front of the first fighter, extending his hand with a calm, steady tone.
“Hello.”
A faint, respectful smile.
A firm handshake.
Then, he moved to the next fighter.
And the next.
Every single handshake was laced with deep respect.
There was no inflated ego—only a silent acknowledgment between warriors.
All 17 fighters shook his hand, and not a single one dared to break eye contact.
A powerful current of shared respect circulated through the octagon.
To the bloodthirsty crowd outside, this was just a brutal spectacle.
But to the fighters inside, this was a sacred ritual.
Shima stepped up to the exterior of the cage.
The crowd roared in anticipation, the energy in the room turning electric.
He raised a microphone to his lips, his voice booming over the speakers.
“Tonight is a battle for survival! The last man standing…”
he roared, pointing toward the cage,
“…will earn the right to join Ryouichi-sir’s personal organization!”
The crowd erupted into absolute pandemonium.
Inside the cage, every fighter reacted differently.
A confident smirk touched a boxer’s lips.
A glint of sheer terror flashed in a brawler’s eyes.
Fists trembled with anticipation.
From the back rows, desperate whispers rippled through the audience.
“That’s a direct promotion to the inner circle…”
“It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to change their lives.”
Ryouichi and Shima silently exited the octagon, taking their seats in the front row.
Ryouichi rested his elbows on his knees, his eyes narrowing with analytical focus.
The bell rang.
DING!
And all hell broke loose.
Seventeen fighters moved at the exact same millisecond—a storm of pure, unadulterated chaos.
A martial artist launched a devastating flying kick directly into an opponent’s chest, bouncing him violently against the chain-link fence.
Beside them, a boxer threw a crushing uppercut to a man’s jaw, sending him crashing heavily to the canvas.
On the other side of the cage, a fighter had already taken a ground-and-pound position, sitting on his opponent’s chest and raining rapid, merciless punches down onto his face—a spray of sweat and blood flying from the leather gloves with every impact. Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping.com.
In the corner, the street brawler managed to rip a jagged steel pipe loose from the cage wall, swinging its sharp edge with lethal intent.
The crowd gasped in horrified delight.
Crimson mist, spraying sweat, and agonizing screams all blended into one brutal, beautiful symphony of violence.
Through it all, Ryouichi simply watched.
His expression was ice-cold, methodically assessing the footwork and reaction time of every man in the cage.
Over the intercom, Shima continuously stoked the crowd’s frenzy:
“This is survival! There is no mercy!”
(Time Lapse — 10 Minutes Later)
The canvas was completely painted in blood and scattered with broken mouthguards.
Unconscious bodies littered the floor.
One fighter was coughing up blood on his knees.
Another furiously tapped the floor to surrender—but there was no referee to save him.
There were no rules here.
Ryouichi’s eyes narrowed in genuine interest.
The chaotic battlefield had finally been reduced to just two men.
Two fighters.
Their bodies were heavily battered.
Their breathing was ragged, chests heaving desperately for oxygen.
Their faces were swollen and bruised, but the burning flame of willpower in their eyes had not been extinguished.
Seeing this, a tiny, rare smile touched Ryouichi’s lips.
He leaned slightly toward Shima.
“Who is that boy?”
Shima glanced at his roster.
“His name is Mira, sir.”
Inside the cage, Mira was exhausted.
His lungs burned, and his opponent was equally devastated—yet both refused to fall.
They stood face-to-face.
Without a word, both fighters let their battered, blood-soaked gloves slip from their hands.
They hit the canvas with a soft thud.
Now—it was bare knuckles.
No blocks.
No holding back.
Both men surged forward with everything they had left.
The first strike landed—a dry, sharp smack!
Mira’s bare fist connected cleanly with the man’s face, splitting his lip and drawing a fresh spray of blood.
The opponent let out a strained grunt but instantly retaliated.
He grabbed the back of Mira’s head with both hands, pulling him down into a devastating knee strike.
CRACK!
The impact was brutal.
Blood immediately began pouring from Mira’s nose.
In a sharp, controlled motion, Mira wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
He backstepped, maintaining distance and breaking the opponent’s center line.
With a clean, calculated feint, Mira launched forward— a brutal, spear-like dropkick straight into the man’s waist.
The opponent lost balance instantly, crashing hard onto his back.
Mira didn’t hesitate.
He leaped into a full mount and unleashed a vicious ground-and-pound.
Short.
Compact.
Explosive.
Two.
Three.
Four devastating blows to the jaw and temple.
Thirty seconds in, the opponent’s body began to go slack.
After one final, heavy strike, the man’s eyes rolled back—completely unconscious.
The moment froze on Mira’s face— a raw portrait of sweat, blood, exhaustion, and victory.
“Huff… huff…”
Mira slowly pushed himself up, his stance loose from fatigue.
He raised a trembling, bloodstained fist.
“I… win.”
The heavy gate opened once more.
Ryouichi stepped into the blood-soaked octagon, walking over the fallen bodies until he stood before the victor.
“Very good,” Ryouichi said, his voice carrying quiet authority.
“I believe in you.”
Overwhelmed, Mira dropped into a deep bow.
“Thank you, sir!”
—Chapter 21 End—