“Iron & Adrenaline”
Red Reapers underground gym – Shibuya freight district, Tokyo – 07:14 AM, the morning after Ronin Rumble Night 2.
A fall draft knifed through the concrete bunker, making the single sodium bulb above the squat rack sway on its frayed cord. Steel plates rattled like distant thunder. The private gym—loaned to the Emperor’s Avengers by their uneasy Russian allies—smelled of chain grease, liniment, and yesterday’s blood still flaked on the mats.
Tae-Hyun Lim stood centre floor, shirtless, a mummy’s weave of tape bandaging the razor-cuts that latticed his barrel chest. He hammered a 150-pound heavy bag so violently that the ceiling truss squealed at every impact. THUD… THUD… THUD!
Lim: Drake barred me from Moon’s bedside! Said I was “elevating the patient’s cortisol.” Cortisol? My brother was dying!
Across the room, Hyun-Sik Hwang worked an incline press with two red 45-kg plates per side. The bar clanged home; he sat up, breath steaming in the cold air. A fresh steri-strip ran from eyebrow to cheekbone—a souvenir of Lightning Man’s super-kick that still pulsed under the glue.
Hwang: Dr. William Drake risked an aortic line to keep Moon alive, Lim. Rage will not change hemoglobin counts.
Lim threw one last hook that dented the leather, then paced like a tiger inside a shoebox. Each exhale smoked in the frigid room. On a tatami square near the ring, Eun-Young Han knelt, re-wrapping her mid-section where Valora’s chair had broken a rib. The barbed-wire scars across her spine were already turning purple. Her voice, when it came, was flat as iced steel.
Han: Drake isn’t our enemy. But if you fail tomorrow, we'll lose the tournament, and we will lose face. Focus your anger where it matters.
A battered Samsung buzzed atop a load-bearing beam—Moon’s phone, forgotten in the ER scramble. Hwang tapped the speaker and set it on a chalk block.
Devin Zeagal (phone, clipped): Lim? Listen up. As you and your stablemates know Ricky Wolfie King’s Blovid-13 went critical last week—ventilator, negative-pressure room, the whole circus. His death does not pause tag-Tournament bracket. Maki Nishimura refuses to drop out and Mudcock won’t let her fight alone again. She’s bringing a substitute.
Lim’s lip curled, hopeful poison.
Lim: Which dojo child is brave enough to die with her?
A dry chuckle crackled over the tinny speaker.
Zeagal: Takuma Sato…
The bulb seemed to dim, for a beat, only the drip of a busted roof gutter was audible. Han stared at the floor, fists whitening around the tape roll.
Han: Sato walked out of Hell in a Cell stitched like a patchwork doll. Drake cleared him?
Zeagal: Direct quote: No structural breaks, fit for limited action. Bell time tomorrow. Pass your MRIs or you’re scratched; the Japan Athletic Commission is circling after last night’s carnage.
Lim punched a locker—steel caved with a pistol-shot clang.
Lim: Drake shields Sato, shoves me aside. He’ll need a thoracotomy kit when I’m done!
Hwang rose, placing a bear-paw hand on Lim’s shoulder, grounding the tremor.
Hwang: Then break Sato inside protocol—make the doctor earn his pay.
Zeagal’s tone softened to a mock paternal one.
Zeagal: Moon’s still intubated but stable. You want a gesture? Win the match, dedicate it to him on camera, and ratings go through the roof. Rupert will pop the champagne. Don’t be late for scans—Drake already filed the order. “Click.”
The line went dead. Lim’s breathing ragged, Han finally rose, eyes sweeping the rust-stained cinderblocks.
Han: Moon lies in an ICU bed because Sato’s iron fist met his heart. Tomorrow, we collect the debt: Maki or no Maki. But Drake’s sensors will see every concussion shadow. Train smart, not stupid—Lim—double leg day, then cold plunge. Then I suggest you locate your partner for the match… Montbar… he’s a liability, and you have to make crystal clear to him this is a match you cannot afford to lose.
Lim wiped sweat and blood from his knuckles and squared off against the bag again. He pictured Sato’s calm eyes behind the bruises, pictured Maki’s defiant bow. Fury cooled into purpose—every strike a rehearsal for tomorrow’s vengeance.
Somewhere above, freight trains rumbled toward Shinjuku, shaking plaster dust from the rafters like falling snow. In that underground forge, the Emperor’s Avengers began to temper their rage—hammer-blow by hammer-blow—into a weapon for the Tag-Tournament’s third round.
“The Doctor’s Ledger”
UW Mobile Medical Unit – Back‐parking lot of the Saitama Super Arena, 8 hours before bell-time
The converted forty-foot trailer shudders every time a forklift rumbles past the loading dock. Inside, fluorescents hum above stainless-steel counters lined with suture kits and portable monitors.
Dr. William Drake—scrubs, frost-white hair net, N95 mask looped under his chin—braces his palms on a light-box where fresh chest films hang.
Across from him stand Tae-Hyun Lim and Sir Lionel Montbar—the hastily christened Royal Alliance. Lim’s torso is a patchwork of dermabond and bruises; Montbar’s chain-mail patterned ring-jacket is draped over a gurney like a knight’s tabard awaiting battle polish. Behind them, Eun-Young Han and Hyun-Sik Hwang hover silently—support staff, nothing more tonight—armed with folded arms and glacial stares.
Drake thumbs a switch; the first X-ray flares ghost-white. Ribs 7–9 show fine hairline fractures along the lateral curve.
Dr. Drake (matter-of-fact): Maki Nishimura—oblique strain, two cracked ribs, cleared for limited bumping. She’ll tape it tight and grit.
He flicks to the second plate: Takuma Sato’s chest.
Dr. Drake (tapping the film): Sato—right costal cartilage separation, residual hemothorax. No structural breaks, but one good body-lock could drop his lungs.
Lim’s grin widens; Montbar’s brow furrows in knightly concern. The physician squares his shoulders before anyone can voice the obvious question.
Dr. Drake (cool, pre-emptive) Before you start shrieking “malpractice,” remember the waiver your agents signed yesterday. Section 4-B: “For competitive-safety purposes, attending physicians may disclose injury data to scheduled opponents.” Japan’s privacy statute covers citizens, not visiting athletes who opt in. Rupert’s legal team took care of that. I’m not your accomplice; I’m risk management. If I know which ribs are about to break, I can pre-book the operating room instead of improvising it on a stretcher.
Lim snorts approval; Montbar simply nods, absorbing every word like a field briefing.
Lim: Broken ribs… perfect handle for a Supreme Leader Slam.
Montbar: A wound exploited without mercy may end a foe’s career—and blacken our own honor, my lord.
Lim wheels on him, eyes burning.
Lim: Our Honor? Learn your place! You’re here because Mudcock ordered it. Obey the plan or keep out of my way.
Montbar’s jaw sets, but he bows—a compact, knightly dip acknowledging both order and partnership. Han steps forward, laying a calming hand on Lim’s taped bicep.
Han: End Sato if you must—but do it inside the rules. Disqualification forfeits the purse and the tournament slot. Moon bleeds in ICU for nothing if you get reckless.
Hwang rumbles assent, the sound like granite grinding. Drake snaps the light-box dark and scribbles two passcodes onto adhesive wristbands.
Dr. Drake: MRI bay, ten minutes. Concussion baseline and X-factor clearance. Fail either—commission pulls you. Pass, and you’re free to make tomorrow a trauma-surgery symposium.
(dry) I’ll keep the table warm.
”The Scan”
** UW Mobile Imaging Bay – 5 hours before bell-time**
The chill inside the imaging bay bit deeper than the air outside. Cold and clinical. No sweat. No blood. No noise except the low mechanical hum of the GE Revolution CT scanner rotating like a watchful eye. The strip lighting overhead cast Lim’s silhouette against the gunmetal-blue walls—his bare chest rising and falling as he lay flat on the narrow motorized table, arms folded across his sternum like a warlord waiting for embalming.
A pale technician—a local hire—adjusted the machine’s gantry and scurried behind the protective shield. Lim didn’t flinch as the scanner began its orbit. From the control window, Dr. William Drake stared at the monitors. Lim’s image bloomed across the screen in shades of white, gray, and shadow—each layer of sinew and scar rendered in sterile cross-section.
Drake (low, half to himself): No skull edema… no orbital fracture…
He toggled the contrast. Another window loaded: a thin slice of brain, a shadowed hemisphere of trauma and resolve.
Drake (to the tech): Voxel 314—zoom and rotate. He took a shot to the temple during that crazy fucking match. I want a look at the subdural shelf.
The tech obeyed. Lim said nothing. Didn’t move. Only his eyes—dark and distant—fixed on the overhead light as if he were calculating how many bolts it would take to rip the machine apart. A faint intercom buzz crackled.
Drake (through speaker): Don’t talk. Just listen. You pass this scan, you fight. You fail, you sit. Not negotiable. No more underground therapy from Russian chiropractors or “recovery ice” you cook in a rice cooker.
Lim’s mouth barely twitched—a smirk forged in contempt.
Lim: You going to tell me next how many grams of cortisol I’m exhaling?
Drake (dry): If I had the bandwidth, I’d weaponize your cortisol and drop it on what’s left of North Korea.
The gantry clicked forward, scanning his torso.
Drake’s eyes narrowed
Drake: microcalcifications around the 4th rib—re-break, maybe. Nothing surgical. Brain scan: no hematoma. He tapped in a note, encrypted it with a thumbprint, and hit “send” on the clearance report.
Drake (flat): You’re clear.
Lim sat up, bones creaking, shoulders twitching as if he might throw the table off its track. He looked toward the observation window but spoke to no one in particular.
Lim: Looks like I’ll survive
Drake: The body survives. The question is whether the soul wants to.
Lim hopped off the table, snatched his shirt, and turned without looking back.
Lim: Guess we'll all find out tonight.
Drake stared at the empty scanner table, watching the steel cool in the aftermath of rage.
Drake (under breath): You both will.
Outside, a cherry-picker groaned against the dusk sky, prepping banners for the evening broadcast. Inside the mobile unit, the whir of the cooling fan faded, leaving behind the echo of unspoken reckoning.
”Only the Strong Remember”
Backside of the Saitama Super Arena – 1 hour before bell-time
The sun had already dipped behind the skyline, but Tokyo’s neon pulse hadn’t yet reached the arena’s rear service lot. Out here, it was all steel shadows and concrete silence—broken only by the low, constant murmur of HVAC units bleeding fog into the night air. Tae-Hyun Lim sat alone on the loading ramp. No trainers. No teammates. No Montbar.
He wore his ring gear already—black trunks with a crimson belt sash, forearms wrapped, boots laced. The chill nipped at his ribs through the open jacket of his warm-up hoodie, but he welcomed the discomfort. Pain meant focus. Pain meant you were alive.
His eyes tracked the cargo crates stacked along the alley’s edge. Freight marked in Cyrillic. He knew what some of it was—black-market stims, painkillers, blood bags. Supplies meant for those willing to walk through Hell to make it to the next round.
He didn’t flinch when a familiar pair of boots echoed down the steel steps behind him. Sir Lionel Montbar descended like a knight entering sacred ground, his face half-shadowed beneath a battered hood. But Montbar said nothing. He just stopped beside Lim, standing vigil with arms crossed behind his back.
Lim didn’t look up.
Lim: Do you believe in ghosts, Lionel?
Montbar: I have seen many things that defy logic. I know not what realm they come from. To be honest, I know not if I originated from this realm.
Lim: Moon is dying… and I see him every time I close my eyes. Not the way he was. The way he looked when they rolled him into surgery—chest collapsed, lips turning blue. It felt like the American military had come back for us.
Montbar said nothing. Lim pressed his palms together, knuckles white from pressure.
Lim: They talk about honor. They talk about redemption. But what I see… what I hear when it’s quiet… is fire. Screams. And the sound of nuclear bombs disintegrating our future like it’s already been decided.
He looked up now, face caught half in shadow, half in the arena’s backlight. His eyes weren’t wild. They were carved from obsidian—still, sharp, unreadable.
Lim: I don't fight to make the crowd cheer. I don't fight to uphold tradition. I fight because my country is gone, and the only family I have left is bleeding. Because Sato left Moon in a pool of his own blood. Because I’ve spent my whole life being told who I am by the outside world. American scum. Korean tyrant’s bastard son. Spoiled prince. All of it.
He stood slowly, adjusting his wrists.
Lim: Tonight... I write the truth in broken bone and ruptured tendon. I am not my father’s name. I am not your king’s puppet. I am not a cautionary tale.
He turned to Montbar now, stepping into the faint glow of the floodlights. There was no rage in his voice anymore. Just clarity. Cold and clean.
Lim: Maki and Sato will walk into that ring thinking they’re martyrs. Beloved by fans. Protected by fate. But fate doesn’t fight the match. I do. And there is no redemption waiting for them. There is no forgiveness. Only consequence.
Montbar gave a solemn nod, eyes glimmering beneath the hood.
Montbar: Then let us enter the arena as lions, not pawns. One seeks glory. The other seeks reckoning. But both must wield the sword.
Lim stepped forward, out of the shadow.
Lim: I don’t need the sword. I am the fire.
He walked off into the glow of the arena tunnel—each step heavy with purpose, silence echoing behind him. Montbar lingered, watching him disappear down the corridor, then followed with the measured grace of a man marching toward the jaws of a dragon. The night swallowed the alley. And behind the concrete walls of Saitama, the crowd began to roar.