The bell echoed through the halls of Arcadia High, signaling the end of another day. Raphael Ardon sat at the back of the classroom, watching as the other students hurried to leave, their conversations a distant hum in his ears. He liked it this way, slipping out of notice, blending into the background like a shadow.

His eyes drifted to Skyla Voltaire, who stood by the door, laughing with her friends. Her long blonde hair shimmered under the sunlight that poured in through the windows, and her smile—genuine, radiant—lit up the entire room. She was the type of girl everyone noticed, the type Raphael felt he had no right to be near.

Yet, here she was again, waiting for him.

"Raphael!" she called out, waving at him . A couple of the girls around her shot him looks, the kind that had become all too familiar. Envy, irritation, confusion. Why him?

"If looks could kill" Raphael thought

He stood up and slowly made his way toward her. His stomach twisted. He didn't deserve her friendship. Not now, not ever. Not after what happened all those years ago.

They walked out of the school together, just as they had for years. But even now, after all this time, Raphael couldn't shake the feeling that there was something between them—an invisible gap, a debt he could never repay.

"Just ignore them," Skyla's voice broke through his thoughts, referring to the cold stares and whispered remarks that trailed behind them like a shadow.

Raphael forced a weak laugh. "That's easier said than done," he muttered. "I don't belong here, Skyla. You know it. They know it."

Skyla came to a stop, making Raphael pause in confusion. She turned to him, clearly displeased.

"What?" he asked, frowning as he tried to understand what had upset her.

Without a word, Skyla reached up and twisted his ear sharply.

"Ow! Ow, ow! Skyla, seriously?!" Raphael winced, as he tried to pry himself free from her grip.

After a few seconds, she let go, crossing her arms as she glared at him. Raphael rubbed his sore ear, scowling. "What was that for?" he grumbled.

Skyla stepped closer, her irritation giving way to a softer expression. She reached up and cupped his face, her thumbs gently brushing his cheeks. "You aced the entrance exams, Raphael," she said, her voice calm but firm. "You earned your scholarship. You belong here, just like anyone else."

Her words were quiet but full of conviction, as if she needed him to really hear her.

Those words were meant to comfort him, but they only reminded him of how out of place he really felt.

Raphael let her words sink in, "Well, having a photographic memory did help a little," he admitted.

Skyla giggled. "Yeah, that too."

Raphael belonged to the rare 0.01% of the population with a photographic memory—a fact he never really liked talking about, but one Skyla always found amusing.

Raphael and Skyla kept walking, side by side, until the crowd and the prying eyes faded from view. Unbeknownst to them, a girl with striking green hair stood at a classroom window, silently observing. She twirled a black lollipop in her mouth, her expression unreadable. Her gaze never wavered from them, as if studying every move, though what went through her mind remained a mystery.

"You don't have to walk home with me every day, you know," Raphael said softly as they reached the spot where their paths usually diverged.

Skyla glanced at him and smiled. "I want to. Besides, we've always done this."

Raphael clenched his fists in his pockets. Skyla was always like this—kind, thoughtful, and unshakably loyal. But in his mind, it wasn't loyalty. It was pity. Ever since that day.

That day.

He could still hear the screech of tires, still feel the force of impact as he shoved her out of the way of that truck. The pain, the months in the hospital, the endless recovery. And Skyla? She had been there for every moment, visiting him daily, sitting by his side as he healed. That's how their bond had formed, but to Raphael, it was a bond forged out of guilt on her part.

Now, they were in the same high school, but everything had changed. Skyla was the center of attention, beloved by everyone. Raphael? He was a nobody.

Raphael snuck a glance at her, his chest tightening. She didn't belong by his side. Belongs with someone like Draxler.

The very thought of Draxler sent a jolt of bitterness through him. Draxler Volcain—the heir to one of the great martial arts families, the Masters of Crimson Fist, one of the nine new martial forms. He was tall, confident, and effortlessly charismatic. He had everything. Even Skyla's heart, at least that's what Raphael thought

Not that it mattered. He had no right to feel jealous. Skyla wasn't his to begin with. She was free to fall for whoever she wanted, and in this world, people like Draxler were the only ones who mattered.

The Nine Martial Forms. Raphael's mind couldn't help but drift to them—those elite styles that only the wealthy could awaken. Each form was like a key to unlocking godlike strength, granting its practitioners supernatural abilities that defied the laws of nature. A punch that could shatter concrete, a kick that moved faster than the eye could see. The masters of these forms didn't just fight—they dominated.

But that world? That power? It was out of reach for people like Raphael. The scrolls that awakened the Forms were guarded by money and legacy, passed down through the richest and most prestigious families.

For someone like Raphael, who had no connections, no lineage, the new Forms were a fantasy. He only had the old techniques—boxing, judo, jiu-jitsu. Styles from a time before the scrolls had even been discovered. They were brutal, efficient, but grounded in human limits.

In a world where men could wield fire with a flick of their wrist, what good was knowing how to throw a punch?

Still, that's all Raphael had. And if he couldn't break the rules of reality like the others, he'd push his body and mind beyond them.

"Are you coming to the festival tomorrow?" Skyla asked, her voice breaking through his thoughts.

Raphael blinked, his mind catching up to the present. "Uh, no. I've got… plans."

"Oh?" Skyla tilted her head, curious. "What kind of plans?"

Raphael hesitated, his heart racing. He couldn't tell her. Not about the underground tournament. Not about why he was doing this.

"Just… stuff." He forced a smile.

Skyla didn't press further, though he could sense the concern in her eyes. "Well, if you change your mind, let me know. It'd be fun to hang out again, like old times."

The more she tried to bring him closer, the more he felt like he was pulling her down with him. She deserved better.

After they parted ways at the street corner, Raphael quickened his pace. His destination wasn't home, not yet. It was the underground—a place hidden beneath the surface of the city, where the desperate and dangerous gathered to fight. Where money exchanged hands, and lives were changed in the span of a single round.

He was one of those desperate souls now.

His mother's hospital bills were piling up. The medication she needed was far beyond what he could afford, and every day her condition worsened. He couldn't bear to watch her suffer any longer.

The tournament was his only option. The prize money was enough to cover her treatment. But to win, he had to risk everything.

As he neared the entrance to the underground arena, Raphael slipped into an alleyway. From his backpack, he retrieved a Black hoodie and a dark red mask—a grinning, sinister smile plastered across it. He slipped it on, feeling the familiar cold rush of adrenaline.

For years, he had trained in secret. While others flaunted their power, boasting about their mastery of the new martial forms, Raphael had forged his own path. He had no fancy scrolls or supernatural abilities, but he had honed his body and mind through grueling training regimens. He knew every weakness of the human body, every pressure point, every joint that could break with just the right amount of force.

Using the Old Ways, Raphael had made himself into a weapon.

The world didn't know it yet, but tonight, they would.