Blood dripped slowly from the corner of Niran's lips, mixing with the dust and grime on the floor. His breath was ragged, each movement a burning agony radiating from his broken ribs.
"Why? Why was I betrayed?"
His blurred vision, tainted by the blood trickling down his forehead, settled on the lifeless body of his master.
Aran lay a few meters away, his chest torn open by a single, clean strike. His once, wise eyes were now empty, staring into nothingness. His blood stained the worn wooden floor of the dojo, darkening it to a deep, sinister red.
Niran gritted his teeth, trying to move his fingers. His body refused to respond.
Jirapat's shadow loomed over him, cold and towering.
"I should have known," Niran thought, tasting the bitter mixture of blood and regret.
A FEW HOURS EARLIER
Bangkok's air was thick with humidity and the acrid scent of exhaust fumes—a suffocating blend of neon and despair. The city never slept, and neither did its fighters.
Niran walked through the narrow streets of the old town, hands in his pockets, his gaze indifferent. The blaring horns, the shouts of street vendors, and the metallic clang of underground club gates opening and closing formed a chaotic, yet familiar symphony.
Behind him, his master walked with his usual measured pace.
"Are you ready for tonight?" Aran asked in his calm voice.
Niran nodded. "I always am."
Aran chuckled. "Too much confidence leads to defeat."
Niran shrugged. "Too much doubt leads to fear."
The old master studied him for a moment, then shook his head with a tired smile. "You always had a sharp tongue, boy."
They entered the dojo, an old building hidden in the shadows of skyscrapers. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of wood, sweat, and bandages soaked with past battles.
As Aran headed to his office in the back, Niran approached the corner where old relics were kept. Aran's dojo was one of the last places where true Muay Thai was still taught, though the world had long forgotten it.
Among the artifacts, a pair of worn hand wraps caught his eye.
He brushed his fingers against them.
A shiver ran down his spine.
He didn't know why, but at that moment, a strange sensation washed over him, like those wraps had been waiting for him.
"Just superstitions," he told himself, shaking his head.
He wrapped his hands with his usual bandages and prepared for the night.
The underground arena was a whirlwind of neon lights and raw adrenaline.
The crowd pressed around the ring, shouting and placing reckless bets. Some were rich businessmen seeking a thrill, others were criminals and washed-up fighters chasing redemption.
But Niran didn't care.
He was there to win.
Opposite him, Jirapat cracked his neck, his smile unreadable.
"You look relaxed, Niran," he said, shifting his weight. "Not nervous?"
Niran's gaze was cold. "You should be."
Jirapat laughed. "We'll see."
The gong rang.
Jirapat struck first, a lightning-fast jab aimed for Niran's temple.
Dodge. Counter.
Niran twisted his torso, narrowly avoiding the hit, and immediately drove his knee into Jirapat's ribs.
The impact was brutal.
Jirapat stumbled, but not for long. He recovered, shifting his weight.
Niran pressed forward, feinting low before slamming a crushing elbow toward Jirapat's jaw.
Jirapat blocked, barely.
Their fight became a dance of destruction.
Blow for blow. Strike for strike.
Jirapat's speed was exceptional, but Niran's instincts were sharper. He could see the gaps in his opponent's defenses, feel the rhythm of the battle.
Jirapat launched a spinning kick, Niran ducked, retaliating with a devastating roundhouse to the side of his head.
Jirapat hit the mat.
The crowd erupted.
He had won.
Or so he thought.
Just as Niran turned to face the roaring audience a sharp pain exploded through his back.
His breath hitched.
Looking down, he saw the blade protruding from his side.
"Jirapat! You dirty bastard!"
The crowd didn't immediately realize what had happened.
Jirapat shoved him away, letting him collapse to his knees.
Around them, men in black suits surrounded the ring.
Then Niran saw his master.
Aran fought against three men, already wounded.
A final strike. A blade sinking into his chest.
A strangled cry.
Then silence.
Niran tried to scream, but the world faded to black and he thought:
"Why? Why was I betrayed?"
Blood dripped between Niran's fingers as he stared at his master's lifeless body.
Jirapat knelt beside him, grabbing him by the hair.
"This isn't personal, Niran," he whispered. "It's just... evolution."
He let go, turned away, and left with his men.
Niran closed his eyes.
And in the darkness, an unfamiliar voice whispered in his ear.
"Rise, brother. It's not over yet."