Happy New Year, everyone!
Chapter 1
Born in the underground
The distant, hazy sound of the alarm clock encroaches Ryo's eardrums, becoming unbearably louder, the white bedsheets greeting his sight. The beeping repeats over and over as he blinks, rolling onto his back, looking at the bland, grey ceiling, a circular LED lamp imbued in there.
Sitting straight, he shoves the white blankets aside. His white shirt and black shorts having marks of folds. The mattress cover is also crinkled all over from his unconscious movements while sleeping.
His uneven heartbeats pacing slower inside his chest as he supports himself on the bed, turning off the alarm, his slim, wide-screen phone still on hand, his eyes squinting at the brightness and the pop-ups of messages and missed calls that he disregards once more. 10 PM.
The last time he felt like this was after that day at the nightclub, a week ago. He was so wasted he spent the whole next morning throwing up and also had to throw up after the underground duels. Saruyama even told him off to not exaggerate as he needed to be in his best condition.
He was the one who sent me there to 'have fun', though.
Still dazed by the sudden awakening, he stumbles a step up, stopping as he feels a spasm on his arm, the reddish burn mark from shock collars of the underground making defined rings of seared skin, he's even gotten used to using longer clothes outside, to hide the dubious marks.
Raising a hand to his sight, he observes his fingers twitching involuntarily, a recollection flashing in his mind: inside the fenced cage, under the gaze of a dozens of masked citizens, a shock courses through his veins, his scream piercing the arena and the strident shouts of the watchers as his enemy laughs at him.
Muscle memory is coming to bite him back, it's been like this ever since that first underground duel, whenever he wakes up, even though there's no electricity, his hands won't stop shaking.
He swings his head to steer clear from depressing thoughts, making his way into the dark room, the flashlight of his phone bounces around as he walks, showing the grizzly dark-blue carpeted floor under his bare feet, only coming to a halt upon the sight of his desk at the corner of the room.
Slamming his linen-coated dark wheeled chair away with a hand, he deposits his phone on the flat surface of the table. The polished ebony desk is lit up by the faint glimmer of the screen.
On the upper left side, under the main surface, there are two small drawers with silvery knobs that reflect his image; and on the right, a chunky drawer at the bottom. A cup of water stands near the tabletop lamp at the corner consisting of a single lightbulb attached to a dark glistening head made of metal sustained by a pipe attached to a base, all of the same material.
There's a fishnet trash can to the side, filled in newspapers with the most varied headlines from "The disgrace of the year!" to "Is this the standard for all the students of the Duel Academy?" pictures of the former "Kaiser" printed on it.
Turning on the small lamp at the desk, he hesitates after catching a glimpse of the trophy at the other corner: shiny golden cards fanned open, a hand holding it and an emblem of the duel academy with inscriptions on the rocky base, a dusty layer formed on it for he neglected the cleaning duty the last past weeks.
A scene invades his mind, like a book being paged, as he stood out proudly receiving that honor trophy onto his hands; then a star brooch pinched on his uniform by the principal himself, roving he was their best student and a graduate; the pages of that book quickly turning to the moment he's fallen to the ground, a lost duel, and the following pages were all the same, that pitiful sight of him kneeled, recurring endlessly until the pages burn into ashes.
The whole best student façade was cracked in a single day. He wasn't aware how different everything would be in the pro league. The tabloids kept talking about his bloated ego being hit the most and causing his losses, both because he used to be the "perfect" duelist in his school and because he's won 10 duels in a row in the pro leagues before his fall. All lies. They were the first to applaud his striking debut and likewise, as quickly pointed fingers when he lost. The world of the pros is really harsh in many ways, he learned it too late.
The reason why he was trapped on a permanent loss strike wasn't for any ego or a fragile pride, nothing of sort. It was his fear. That hesitation crippling him, preventing him from evolving, stalling his dueling. He knows that now, nonetheless, it took him many losses and a hefty price: his career.
Surprisingly, among the educators he had, Saruyama, his manager, albeit suspicious and ill-intended, was the only one to open his eyes. Or should he say they were forced open?
The innumerous hospital bills stacked up on his table brings him back to reality, his hands simply slide them off from to the trash that was conveniently placed there, a standoff expression engraved on him. After a long sigh, he grabs his object of interest: the water cup filled to the brim, his hand still trembling, almost dropping some of the liquid as he gulps it down.
Maybe I should see a doctor.
Knocking it back on the table with a dull noise, he grabs his phone, sighing heavily at the message notifications and missed calls, sliding his finger to erase them. He knows the contents of most of those. Asuka, Shou and Fubuki have been trying to contact him, his master Samejima even attempted to call once, but he is sure if they saw him now, they wouldn't understand.
His hand clenches around the phone. He can portray the arrays of reactions and even the sentences they'd use, because they can't relate to his current hardships. He'd been surrounded by them and not once he'd notice this terrible flaw in his dueling. There wasn't anything perfect in his dueling and he knew it, but only after his loss to Edo Phoenix he started to reconsider his ways and understood the root of the problem.
He won't explain himself to anyone from the duel academy, his time there and whatever it had to teach him, it's over now. There's one thing he needs to do and that is rising back to the pro-leagues. He will focus all his efforts on it.
While heading to the bathroom, he walks through his whole apartment, which consisted of this room where his table and bed were across from each other in a north-south orientation, on opposite white walls, a wooden closet separated from the bed only by a framed window partially covered by plain and opaque grey curtains.
The wall right from him had only a small mini-fridge and at the other edge of the room, the main door. Compared to the luxurious obelisk room at the duel academy, his new lodging is lacking and that's an understatement. Although this tiny apartment is all he can afford now and a temporary place he got to start off, ever since he dropped to the minor leagues, he had no monetary conditions to get a better place.
Saruyama promised him more once he gets back to fame, but as the situation stands, his next official duel is two weeks away, while his underground duels just jumped to an almost daily basis.
He was surprised at how much dirty money goes into the underworld of dueling, he got a good sum too, but Saruyama told him he'd only be able to use it after his re-debut in the pro-league or people would find it fishy and they don't want to relate his current fame as the undefeated underground Hell Kaiser with his public image.
His whole arm is yanked backwards, hurting his shoulder as he tries to open the stuck door of the bathroom. A trail of scratches on the ground proving this has happened many other times.
"You gotta be kidding me," he mumbles between his breaths. "This again?"
Cursing the landlord and huffing, he kicks the edge of the door once in an outrage until it creaks, moving. Once he can finally enter, he slams the door closed. His fingers rubbing the water on his face up and down, to wash it in a ritual to calm down his nerves.
It's unbelievable how someone like him who thought he had everything figured out would become a pro-league dropout. He hears the voice of his current manager when he was approached after the failure at a minor league match.
"I've watched your duel."
"Thank you."
"Your performance was so to say… Unimpressive."
"Who are you?"
That dialogue drummed inside his head as he opened the mini-fridge, taking a bottle of cold tea, and shutting the door with a slap.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm Monkey Saruyama, you could call me a 'manager'. I'm very versed in the dueling world. You're the Kaiser Ryo, right? Though your dueling was lacking for someone titled 'Kaiser'..."
"What do you want from me?"
"Do you want to reclaim your rightful place in the pro leagues? I can help you with that."
"Is that so?"
The tea bottle sweats under his grip due to the temperature change, he finds himself almost smashing it. He knew he shouldn't have asked, yet there was that insatiable curiosity of his, of what that man could offer. In truth, he was so lost and desperate he'd have held the hand of anyone who'd promise to guide him out of that chasm, even if it was a demon.
He hears that scoff of Saruyama echo in his head, that smirk spreading on his face as his bait was taken, he tells Ryo:
"You hail from the duel academy, but whatever they taught there wasn't enough for the pro world, was it? You were a huge letdown," he shakes off his head, sniggering. "I don't know what was in your mind, but if you keep losing like this, there will be no space for you in the pro world, even in the minor leagues. You'll be having no duels soon and will be forced to retire."
"Retire?" he frowns, his cold voice holding a hint of irritation. "Aren't you exaggerating?"
"No matter how young you are, if you're not good, you'll be thrown off the stage, faded to oblivion. You don't want that do you? But don't worry, I know about a place in which your talent can truly flourish, where sunlight doesn't reach, but a whole new moon shines."
Ryo knew what he was talking about, although until that day, the underground was nothing more than nasty rumors to him.
"I get where this is going, I'm not interested," his crude, dry assertion makes the man flinch astounded. "I'm a duelist affiliated with the official leagues."
"Oh, what a pity," he shrugs off in a fake deception. "Well, anyways, if you change your mind," taking plain white a business card from his pocket, he hands it to the young man. "If you want to keep dueling, you'll soon find out you have to submit to certain pains to keep going."
His guffaw echoed in the grey, morbid corridors as he walked away, leaving Ryo to his own thoughts. Perhaps back then he was already certain that the "Kaiser" had been ensnared by his proposal.
The tea ripples inside the bottle Ryo holds, he can't come to drink any sip of it. Tucking it back where it came from, he finally moves to his last destination, the closet. From inside it, he takes a brand new coat and a buckled belt, still wrapped in plastic. A black and edgy design.
"You need an image change to return. A snazzy look to get the attention of the whole stadium."
He slithers his finger on the high end cloth with silvery details, dressing himself up. A look in the mirror is everything he needs to confirm that indeed, this dusky, sleek visual suits him better than that old school uniform.
At a five star hotel,
The black limousine drops the Kaiser at the sidewalk right in front of the fancy hotel, the building so tall he couldn't even count the floors by looking up; the outer walls are made of rectangular plates of dark glass, and the entrance is a covered area with a three-step stair composed of white bricks, a small ceiling sustained by Greek-alike pillars; a line of palm trees stretches away on both sides, surrounding the building; behind the plants there's a rectangular, thin and long fountain, a line of holes from which water jets up in a sizzling stream.
Some workers are standing by the automatic doors, one of them coming at him to take his luggage. Ryo holds his hand up to stop their action, he can carry his briefcase alone.
The insides are fancier: a bright chandelier of diamonds hanging down the ceiling, an ambience music that sounded calming to the mind, carpets trimmed with gold and mandala patterns, the lounge has many sets of two couches facing each other on the left and right of the room, near the transparent glass from which people can see the gardens and straight ahead, the reception.
The receptionist lady smiles at him, her square patterned white and yellow scarf has a metallic brooch with the hotel's brand matching the name tag on her neat dark-red blazer. Instead of answering, he flashes a business card in front of her eyes.
It takes but a second for her to stretch her hand over to the left side, a short corridor with a double door at the end, a sign saying "staff only", prodding her head to a guard standing on the side of the reception, the man agrees with a nod and opens the door to Ryo, bowing politely.
After he crosses that line, it's all darkness. The corridor that looked bright is now dim, there's still the same red carpet from the entrance, but all the rooms on both sides have "only personnel allowed" signs.
Who'd have thought that such a well renowned hotel was involved with the shady underground, apparently, if it makes money, they're not caring how it's done. Since many influential people gather here, it's the perfect spot for underground rings, so Saruyama said.
At the end of that path, there's an elevator with only two buttons inside, one for the top floor and another disguised as a "0", even though the current floor is already the one numbered zero. When he pressed it, the electronic panel displaying the floor number inside the elevator moves along: -1, -2 and the negative numbers just grow until he's about five floors down.
A whole different world opens up, unlike the charming insides of the hotel, the corridors were paved with giant, grey ceramic tiles, the walls were plain, covered with ashen paint too, the ceiling lights were hanging light bulbs cupped in white hats.
His steps are the only sound at the start, besides the lift behind him going up, but as he dwells further into that corridor, he can hear the muffled voices of the audience in the stage. At the end of the path, Saruyama greets him with a smirk.
"Welcome back to the underground!"
He snickers, coming with a hand around the boy's shoulders, a gesture that's unappreciated, Ryo scowls at him, making him step to the side, recognizing his boundaries, raising his arms in rendition.
"I see you've listened to my advice and got new clothes ready! This will boost your popularity, believe me! It'll also make your ascension to the pro-leagues more dramatic!"
"Cut to the chase," he demands, his eyes never directed at his manager, but ahead to the long way in front of them.
"You have a locker," he rolls the ring of the keychain on his finger, a single key attached to it. "Leave your stuff there and come to the stadium."
Ryo snatches it out of his hand annoyedly. His manager grins at him, stopping and tilting his head to the shabby metallic door on the right, rusty stains formed splashing-waves patterns on the edges. There's a slim, square silver plate with a blue stick-man drawn to show the men's changing room.
"I'll be waiting outside, you only have a few minutes," he taps his finger on the analog watch, adorning his wrist with a black leather strap. "Time is money and I have other matters to settle."
With a snort, the most akin to a protest Saruyama received from him since after his debut duel, the Kaiser barges the door open, it creaks alarmingly loud while he closes it.
The inside is more common than expected, a plain room with two lines of lockers divided by long metal benches connected in an uninterrupted section crossing the whole place, leaving a space that's barely the size of a person to pass from left to right in the room, the space between the lockers and the bench is a tad larger, fitting two people at most. There's no one else in there, strange.
The light bulb hanging from the ceiling held literally by a thread is the only source of light and he swears every time he hears the faint voice of the underground narrator speaking, it flickers.
At the very end of the room, on the left side, there's another entrance to a shower room; and on the right, an entrance to an area with toilet cabins. The smell of iron and rust from the lockers intrudes his nostrils along with a faint hint of cleaning products, but there's a fragrance wafting in, a sweet, fruity scent as if someone just sprayed a perfume nearby, he'd even identify it as a feminine, but this can't be right. Unless… The other guys are doing more than just changing clothes here. On second thought, he's better off not knowing that.
The key on his hand has a transparent plastic tag, a paper inside it showing a printed number: 101. Without wasting any second, he tucks his whole briefcase in there, locking it right after. He can hear Saruyama's voice shouting outside, the sonority contained by the walls, making his tone lower:
"Keep searching! She can't have run far! No one gets out unnoticed!"
His attention is dragged back by a stout thud coming from the bathroom's direction, as if the door was knocked closed at full-strenght. Was there someone inside after all? He narrows his eyes, perplexed.
At that same time, he flinches at the clang of the entrance door opening, a young man strides in like a drunkard, a light brown knit cap hiding partially his blonde hair spiking down over his nape in a brown jacket with torn sleeves and ripped jeans. Ryo follows him briefly, looking over his shoulders as the man passes behind him, has he seen the dude before?
A shiver runs down his spine when the man stops. Sheer instinct, his eyes flash to the side, the guy whirls around, a knife between his brown leather gloves, his angered shout is alarming:
"Hell Kaiser!"
Ryo's torso bends backwards in reflex, a few strands of his hair are sliced, fluttering in the air as a bloody line is drawn on his cheekbone, he wipes it with his thumb, his skin prickling, his brows furrow profusely. That guy was aiming for his face to kill or at least do permanent damage. Stumbling a step back, he recomposes his posture.
A quick second to analyze it, those crazed brown eyes with deep bags under it and the smell of alcohol, this guy was definitely drinking before mustering the courage to do this.
He recognizes the face, he's one of his opponents from a previous underground match, Saruyama mentioned it before the duel: he's some young gambler who's lost the line and spent too much, ended up forced to duel to repay the debt and lost.
"If you didn't win that duel, my debt would be gone!"
His saliva spreads in the air, like a rabid dog, given the type, he'd not be surprised if he's on drugs besides the alcohol too. Dilated pupils and inaccurate movements. As he coldly writes a mental profile, the man has lost the patience:
"You damn prick! I'll make you pay for it!"
Advancing once more, Ryo evades to the left, switching sides, his leg hitting the bench on the side, lifting one side from the ground, swaying before falling with a high pitched noise, he crinkles his nose at the disturbance, taking a few steps back.
He's at disadvantage here. To win, he needs to disarm his foe, but the room is too cramped for that. Taking a fighting stance, he distills sarcasm:
"Swinging this knife at me won't pay your debt."
Waving his head back and forth, he incites the wrath of his enemy that takes the plunge immediately:
"You-"
In a calculated move, he avoids the blade just enough, his brand new clothes suffering the price as a cut splits his lapel in half, the man follows with another violent swing of his knife, Ryo staggers more steps while evading it quickly, until his back meets the wall.
The white doors of the toilet cabins along the wall across appear in his peripheral vision, his foot sliding into the bathroom, on the small, scratched and cracked blue tiles and the water drain under the white sinks attached to the wall, near his right arm. He could find nothing to grab and counterattack with.
There's nowhere else to run, but the man comes after him blood thirsty. He smirks, skillfully shoving the man's hand to the side with a palm, his other hand grabbing the opponent by the wrist, and like a dance move, he wrenches the arm of the man to the back, so aggressive he can hear a crack of shoulder and the shout along with the clanking of the knife falling to the ground, near the sinks.
"Let go of me you punk!"
The enemy scuffles, debating himself to get free, but Ryo keeps a firm grip on him, until the guy jerks his head back to hit him, avoiding to the side, he has to let go, freeing the man who stumbles a few steps, entering the area of the bathroom.
Their eyes set onto the same object: the knife at the ground, both rushing to it, but Ryo is quicker, kicking it with the toe of his boot, the blade swirls away to the other end of the room, his enemy growling at him and darting to attack with bare fists.
Cupping one of the fists of the man, he is about to counter when the guy hurls him into one of the cabins of the bathroom, the door slammed open by his back, as he totters steps, losing his balance momentarily. Before the second punch comes, he counters with his knee to the abdomen of his foe, knocking him out of his range.
The man falls on his fours, attempting to get up until a black boot kicks the middle of his spine, while pinned to the ground, his eyes scan the surroundings, senses enhanced by the adrenaline, he sees a cracked tile of the floor coming out, grabbing it without much thought, and aiming the stab at Ryo's foot with the sharp edge of the broken ceramic.
Recoiling in an instant, Ryo has to take distance again, the man finally stands up in a fit of rage, headbutting him into the nearest wall, his back hitting the pillar between two cabins, his shoulders hurting at the impact, his enemy coming at him with the makeshift weapon.
His arms cross in front of his face and chest, to block as many vital points as he can and brace for the assault, gritting his teeth, his eyes narrowing in anticipation, as a drop of sweat delineates his face, since when was he this anxious about pain?
Is he really getting stabbed in this dirty place? Even if he is, he'll take the small window of time when the blade grazes him to react and fight back. He didn't descend into this hell to lose here and die.
In the heat of the moment, there's a disrupting rumble of a door bouncing open on the side, from the cabin closest to the entrance door, so fast they both are startled, turning their heads, an object tossed at them; Ryo lifts his arm to shield his eyes by impulse, fortunately the blow is aimed at the young man in the knit cap, hitting his eyes directly, he closes it in reflex, letting out a pained groan his head is bent sideway at the impact, his hand covering half of his face. A plain, female white shoe flops to the floor.
From the open toilet cabin they both spot the mysterious third party: a pink-haired girl. They're equally puzzled at the fact there's a woman in the men's area, but the enraged man barely gives himself time to analyze it, he couldn't care less who she is, clenching the ceramic shard on his palm, cuts opening on his hands and blood dripping, he grits his teeth in a guttural yell:
"You're dead, bitch!"
Ryo's gaze comes back to his enemy whose undivided attention is tunneled on the girl, sneaking his hand under the wrist of his foe, he yanks his whole arm around to the back, bending his hand so oddly the man can only drop the weapon in pain.
"You trickster-"
"Too bad. You shouldn't have taken your eyes off of me."
Ruthlessly jabbing the back of the man that bends, he finishes with a strike behind the knees, making him kneel to his will. Without any reluctance, he shoves the man's head to the ground, still keeping hold on his bent arm, he twists it up in a single, strong motion. A crackle occurs, dislocating the structure of the man's shoulder, his whole arm flopping limply to the ground, a yell of agony suceeding.
A weak and shocked gasp roars on the side at his virulence, but he pays no heed to it, letting go of the man to look at him from above.
The fingers of the attacker slither on the ground to reach out his knife nearby, a foot crushing his fingertips. Ryo rubs his shoes purposefully roughly on the man's hands.
"If you wanted to pay your debt, all you had to do was to win."
A sadistic, delighted smirk playing on his lips, hearing the subtle crackles of the man's fingers. The enemy shouts, banging his head on the ground in pain again.
"Stop fighting back now, loser."
He kicks the head of his opponent, the man's eyes rolling up and closing as he's rendered unconscious. Finally, silence. Ryo's sharp eyes turn to the intruder.
Their gazes meet for a second, her round, blue orbs becoming even larger when she realizes her cover was busted and that she stands alone with this man that just knocked someone out cold without a pinch of concern, in the infamous underground, not to tell this person is...
An icy sweat transpires from her palms, her lips quivering, suddenly her legs feel a bit weak to even hide back into the cabin she came from.
Ryo's gaze scrutinizes her from up to down: long pink hair, two small braids on each side linking into a ponytail at the back of her head, disheveled bangs as if she'd run a marathon; she's clad in a sleeveless white dress whose thick blue brim, plied once to the sides, the borders flapping gently above her knees, a dark-blue high collar with thin stripes of white adorning her neck, from the embroidered "RK" on the upper area of it, white socks covering up to her kneecaps, and the most noticeable of all, the missing shoe. He can tell it's a uniform of sorts.
Have I seen her somewhere before?
Is she working in an amusement park or store? Not saying a word, his cloak covers partially his figure as he bends, retrieving the shoe from the floor.
Maybe not here, but somewhere else… Where was it? I'm sure… I did see her.
It's exactly like the slippers students were forced to use inside the school grounds, was she dragged down here directly from school or what? She is on the young side, maybe his age? Or younger? The more he thinks, the more his brows crook, his orbs landing on her doubtfully.
Not that it matters now…
What is she doing in the male's locker room? His foot tramples on the fallen man, to make sure he stays there. Such tyranny in his haughty gaze as he looked from above.
A beguiling smile plays on his lips, a muffled chuckle coming out as he stares back at her, his heavy steps bound her way; she can only but exhale a shaky breath as he approaches menacingly, from the dark attire he's donned with to the belt buckle with the "K" initial, everything about him screams "problem".
She'd prefer when he was just a very drunk man in a bar. But now, he's standing right in front of her, that same lofty gaze he had towards the fainted man, now directed at her, yet he seems even less sober than the last time she saw him.
As his shadow overlaps her silhouette, she is compelled to look up at his face, her heart almost failing out of fear. Was he always this tall? He looked shorter that other night.
"Lost your shoe?" he offers the lone pair of footwear to her, sneering.
She clumsily takes it, her hand fumbling, almost losing grip. He won't just let her go in peace, will he?
Her whole face twists ruefully. She tried to help someone and do a good deed, she did. But perhaps she saved the villain of the story, not the hero. Twice in a row.