Three men moved in concert, their bare feet thudding lightly on the matted floor. All wore white gis, sleeves rolled up, belts tight. Their muscles flexed with practiced intent—thick arms, bent noses, and ears shaped like chewed gum. They were real fighters. They had real grit.
And yet they couldn't touch the young boy they were fighting.
Alex moved like water—twisting, ducking, weaving between strikes. One step here, a pivot there. A foot slid under a kick, his shoulder barely avoiding a heavy downward chop. Every motion was fluid, precise. He wasn't fast in the way sprinters were fast—his speed came from anticipation, from angles, from knowing the shape of their attacks before they were committed.
A right hook sailed past his head, ruffling his blonde hair. He didn't flinch. Instead, he dipped low, glancing up just in time to catch the look on his opponent's face—confused, almost annoyed. Another man tried to grab him by the collar. Alex stepped into the grip, pressed a palm to the man's shoulder, and redirected the motion just enough to slide out of reach.
Then came a low kick from behind—telegraphed by the shifting weight of the attacker's front leg. Alex didn't turn. He simply stepped wide and pivoted, his gi brushing the shin as the kick missed by an inch.
For a moment, the three men paused—gathering breath, reassessing.
One of them charged, this time feinting high before aiming a spinning back kick toward Alex's ribs. The boy's gaze met his. Two red orbs, spinning slowly with a single tomoe each. The fighter's confidence evaporated. He saw himself missing even before his foot left the ground.
He tried anyway.
Alex stepped inside the arc of the kick, his elbow grazing the man's chest as he passed. Another punch flew from the left. Alex bent backward at the waist, letting it sweep over him like wind. Then a hand reached for his wrist—an attempt at an uchimata throw. Alex twisted, pulling his arm out at the exact moment the grip tightened, and stepped out of the zone entirely.
He exhaled.
"That's enough for today," Alex said, even as he moved. His body slipped past a haymaker, then a spinning kick, then the shoulder of a man attempting to clinch. In one seamless sequence, he tapped each of their throats with the tips of his fingers—one, two, three. Each man reeled back, coughing instinctively.
It seemed impossible. But it wasn't.
The dojo was quiet save for the scuffling of feet and the rasp of recovering breath. It was a spartan place—just padded flooring, a few punching bags swaying near the wall, and a wide circular space in the center.
"Damn, boss," the oldest of the three said, rubbing his neck. "Didn't need to hit that hard."
Alex shrugged, rolling his shoulder. "If you see me go on the offensive, pull guard. That's the takeaway." He said it without malice, just matter-of-fact.
The men exchanged glances, then laughed—hoarse, good-natured sounds.
They liked him. More importantly, they respected him. These were men who bled for their craft, and he paid them to do what they loved. They weren't bodyguards or bouncers. They were martial artists. In his words, research assistants. In a world revolving around around quirks and heroes, their skills were of little to no use, after all.
Alex brushed the dust off his gi. "I may be indisposed this coming week. Hold lessons in my absence."
"You got it, boss. We'll keep the place running."
They shared a few nods and claps on the back before parting ways. The men gathered their bags, still catching their breath, and left through the main entrance.
Alex didn't follow. Instead, he walked to the far end of the room, pulled a thin black card from his waistband, and tapped it against the small panel embedded in the wall. A faint click, and the wall slid open to reveal an elevator.
The doors closed behind him, and it rose to the second floor.
The elevator opened into a spacious living room with floor-to-ceiling windows. The sunlight cut across steel and glass, casting long streaks on the polished floor. One wall was lined with monitors, most of them displaying code, graphs, and flickering stock tickers. Across from it, an open gym setup—squat rack, pull-up bar, heavy bag, rower.
A glass of juice sat on a table, sweating slightly in the warmth. He picked it up and sat at the desk, eyes drifting to the trading algorithm running in the background. It flicked between buys and sells with near-perfect timing, silently accumulating profit.
Alex took a long sip. Tart. Cold.
"It's already been ten years, huh?" he murmured.
No one answered. There was no one else.
Time really flew when you were having fun. And oh, he had fun. Freelance programming paid the bills since he could crawl. It wasn't easy at first. But when you could recite the entire backend of this world's version of Stack Overflow and every major language's syntax by memory, things eventually clicked. By four, he'd moved out of the orphanage.
Sure, there was legal friction. But competency tests and flawless speech buried most objections. Child services still knocked every few months, trying to catch him slipping, but he kept the place spotless and his answers cleaner.
At 5 years old, he'd started his physical conditioning seriously. Every scrap of research he could find went into designing the ideal regime. The kind that didn't burn out a young body, but still pushed it to its genetic limit. Days became loops of food, sleep, training, and code. Sprinkle in some minor black-hat gigs—harmless things, mostly—and it all blurred into routine.
A year ago, he bought this building. Converted the bottom floor into the dojo. Sparring partners on retainer. Privacy upstairs. No distractions.
And now, it was his eleventh birthday.
Alex sat, watching lines of data flow across his monitors, sipping juice, awaiting the final minutes before he could claim the reward he'd anticipated for so long.
And if the wheel disappointed him again, despite its promises, he'd already booked tickets to the Bahamas. He hadn't taken a vacation in a decade, and if the wheel failed him, he would certainly need one.
With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and entered his mindscape.
Everything faded to darkness, save for the golden wheel standing proudly before him, a prominent number 10 displayed at its center.