(MC POV)
Time stopped feeling real after a few days inside Jagi's territory. The sun rose, people screamed, and blood dried on the ground in the same rhythm every morning. I trained whenever I could, using scraps of time stolen between raids and executions. I copied everything. The way they punched. The way they kicked. Even the bad habits. Strength came quickly, but control didn't. My body remembered faster than my mind could catch up, like it was starving for violence.
At night, when the camp quieted down, I practiced alone. Shadowboxing under broken floodlights. Repeating movements until my muscles burned. I wasn't learning Hokuto Shinken, not really, but I was learning bodies. How weight shifted before a strike. How breathing changed before panic. Watching enough people die teaches you patterns you can't unsee.
I listened more than I spoke. Jagi's gang was loud, cruel, and stupid, but even idiots talk when they think no one important is listening. I learned which lieutenants hated each other, which supply routes mattered, and which prisoners were taken just for amusement. That knowledge was more valuable than brute strength. It kept me alive.
I killed when ordered. There was no avoiding that. Some of them deserved it. Others didn't. The trick was choosing when no one noticed. During raids, I'd "miss" someone. Cut their chains instead of their throat. Whisper directions into shaking ears and point them toward the desert paths I knew weren't watched. Not everyone made it. But some did. That had to be enough.
One name kept surfacing among the gang, spoken with a mix of fear and mockery. A man who claimed to know Hokuto Shinken. A genius, they said. A madman, others whispered. I saw him days later.
Amiba.
He didn't look impressive at first. Slim build. Wild eyes. A smile that never reached anything human. He strutted around the camp like he owned it, demonstrating pressure point strikes on screaming prisoners. Their bodies jerked, spasmed, twisted in unnatural ways. The thugs cheered, convinced they were witnessing true Hokuto Shinken.
I watched closely.
It was wrong.
The points were close, but not exact. The reactions delayed. The damage inconsistent. This wasn't the divine fist passed down through blood and discipline. This was imitation, stitched together from observation and cruelty. Still… it worked enough to kill. Enough to fool idiots.
Amiba noticed me watching.
"You," he said one night, tilting his head. "You have interesting eyes. You're trying to understand, not admire."
I said nothing.
He laughed. "Jagi taught me some things. Not the real art, of course. He's too stupid for that. But I improved it. Through research."
Research meant human experiments.
I memorized everything. Which fingers he used. How deep he pressed. Which points failed more often. I didn't copy his techniques. I copied his mistakes. That taught me more than success ever could.
I started studying anatomy obsessively. Bones, muscles, nerves. I asked questions under the excuse of efficiency. Which strikes killed faster. Which left bodies intact for display. I traced lines on my own arms, mapping imagined meridians. Hokuto Shinken wasn't magic. It was knowledge sharpened into murder.
One night, I overheard two men arguing while drinking themselves stupid. They mentioned a Nanto user cutting through bandit groups to the west. A man with sharp eyes and sharper fingers. Searching for his sister.
Rei.
My heart skipped.
If Rei was moving, then the timeline was advancing. That meant Shin was already dead. Yuria was missing. The world was heading toward collision. Kenshiro wouldn't be far behind.
The rumors spread quickly after that. Entire outposts wiped out overnight. Men found dead with no visible wounds. Others exploding from the inside, fear frozen on their faces. The name started as a whisper.
Kenshiro.
Jagi's camp changed overnight. Patrols doubled. Executions increased. Jagi himself hadn't appeared yet, but his paranoia seeped into everything. He was afraid. And fear made him sloppy.
I stood on a watchtower one evening, staring into the horizon. The desert stretched endlessly, red under the dying sun. Somewhere out there, a man with seven scars was walking toward us, leaving broken tyrants behind him.
I clenched my fists.
I wasn't ready. Not yet.
But I would be.
Because when Kenshiro finally stepped into Jagi's domain, the world would shake. And I intended to be standing close enough to feel it.