At fifteen, Daisuke "Date" Tanaka was already a force of nature — 5'5", 62 kilograms of lean, disciplined muscle with 17% body fat and a gaze that could cut through steel.
Growing up in a rough Tokyo suburb as the youngest of five brothers meant one thing: you either fought or got crushed.
Date had always been the smallest — and for years, that made him the target.
When he was twelve, a group of older kids jumped him behind a convenience store, leaving him bloodied and broken.
He remembered standing in front of a cracked bathroom mirror afterward, lip split and eyes burning, whispering to himself, "Never again."
That night became his turning point.
With no gym, no money, and no one to guide him, Date made the world his dojo.
He studied Bruce Lee tapes on a dusty VHS player, mimicking every move in the cramped space of his bedroom until sweat pooled on the tatami mats.
He found a tattered punching bag in the garage, hung it from a tree, and hit it until his knuckles bled.
The local park became his training ground — monkey bars for inverted rows, concrete slabs for push-ups, benches for squats.
His routine was brutal: 100 push-ups, 100 bicycle crunches, 100 inverted rows, 100 squats, 100 curls with a 10-kilogram sandbag he made himself.
Every day, without fail.
To build speed, he jumped rope for half an hour, mastering what he called the "flash step" — a blur of movement that made him seem to vanish.
Then fifteen minutes of shadowboxing — sharpening his "ghost jab," a strike so fast most never saw it coming.
His body grew tougher, faster, sharper. But what really changed was his will.
One night, while copying kicks outside a karate dojo, the old sensei inside noticed him.
The man stepped out, his white gi faded and eyes like iron. "Why do you train out here, boy?"
Date froze, embarrassed. "Can't afford lessons, sir."
The sensei studied him, then nodded. "Show me your stance."
Date did — rough, shaky, but full of intent. The old man's lips curled into a faint smile.
"Size is nothing if your will is iron," he said. "Come inside."
From then on, Date trained under him twice a week for free.
He learned how to harness precision — how to make every strike count.
And when a retired Muay Thai fighter moved next door, Date bartered yard work for lessons.
The man, gruff but kind, taught him the low kick, the roundhouse, and the liver blow — a devastating strike that could end a fight in one clean shot.
"Power's nothing without timing," the fighter warned. "Remember that, kid."
By fifteen, Date's name was whispered around the backstreets.
He started joining underground teen brawls — no rules, no refs, just raw instinct.
There, he learned to roll through attacks, slip punches, and stand tall against stronger opponents.
One night, a thug swung a metal pipe at him.
Date slipped under it and countered with a cross so heavy it bent the pipe on impact.
That's when everyone realized — the kid wasn't just strong. He was terrifying.
Every morning before school, he was up at five, rain or shine, pounding through his routine in the park.
His body became a weapon, and his pain became fuel.
So when the day came to fight Herlen in the Lincoln High gym, it wasn't a surprise — it was destiny.
——
The gym roared like a storm.
Students packed shoulder to shoulder, phones out, chanting names as the two boys squared off.
Herlen was taller — 5'7", 55 kilos, 12% body fat, wiry and scarred from years of street fights.
He'd been the undisputed brawler of the school until now.
Every punch he threw carried street-bred power, every kick hit like a truck.
But Date didn't flinch.
Herlen sneered. "Didn't think you'd actually show, short stack."
Date rolled his shoulders, calm. "I don't back down. Not anymore."
The crowd howled. "Date! Herlen! Date!" The energy was electric.
Herlen grinned, cracking his knuckles. "You talk big. Let's see if you can take a hit."
"Try me."
Herlen lunged first — a wild haymaker slicing through the air. Date ducked under it, his head movement fluid,
then countered with a ghost jab that cracked across Herlen's jaw. The sound echoed.
Herlen staggered, wiping blood from his lip. "Fast little bastard," he growled.
He grabbed Date's wrist, grip tightening like a vice, and yanked him forward. A knee rocketed up toward Date's ribs.
Date grunted but twisted, his abs flexing, rolling with the impact.
He fired back a short right straight, snapping Herlen's head sideways.
Herlen stumbled, but didn't fall — he never did.
"You hit like you mean it," Herlen spat. "Good."
"Then stop talking and fight."
The two clashed again — Date's precision against Herlen's raw fury.
A roundhouse from Herlen slammed into Date's guard, the force rattling through his arms.
Date countered with a low Muay Thai kick, smashing Herlen's thigh.
The taller boy cursed and retaliated with a flurry of hooks, one grazing Date's jaw, drawing a thin line of blood.
Date wiped it with his thumb, eyes narrowing.
"Now I'm warmed up."
He flash-stepped forward, his movements blurring. A liver blow — sharp, surgical — landed clean.
Herlen gasped, the wind ripped from his lungs. His knees buckled but his pride held him up.
"Stay down, Herlen," Date warned.
Herlen coughed, shaking his head. "Not… a chance."
He swung again, raw power and fury driving him, but Date slipped under every strike.
His defense was flawless — years of brawls and drills paying off.
Then, with a calm precision, Date stepped in and unleashed a brutal cross to Herlen's jaw.
The crack was deafening.
Herlen crumpled to the mat, out cold. The crowd exploded.
"DATE! DATE! DATE!"
Date stood over him, breathing hard, knuckles throbbing, sweat dripping into his eyes.
He stared down at Herlen — beaten but still trying to rise — and sighed.
"You've got heart, man," he said softly. "But heart alone doesn't win fights."
Herlen groaned, barely conscious. "I'll… get you next time."
Date nodded. "Then I'll be ready."
Teachers finally burst into the gym, shouting to break it up, but the crowd barely noticed.
Date slipped out the side door, the noise fading behind him.
Outside, the air was cool, quiet. He tilted his head back, staring at the sky, blood drying on his knuckles.
He'd won. But victory didn't feel like triumph — it felt like another step.
Because for Date, the real fight wasn't against others.
It was against the weakness that once left him broken in front of that mirror.
And tomorrow, before sunrise, he'd be back in the park — jumping rope, shadowboxing, chasing perfection.
Because for Daisuke "Date" Tanaka… winning was never the end. It was a promise.