Asura Style

'The foundation has been created.' Azazel lay in his corner, a grin adorning his lips.

The quarters he was staying in had become noticeably less crowded, due to the ongoing battles conducted, and lives lost.

But he had now paved a path forward for his martial style, a style that would inspire many to follow him in his path of spreading the greatness of Bruce Lee.

'No teacher is the truth, only a mere pointer to it, for which the student must find their own.' The words of his God resounded through his mind.

And it was for this reason, he decided to take a different route of martial arts rather than solely following, or replicating his God's style.

And in these past few days he introspected his thought process, eventually leading to the cement that would build his future.

Bruce Lee had used the technique of kinetic linking, to produce force that blew the mind of the people around the world.

It was mainly demonstrated in the technique of the one-inch punch, in which he used the transfer of energy from each muscle group, to produce the upmost power in a pinpointed strike.

The linkage of muscle groups, would push the energy through, accumulating more and more, until released.

This was a technique used in many fights in his previous life, weather people used it, knowingly or unknowingly. However, now in the One Piece world, with the new prospects of power at hand. He could push it to its full potential. Its supreme limit.

Of course, this was not the only staple of his style. But merely a peek of its potency.

'This will be named, Asura Style. A reminder of my beginnings.' Azazel's body itched for need of testing. But alas, he was stuck in cell, full of non-believers not worth convincing, nor battling.

Additionally, his style would be one of speed and strength, aimed at dismantling whatever weapons his opponent had, before swiftly giving them a death worthy of their stature.

His main aim would be to take advantage of the biological, or mental weaknesses of his enemies, their joints, ligaments, nerves, neck, eyes, anger, arrogance, or whatever it may be, ruthlessly destroying them, aiding his chances of victory.

But all could change in future. As his view widened, as he witnessed the many different forms of combat, he would surely add, or discard certain aspects of his style. Eventually creating the most perfect way of combat possible.

And with one of his goals in mind, a familiar voice seared with the tiniest ounce of respect, reached his ears, "Boy. Come." A guards orders, prompted Azazel to walk forward.

The guard had chains in his hand, perhaps dubbing this boy as a threat.

'He is surely enamoured with my previous style of fighting.' Azazel thought, 'It's too bad I cannot mess with him. While I may feel euphoria from the act, I could easily be sentenced to death for any mishap.'

He had adapted to his current surroundings, following part of Bruce Lee's philosophy in the art of water. But this did not mean he was a slave to his environment, forever to be caged. For he could adapt to any situation, and in time, he would surely be facing a great danger as he tried to escape.

"Hands out. Now." Azazel followed his instructions, keeping a calm expression. And soon he was walking to an unknown destination.

"Where are we going exactly?" Azazel had fully expected a slap, he was sure he would not be punished too harshly for speaking out of order, he was a certain heathens slave after all.

But no slap interrupted his words. Only the slightly angered voice of the guard came. It seemed reputation had indeed increased his benefits, "You will be taken to fight Lord, Saint Dustin's personal battles as his entertainment."

"I se-"

"Quiet! Slave! Just because I allowed you to speak once, you think I have given you my permission?" The guard raised his hand.

*SLAP*

"Don't speak again, or you die." He then scoffed, continuing to walk, dragging Azazel along with him.

'Pain is simply weakness, leaving the body.' A grin replaced his still lips. Azazel was most definitely not a masochist. But the words of his martial God, were not to be ignored.

The two walked in a wary silence, until they reached a fancier looking colosseum, that had it's top closed off.

Azazel gazed at the grand entrance, which lacked any sign of person. Perhaps, for a bit too long.

"Mutt!" The guard shouted, pointing at the wealthy sight, "Those doors are not for the likes of you."

He tugged his chain, bringing Azazel alongside with him, and soon they reached a backdoor entrance. He was then brought to a room, filled with grime and dirt, which would now be his new living space, until death, or until escape.

His chains were unlocked and the door sealed, leaving him to his most prominent friend. Silence.

There were no windows inside, and he only had a single light at the top of the ceiling. But a room like this was perfect for Azazel, while it lacked opponents, it would better his concentration as he trained.

---

In the seats of a certain colosseum, a transparent barrier separated the audience from the arena. The seats were filled with an assortment of people, their numbers not too high. Perhaps around 30.

This was a space reserved for entertainment of one of the highest standing classes in the world. The celestial dragons.

"Dustin, your slave... Asura was it?" A fat snobbish looking celestial dragon appeared, talking in the seats. To his right was Dustin, the current owner of Azazel.

"He should be fighting today right?" A smile filled with arrogance, faced Dustin, who looked rather annoyed.

"Carlos you Idiot! You think your slave would beat, the one I, Noble Dustin personally picked!?" His fist clenched. He could remember the annoying bastard next to him, beating him every time when it came to slave battles.

He had bought many before, spending huge amounts of beli, much more than his current one had costed. He truly wished that he could give each slave that lost, the most painful death imaginable, they simply got it easy dying in the mutt pit. He even tortured whatever family they had, as result of his loss.

"You say this every time. What makes this one different?" Carlos chuckled, his arrogance brimming to its fullest, "If I win, give me that slave girl in your possession." A lecherous smile appeared, his eyes squinting alongside, "She will be a great plaything, heheheh."

As one of the celestial dragons, the most spoiled and supremely arrogant, how could Dustin back down to such a provocation?

"Fine! If I win, I want to choose any slave I want from your personal collection." Carlos frowned, but agreed nonetheless. He would win anyways.

"Mighty Lords!" Shouted an announcer, "First we have... Lord, Saint Carlos warrior! With 9 battles victorious, slicing through his opponents ruthlessly! The Swordmaster!"

A rugged man, with sharp eyes and scruffy black hair, and a bulky body entered the arena. His sword was clean, and he wore clothes befitting of a warrior.

The celestial dragons roared, furiously placing bets, not even hearing the other contender. The rivalry of both Saint Dustin and Saint Carlos was one of enjoyment, and Dustin always lost.

"Next, we have Lord, Saint Dustin's warrior! A new contender, known for his feats of decimating all before him, using only his body! The Asura!"

A very young figure, packed with slim, but full muscle entered. Obsidian black hair, ruby red eyes, and an aura of calmness, Azazel stepped into the light.