End of 1st Generation

The streets of central Seoul were a living nightmare that night. The smell of blood, sweat, and adrenaline filled the air like a thick fog, and I was there, just another nameless thug, trying to keep out of the way. My gang had warned me not to get involved, but curiosity got the better of me. I'd heard the whispers—something big was happening tonight. The top dogs of Seoul were going at it. I figured it would be a once-in-a-lifetime chance to see the strongest tear each other apart.

The crowd had gathered, keeping their distance but staying close enough to watch. There was an air of dread, the kind that crawls into your bones and makes you want to run but keeps you glued to the scene. I stuck to the shadows, leaning against the cold brick of an alley wall, watching the chaos unfold.

Then I saw him. At first, I didn't know who he was. I mean, I'd heard about Gun Park, the Shiro Oni—everyone knew who he was. His huge frame, the brutal scar on his chest like a badge of honor. He was tearing through some poor bastard, throwing punches that could cave in a man's skull. The pavement cracked where his fists hit, a testament to his raw power. But he wasn't the only one.

Good Kim was there, too. That guy always creeped me out. He was laughing, that insane, high-pitched cackle as he swung a blade like a madman, slashing through anyone who got in his way. They said he could turn anything into a weapon, and I believed it. He didn't care who got hurt—his sword just cut through the air, unpredictable and vicious.

James Lee, the red-haired menace, was moving like lightning, fists flying with unnatural speed. No one could touch him. He'd duck, weave, and counter in the blink of an eye, leaving a trail of broken bodies in his wake. You'd think the guy was having fun with it, the way his eyes gleamed with that sick joy.

And Kitae Kim, the former king of these streets, stood there like a mountain, his pickaxe gleaming under the streetlights. Everyone feared him. He didn't even need to move yet—just his presence made the other gangsters shrink back in terror.

Then, right in the middle of this storm of violence, I saw him. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his muscles rippling under a torn, blood-stained shirt. His face was expressionless, like he didn't care about anything happening around him. At first, I didn't think much of him. Just another tough guy looking for trouble.

But as I watched, something didn't sit right. This guy, whoever he was, wasn't fighting back. Gun Park went at him, swinging those sledgehammer fists like a man possessed, but this guy didn't seem to give a damn. He just moved out of the way, ducking and weaving without so much as blinking. No effort, no fear. Just calm, emotionless precision.

It pissed me off. Who the hell did he think he was?

"Fight me!" Gun roared, his voice booming, his fists slamming into the ground with enough force to crack the pavement beneath them. But the guy... nothing. He didn't even react, just dodged, barely moving, like he couldn't be bothered to fight back.

The others seemed to notice too. Good Kim stopped mid-laugh, his eyes narrowing. James Lee slowed his movements, watching the guy with something between curiosity and annoyance. Kitae Kim shifted his grip on the pickaxe, his eyes glinting dangerously.

And me? I just got angrier watching it. Here I was, just another small-time thug, barely scraping by, fighting for everything I had, and this guy—this emotionless bastard—was walking through the middle of the most dangerous fight Seoul had seen in years without breaking a sweat. Without even caring.

Gun Park was done waiting. He charged again, his fist swinging toward the guy's face with enough force to cave in a wall. I barely had time to react, but the guy… He didn't move until the last second, sidestepping Gun's attack like it was nothing. His expression didn't change, didn't even flinch.

"What the fuck…?" I muttered, backing up a step.

That was when it all went to hell. Goo Kim, laughing like a maniac again, charged in next, his sword slicing through the air with that same chaotic energy he always had. But the guy ducked under it like he saw it coming a mile away. And then, for the first time, he moved.

He wasn't fast, not like James Lee, but every movement was so precise, so exact. When Goo tried to bring his sword down again, the guy caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted, and sent Goo flying into a nearby car with a sickening crunch. The sword clattered to the ground, useless.

James Lee didn't waste time. He darted in with his blinding speed, fists aiming for the guy's head, his torso—every vital spot he could find. But somehow, the guy was always one step ahead. His body moved in strange, almost lazy ways, but every time, James's punches missed by mere inches. It was like the guy was reading his mind, anticipating every move.

The fight was getting brutal now, and I was starting to realize how out of my depth I was. These weren't normal fighters. This wasn't some street brawl. This was something else, something deadly. The sound of bones cracking, the sight of blood splattering across the ground—it was too much. But I couldn't look away.

Kitae Kim, the former king, finally stepped in. He wasn't like the others—he didn't rush. He walked toward the guy with that pickaxe in his hand, his eyes locked onto him like a predator stalking its prey.

The guy didn't move. He just stood there, waiting. His face was still emotionless, still cold, like nothing happening around him mattered.

Kitae swung the pickaxe with all his strength, aiming to split the guy's skull open. But at the last moment, the guy's hand shot up, catching the handle just below the head of the axe. The force of the impact sent a shockwave through the street, the ground beneath them cracking from the pressure.

The crowd went silent for a heartbeat, and then chaos erupted.

The gangsters—the other 150 or so men who had been standing on the sidelines—surged forward like a tidal wave. It was as if the dam had broken, and every thug, every low-level fighter, thought they could take him down. They rushed at the guy all at once, fists, chains, knives, and bats in hand.

It was madness.

The guy didn't back down. He didn't hesitate. He moved with terrifying efficiency, his body a blur of muscle and precision. One by one, they came at him, and one by one, they fell.

The first man swung a bat at his head, but the guy grabbed it mid-swing, yanked it out of the thug's hands, and slammed the wooden club into his face. Blood sprayed, and the thug crumpled to the ground, unconscious. Before the bat even hit the pavement, another gangster lunged at him with a knife, aiming for his gut. The guy twisted, sidestepping the blade, and delivered a vicious elbow to the attacker's jaw. The sound of bone cracking echoed through the street as the man fell like a sack of bricks.

Two more came at him from opposite sides. The guy ducked low, dodging both strikes, then grabbed one by the collar and headbutted him with brutal force. Blood splattered from the thug's nose, and he staggered back, clutching his face. The second man swung a chain, but the guy caught it, yanked it hard, and sent the attacker sprawling to the ground.

It was like watching a wolf tear through a pack of rabid dogs. No matter how many came at him, no matter how many weapons they had, they couldn't touch him. His face never changed—no anger, no fear, just cold, unrelenting focus.

More thugs rushed in, trying to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. It didn't matter. He moved like a predator, striking with precision and brutality. A punch to the ribs, an elbow to the throat, a knee to the face—every hit was devastating, and every thug that came at him hit the ground harder than the last.

The street was turning into a war zone. Blood splattered across the pavement, bodies piled up, groans of pain filled the air. But the guy—he just kept going. One after another, they came at him, and one after another, they fell. His movements were so fast, so fluid, it was like he wasn't even human. Every strike, every dodge, was perfectly calculated to deal the maximum amount of damage with the least amount of effort.

I watched in stunned silence as he took on ten, twenty, thirty men at once. They surrounded him, swinging chains, pipes, knives—anything they could get their hands on. But none of it mattered. He was like a force of nature, unstoppable and unbreakable.

I don't know how long it went on, but by the time it was over, the street was littered with bodies. Blood pooled on the asphalt, flowing like rivers between the cracks. The men who had once stood tall and confident were now unconscious or groaning in pain, their bodies broken and beaten.

And the guy? He was still standing. His clothes were torn, his body was covered in blood—some of it his own, most of it not—but he was still standing. His breathing was steady, his expression unchanged. He looked around at the devastation he had caused, at the broken bodies lying at his feet, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flicker of something in his eyes.

Regret? Anger? I couldn't tell. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

The police sirens wailed in the distance, the flashing lights reflecting off the blood-soaked streets. I thought, for sure, they would arrest him. After all, he had just taken out the top fighters in the city and left a trail of destruction in his wake.

But as the squad cars pulled up, the police chief stepped out, his face pale as a ghost. He took one look at the guy, then quickly looked away, like he was too scared to meet his eyes. He raised his hands in surrender and muttered, "I didn't see anything."

The guy didn't respond. He just turned and started walking away, his steps slow and heavy, like the weight of everything he'd just done was finally starting to settle on him. The crowd parted for him, too terrified to get in his way.

As he passed me, I caught a glimpse of his face—his cold, emotionless expression—and for the first time, I realized what he was. He wasn't just a fighter. He wasn't just some thug or gangster.

He was something else. Something far more dangerous.

And as he walked off into the night, I knew that the streets of Seoul would never be the same again.

They would remember him.

They would remember King.