Chapter 42: "Ki-ng Me Already"
Kenichi Shirahama sat in his room, the kind of "sit" you do when lying down feels like betrayal and standing up is too ambitious. His body was still steaming from the Akisame Brand Torture Chamber, and he was pretty sure he'd discovered new muscles today—specifically because they were all screaming in pain.
A warm light spilled from his desk lamp, flickering slightly as if it, too, was rethinking its life choices.
Kenichi sighed.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
Not here as in "his room," but here in the larger, cosmic, why-do-I-need-to-dodge-tree-shattering-punches kind of way. He had joined Akatsuki because Naruto was his friend. That was it.
Kenichi didn't have a lot of friends. And Honoka had looked so proud of him. His parents had started smiling again. Even his old man had patted his shoulder last night and said something about "finally walking like a man." (Which was weird, considering Kenichi had limped home with a rib out of alignment.)
But now… it was getting real. Not anime-fan-theory real. Odin-in-a-white-suit-declaring-he's-going-to-punch-your-soul-out real.
Ryuto.
That name hadn't passed through Kenichi's mind in years, but the moment he saw the white suit and those sharp glasses, it all came rushing back like a badly edited montage scene.
The vending machine. The badges. The "let's-get-strong-for-Miu" pact.
Except Kenichi had completely… forgotten.
And Ryuto hadn't.
Kenichi rolled onto his side, wincing as his shoulder popped. Training under Ryozanpaku had been brutal. He'd nearly run away three times today. And the only reason he didn't was because Akisame had a sixth sense for detecting cowardice and dragging him back by the ear like a stern librarian.
Then there was Miu.
She didn't look like a fighter when she smiled. She looked like someone who could bake cookies and rescue kittens from trees while wearing a frilly dress. But when she moved, it was like poetry had a black belt.
She talked to him like he wasn't a lost cause. Like maybe his efforts weren't completely ridiculous.
And now… Ryuto wanted to fight.
Kenichi didn't fear getting hit. Not anymore. Naruto had drop-kicked the fear out of him years ago. And training with Akisame had taught him that bone pain was temporary—but regret could last forever.
What scared him was what if he deserved it?
What if Ryuto was right? What if he was a loser who bailed on their promise and ran into normal life while Ryuto kept walking through the fire?
What if he had failed… not just Ryuto, but himself?
Kenichi looked at his shaking hands. Not from fear. From fatigue. From gripping onto a dream that wasn't even his until recently.
"I don't want to fight Ryuto," he muttered to the empty room. "But I can't run anymore either."
His eyes drifted to the small box on his desk—the one with the cat badge and the Yin-Yang symbol. A stupid childhood thing he'd kept for no reason.
No… maybe for this reason.
He stood up, legs wobbling, joints groaning like an old ship.
Time to stop being afraid of what he wasn't.
Time to find out who he was.
Even if tomorrow meant a fist in the face and another day in Akisame's torture barrel.
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Ikki:
Ukita's legs felt like ramen noodles left too long in the pot. Koga's shirt was soaked with a mix of sweat, tears, and a little bit of self-pity. Ikki, however, looked like he had just won the lottery—well, if the lottery prize was "a working arm and a spring-loaded torture suit."
The three trudged down the sidewalk like survivors of a training camp hosted by Genghis Khan and Dr. Frankenstein.
"I mean…" Ukita mumbled, trying not to sound like he was gasping for air, "is this really what training's supposed to be like?"
"No," Koga grunted, holding his ribs. "This is war crime territory. Pretty sure Geneva Conventions would have some words about that boiling barrel Akisame cooked us in."
"Guys," Ikki said cheerfully, his left arm swinging freely for the first time in months, "we survived! And look—I can do this again!" He flexed, only for a loud crack to come from somewhere deep within his shoulder. "Okay, maybe not yet. But still! Progress!"
Ukita glanced at him like he was a crazy person. "I'm happy for your arm and all, but I seriously don't know if I can keep going. I joined for Kisara, yeah, but… what if I'm just not cut out for this?"
Koga groaned. "Oh great. Now you're having an existential crisis? Save it for after dinner."
"You're one to talk," Ukita snapped. "You literally cried when the medicine stung."
"It boiled me alive!" Koga shouted. "And I like hurting others, not myself. There's a difference!"
Ikki just chuckled. "Alright, alright, enough whining. Look, I get it. I'm no genius like Shogo. I'm not fearless like Naruto. But we chose this. We're not normal dojo kids. We joined Akatsuki, and now we're at Ryozanpaku. That means something."
Ukita frowned. "And what exactly does it mean? That we should just suffer in silence while Akisame plays mad scientist?"
Ikki stopped walking and looked at them both seriously for a second—rare for him. "It means… if you want to be Street Fighter characters, you've got to earn it like them. Remember Ryu's backstory? The dude literally lived barefoot and ate rain."
"…That's not canon," Koga mumbled.
"Shut up, it feels canon," Ikki fired back.
Then he turned to Ukita. "And you. You want Kisara to notice you, right?"
Ukita looked away, muttering something about "just being supportive."
"Bro, let's be honest. You don't have the looks. You're built like a mop with delusions of grandeur."
"…Thanks?"
"But you do have a big heart. That counts. So show it. Don't run. Don't cry. Show her that you're strong where it matters—even if your face doesn't help."
Ukita sighed… then laughed. "You're such a jerk, Ikki."
"And you're such a simp, so it balances out."
Koga shook his head. "I can't believe I'm stuck with you two idiots."
But there was a faint smile on his lips.
Because somehow, in all the pain and insane martial arts madness, they were still together. And that made the road a little less terrifying.
Even if Akisame's training tomorrow might break their legs again.
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Shogo:
Shogo's house didn't look like the kind of place where a future martial arts beast was raised. Suburban two-story with a small lawn, doghouse, and enough garden gnomes to make you suspicious of a side hustle. But the real power wasn't in the living room, or even in the overly polite kitchen—it was in the backyard.
That's where Shogo trained.
That's where his gym was.
That's where his rage lived.
The backyard gym was basically a dojo-slash-iron-forge. Rusted dumbbells. Chains hanging from a pull-up bar. An old punching bag that had been duct-taped more than Frankenstein's monster. His dad had built it when he was his age—a reformed delinquent turned government official with just enough cool left in his combed-back hair to scare off door-to-door salesmen. His mom? Same story. Gangs, fights, and now PTA meetings with the same "I will suplex you" energy.
They didn't mind Shogo's violent streak. In fact, when he came home bruised and battered, his mom handed him an ice pack and his dad gave him a high-five.
"Good form today, son," his dad had said. "You still leading with your left?"
"Only when I'm mad," Shogo grinned through the bruises.
Tonight though—tonight was different.
Shogo was in his gym shirtless, sweat running down his back like a leaky faucet. He could feel it—the burn. Not from the 200kg he was benching. Not from the sparring session with Loki earlier. No, this was something inside. Like his veins were crackling. His muscles weren't just sore—they were pulsing.
"Ki…" he muttered, sitting up on the bench, eyes narrowed. "That's what this is, isn't it?"
He clenched his fist. A low hum buzzed up his arm.
He remembered watching Naruto at the dojo, his body glowing faintly with that otherworldly energy, like someone had poured chakra-flavored Red Bull into his soul. It annoyed him, honestly. Naruto had that ridiculous energy boost, the boosted gear, spirit whatever—it was like he was playing the game on cheat mode.
But now?
Now Shogo could feel it too.
His body had always been stronger than most of the others. He prided himself on raw physicality. But now that power was shifting—awakening. Like his muscles were starting to drink in energy from the air around him, hungry for more. His senses felt sharper. His skin? Warmer. Even his breath came out like steam.
"Heh," he chuckled, wiping his face with a towel, grinning like a maniac. "Took long enough."
The first sign of Ki awakening.
This was just the beginning. He wasn't afraid of the pain. Pain was just fuel. A sign you were getting closer.
Shogo punched the heavy bag. It exploded off the chain and flew into the fence.
"…Oops."
His dad poked his head out the sliding door. "That's the third one this month."
"Charge it to my allowance."
"You don't have an allowance."
"…Then I didn't do it."
His dad snorted and disappeared back inside.
Shogo looked at his hand. "Alright, Naruto. You're not gonna be the only monster in this group."
He smirked, fire in his veins, sweat on his brow, and Ki in his bones.
The real fight was just beginning. And he couldn't wait.
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Loki:
Loki stepped into the grand marble foyer of his home and was immediately greeted by the kind of luxury that could make a sultan say, "A bit much, don't you think?"
The chandelier sparkled. The butlers bowed. The air smelled like imported cedarwood and generational wealth. A maid silently handed him a towel to dab the training sweat off his genius-level forehead.
"Welcome home, Young Master Loki," they all chimed in unison.
Loki gave a tired sigh, adjusted his scarf, and waved a lazy hand. "Yeah, yeah, thanks. Tell Chef I want a recovery meal with triple protein, and—wait, actually—make it quadruple. I trained with Sakaki today. I need it."
"Understood, sir."
The butlers scattered like ninjas in tuxedos. He walked up the golden spiral staircase (because of course it was golden) and entered his room—which looked less like a teenager's room and more like the secret command center of a high-tech supervillain.
One wall was lined with monitors, some showing dojo footage, others monitoring stock prices and weapons research. A sword hung above his desk next to blueprints labeled "KI-COMPATIBLE PROJECT X." His bed? Egyptian cotton. His chair? Custom-built with posture-correcting AI.
He plopped down and leaned back with a sigh.
His parents weren't home. No surprise there. Monday to Friday, they were out dominating the world—mergers, acquisitions, exclusive parties where someone named Klaus always said "Marvelous deal, darling". They'd be back on Saturday. For brunch.
They never missed brunch.
Loki didn't mind it… usually. His parents never pressured him much. In fact, they pretty much gave him whatever he wanted. As long as he kept acing life—academics, business plans, high society events—they gave him the freedom to build his empire.
But sometimes, like tonight, when the stars twinkled and his bones ached from real combat, he wished they'd care. Not about his numbers. But about him. Even geniuses want to hear "You okay?" once in a while.
But that was a weakness. And Loki didn't do weakness. Not twice in a row.
First time he felt it? When Shogo beat him in a street fight. The guy didn't care for planning or rules—just threw fists like Thor with road rage. Loki hated it. But he also admired it. Raw strength. Unapologetic.
Second time? Naruto.
That guy came in with spirit energy, dragon powers, healing like a game cheat, and that absurd charisma. People followed him without question. And now? He had masters teaching him to break buildings with their pinky fingers.
Loki cracked his knuckles.
"If Ki and magic are real," he muttered, "then logic and bullets are out. I'll need weapons that bend reality, not just physics."
He spun in his chair and opened a secure line to his father.
"Yes, Loki?" his dad's voice answered, smooth and distracted, probably from a gala or a jet.
"I have a business proposal," Loki said, voice clipped and professional.
"I'm listening."
"I want full budget clearance to hire or partner with a Ki- or magic-compatible weapon smith. Someone who can make me weapons on par with the monsters I'm training beside. I have some ideas, but I want to fund a R&D lab to test it all. The old rules don't apply anymore."
His father paused for a beat. "Is this related to your 'extracurricular club'?"
"Yes," Loki said. "And the return on investment might be the survival of the family heir."
"Hmph. Dramatic. I like it. Send me the proposal. If it looks good, you'll get what you need."
Click.
Loki leaned back and grinned.
Step one: secure funding.
Step two: find weapon creators—maybe Shigure, maybe Akisame, maybe someone in the black market.
Step three: combine genius, wealth, and sheer Loki-ness into something world-shaking.
"If Naruto's got dragons," he said with a smirk, "then I'll build my own."
Because genius may be born, but power?
Power was engineered.