"A king isn't crowned. He takes the throne in blood."
The fight in the cafeteria wasn't forgotten. It burned into the school's memory like a scar that wouldn't heal.
No one had ever laid a hand on the Pit Dogs and walked away unscathed. Eli Nam hadn't just walked away. He didn't even look back.
Now, Dogsung High pulsed with whispers. The teachers knew something had shifted. But they stayed silent—fear keeping their lips sealed. Rumors spiraled through every hallway: a new kid, a silent devil, who stared down the top dogs and left them in pieces.
But where was he?
Nowhere. And everywhere.
THE SCRAP — a junkyard turned underground fighting arena, tucked in the industrial shadows of Busan. Oil drums flickered with firelight, and rusted shipping containers served as makeshift locker rooms. Students from rival schools, dropouts, gang hopefuls—everyone came here to bleed.
Tonight's crowd was rowdier than usual. Word had spread fast.
"Some freak from Dogsung's here."
"Didn't he break someone's leg at lunch?"
In walked Eli Nam.
Street-styled to kill—black tactical bomber jacket, cropped at the waist with custom zippers, the red inner lining peeking with each step. Underneath, a stone-gray hoodie with thumbholes, layered over a long white drop tee. Black cargo joggers hugged his frame, detailed with strap pockets and silver zip-ties. Clean, thick-soled sneakers, matte black with blood-red accents. Twin silver rings gleamed on each hand. Sharp, modern, lethal—the kind of look that made heads turn and threats hesitate.
His presence was an ensemble of precision, power, and the cold promise of wreckage.
He passed crews with dyed hair, metal baseball bats, snake tattoos. He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
The ring boss, an ex-fighter called Old Maeng, stared at him.
"You fight?"
Eli met his gaze.
"Point me to the best you've got."
Maeng grinned, showing a row of gold teeth.
"Yul Tak from Sejin Vocational. He's taken out nine straight."
Eli stepped into the ring.
The crowd leaned in. Phones rose, ready. Bets flew. The air crackled with anticipation.
Yul was lean, fast, and vicious. A natural striker. He shadowboxed, his footwork sharp enough to cut steel. His eyes locked onto Eli's, a predator's grin spreading across his face.
Eli? He didn't move. Hands down. Back straight. Cold.
The bell rang.
Yul exploded forward—jab, jab, hook combo. Blistering speed. Each punch aimed to maim.
Eli tilted his chin, dodged the jab. Parried the second with his forearm. The hook scraped past his cheek as he stepped into Yul's space—too close, too fast.
A devastating liver shot folded Yul in half.
But Eli wasn't done.
He seized Yul's collar mid-collapse and yanked him back up. The crowd gasped.
Yul staggered, instinct making him throw a desperate elbow. Eli ducked under, grabbed his wrist, twisted.
CRACK.
Yul screamed, but Eli's knee rammed into his ribs, cutting the cry short. One, two—machine-gun knees. Then a sudden shift—Eli dropped low, sweeping Yul's legs clean.
Yul hit the floor. But before the dust could settle—
Eli pivoted on his heel. A spinning back kick. Full force. Direct hit to the temple.
SNAP.
Yul crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut.
Silence.
Then chaos.
Roars, shouts, screams. Phones shook in trembling hands, capturing every frame. Blood stained the ring.
Eli stood at the center, chest rising steady, unshaken. His coat swayed like a reaper's cloak. He rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles, and scanned the crowd.
"Next," he said.
The crowd erupted.
The legend hadn't just begun.
It had been carved into the ring in bone and blood.
From the shadows, someone watched.
Hayeon Seo, black bob, cigarette dangling between her fingers, school jacket half-on. Numbers girl for the Scar Chain—the second-year crew that ran Dogsung's east block. Sharp with numbers, sharper with words. She didn't fight often, but everyone knew she didn't have to. She knew the books, and more importantly—she knew people.
She stepped forward, slow-clapping, her eyes scanning Eli like a threat assessment.
"You're Eli Nam," she said, half-amused.
He looked at her, impassive.
"I run the Scar Chain's books. That was one of our fighters. You made a mess."
"And?"
"You're making waves, handsome. Dangerous ones. You do that enough, and the ocean pushes back."
Eli tilted his head slightly, his voice low. "You think I care about tides?"
Hayeon smirked, flicking ash to the dirt. "I think you care about power. And that means we'll meet again—under less… polite circumstances."
Eli turned his gaze past her, toward the burning drums. The city lights flickered above the scrapyard wall, distant stars that seemed to pull at him.
"I'm not after the Scar Chain," he said.
"No?"
"I'm after all of you."
She watched him walk away into the dark. And in that moment, Hayeon realized something chilling: Eli Nam wasn't here to play the game.
He was here to rewrite the rules.
Back at Dogsung High, the Pit Dogs were licking their wounds. Bruised egos, fractured bones, shattered pride. Their frontliners were wrecked, but their supposed alpha, Rowon, sat silent—untouched physically, but his authority deeply shaken. He was seething with anger, but the calm in his eyes betrayed a mind already plotting revenge. He wanted to test Eli for real and gave a call to someone.
Minutes later, in the dim back hall outside the nurse's office, someone else emerged from the shadows.
Kang Doohwan—senior, rumored enforcer of the old Dogsung regime, a name only whispered in fear. Rumored to have broken a teacher's jaw and walked away clean.
He walked right up to Rowon, voice low and steady.
"You called for me? I heard someone wrecked the crew?"
"This is embarrassing. The Pit Dogs used to mean something. Now we're a joke."
Rowon looked at Kang, his tone sharp, voice trembling with barely contained fury. "I want you to take him down."
"Tomorrow. After school. Behind the gym. Bring Eli Nam to me. No flunkies. Just him."
He turned, then paused.
"And Kang... if you disappoint me—don't show your face around here again."
Eli, meanwhile, was already moving. Watching. Pulling strings.
He had no time for pride.
He wanted control.
He mapped gang territories. Memorized foot traffic patterns. He observed which crews loitered during lunch, which bathroom stalls were being used for deals, who carried what, and who owed who. He spotted the Scar Chain running their extortion gig out of the east stairwell—clipboard girls with fake fines and debt traps. The Pit Dogs ran intimidation rackets behind the gym, collecting protection fees with baseball bats and broken noses. And the teachers? They turned a blind eye, collecting peace in exchange for silence.
Eli didn't just want to fight them.
He wanted to own them.
He started buying small debts—lunch loans, drug IOUs, borrowed gear—and flipping them for leverage. He pressured a runner for the Pit Dogs into working for him instead, offering protection from a rival crew. He snatched a Scar Chain errand boy off campus, returned him unharmed, but with a warning carved into his skateboard: "Tread carefully."
He whispered in ears. Made calls. Cashed in favors no one knew he had. Gave a nobody the beating of his life, only to offer him a spot days later. Everyone had a price. Eli intended to find them all.
Because this wasn't just about reputation.
It was about building an empire.
And the first move had already begun.
TO BE CONTINUED...