The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, but the air still tasted like wet ash and scorched pine. Reggie stood in the middle of what used to be the dojo floor, steel bat in one hand, the other clenched around the lacquered box like it was the only thing keeping him upright. The fire service had long since rolled out—left behind caution tape flapping in the breeze, a puddle of black water pooling in the center of the mat’s remains, and the sharp stink of wet charcoal that clung to everything.

  No home.

  Again.

  But this time the emptiness didn’t swallow him whole.

  This time something answered back.

  Lightning still hummed under his skin—faint blue-white veins pulsing along his forearms, disappearing under the cuffs of his sleeves. Every time he flexed his fingers, tiny arcs jumped between them like static on a cold day. It didn’t hurt anymore. It felt… right. Like the world had finally given him teeth.

  He looked at the wreckage.

  The roof was gone. Beams lay broken across the floor like snapped bones. The upstairs room—his room—had caved in, futon buried under plaster and charred wood. The practice mat was a sodden black smear. The walls still stood in places, but they were tagged with gang symbols he didn’t recognize yet. Someone had wanted this place erased.

  Reggie exhaled. Long. Slow.

  Then he got to work.

  He started with the beams. Grabbed the heaviest charred length—thick as his thigh—and lifted. Muscles screamed, but the lightning answered—arcs snapping along his arms, strength surging just enough to let him drag it outside. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t question it. Just moved.

  Piece by piece.

  He busted down what was left standing—swung the steel bat like a sledgehammer. Each strike sent sparks flying, lightning jumping from the bat to the wood. The impact felt good. Cleansing. Every crack of timber was a memory of Kenji being taken away. Every splinter was a debt unpaid.

  He salvaged what he could.

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  The steel bat—still warm from the fire, grip tape half-melted but intact. A few training mats that weren’t completely ruined. A dented kettle. The broom—miraculously unburned. A small toolbox under the sink. And the box with the mask, ledger, and photo—he kept that close. Always.

  The land was his now. Kenji’s will had said so. Reggie remembered the old man mentioning it once, casual, like it didn’t matter. “If something happens, the place is yours.” Reggie hadn’t believed it then. Now he did.

  He pitched the tent in the backyard—small military surplus thing he’d bought with cash from the last security shift. Staked it down. Moved the salvaged futon inside. Set up the kettle on a camp stove. It wasn’t much. But it was his.

  Chores became training.

  Sweeping ash from the concrete pad turned into footwork drills—pivot, step, shift weight, repeat until his calves burned. Lifting charred beams became strength reps—slow lifts, controlled drops, lightning flickering along his arms every time he strained. Meditating in the tent became breath work—deep inhales, slow exhales, feeling the pressure build in his chest, then release in controlled arcs that danced between his fingertips.

  He trained until his body shook.

  Then he trained more.

  The steel bat felt heavier than the old 8 kg bar, but lighter than it should. Every swing was a memory of Kenji. “Posture before power.” He swung until his shoulders screamed. Lightning answered—coiling around the bat, blue-white veins pulsing along the steel. He refined the move he’d started calling Deadline Swing: compress the charge in his core, wait for the imaginary opponent to commit, one pivot, one arc. Release.

  The impact when he hit a charred post sent a shockwave through the ground. Wood splintered. Ash exploded outward.

  He didn’t smile.

  He just kept swinging.

  When his body gave out, he sat in the tent. Opened the ledger.

  Thirty names. Thirty addresses. Payments stretching back decades. Interest compounding. Kenji’s father had borrowed to keep the dojo alive. Never paid enough. The debt never died.

  Reggie mapped them out.

  Street maps spread on the tent floor. Public records pulled from library computers during late-night sessions. Satellite views on a burner phone. He marked targets—low-level collectors first. Drug dealers. Traffickers. Men who profited off broken people.

  He spotted unusual ones: corrupt officials, orphanage-linked names, black-budget ties. Names that matched fragments of his own past.

  The machine wasn’t just yakuza.

  It was bigger.

  He planned calmly.

  No blind rage.

  Structured.

  Calculated.

  He’d take what he needed.

  He’d break what had broken him.

  When the sun came up he stepped out of the tent. Mask in hand—still too big, but he’d learn to wear it. Steel bat charged, faint arcs dancing along the barrel. Necklace warm against his chest.

  He looked at the first name on the list.

  Low-level collector.

  Address circled in red.

  Reggie slipped the mask on. Adjusted it.

  Picked up the bat.

  Stepped into the night.

  “They burned a legacy,” he said to the empty property.

  “They won’t burn mine.”

  A black car was parked at the edge of the lot.

  Engine off.

  Lights out.

  Someone watching.

  Reggie didn’t look back.

  He just walked.