"Hey, old man," I greeted as I entered the ramen shop.
The old man looked up lazily, but as soon as he saw me, his eyes narrowed. He left the counter and walked towards me, flipping the "OPEN" sign to "CLOSED" without a word. The remaining customers looked up in confusion, but he ignored them completely.
I shrugged and fell seamlessly into the role of unpaid labor—busting tables, washing dishes, and waiting out the clock. It took about half an hour for the last customer to clear out.
Old Man Kobayashi gestured for me to follow him into the back. I sighed, falling into step behind him.
The moment the training room door swung open, a faint tingle flared across my skin. I ducked. A fist whistled through the air right where my nose had been, brushing against my hair.
"A little warning would be good, old man," I said, exasperated, my heart beating fast.
Your reactions have improved," the old man commented, entirely ignoring my outburst. As expected.
Then, once again, without warning, he started throwing punches and kicks at me. I dodged a few, but he started increasing the intensity. By the end, it was just me taking a one-sided beating. When he finally stopped, I just sat on the floor, panting like a dog.
"I now understand your changes," Kobayashi said, his hands behind his back, looking down at me. "I can now prepare a modified training regimen for you. The old one is useless now."
"Modifying the training?!" I exclaimed. "Old man, are you trying to kill me?"
"Don't overreact," the old man said dismissively. "You are now skilled enough that we can start with weapon training, too."
He walked over to the weapon rack and grabbed a pair of wooden swords. He tossed one to me as I pushed myself up from the floor.
"My family was known for their sword art," he said, taking a stance. "This is the best weapon that I can teach you."
I caught the bokken. With my apprentice-stage sword mastery, various forms of how to use it appeared in my head. I took a stance as well.
"This is not the first time you've held a sword," he commented, watching my stance.
He lunged. For the first few minutes, I held my own—parrying his strikes, slipping past his guard, and even landing a few clean counterattacks. But the moment he dialed up the intensity, the gap in our experience became a wall. He pushed me back, dismantling my defense stroke by stroke until, inevitably, I was back on the floor, nursing a fresh set of bruises.
"I don't care how you managed to reach the level of a third-rate warrior in such a short time, especially given your abysmal talent," he said. "But now you are at an appropriate level to learn a proper sword art."
Without another word, he turned and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a heavy, bound book.
"This is," he said, passing me the book, "The Azure Dragon Sundering Cloud Sword Art."
I took the book. The dark blue cover featured an embossed dragon, with the words Azure Dragon Sundering Cloud Sword Art stamped in elegant calligraphy. Flipping it open, I found the pages densely packed with text and intricate diagrams.
"I created an English copy of the manual that you can use easily," he said casually.
"Thanks, old man," I said with gratitude.
"No need," he shook his head.
"I actually wanted to give you another sword art," he said suddenly.
I looked at him with curiosity.
A trace of remorse surfaced in his eyes, mixed with some longing. "I actually wanted to give you our family's ancestral sword art, The Heavenly Dragon Sky-Splitting Sword Art. But only the family head can decide whether an outsider can learn this sword. The Azure Dragon Sundering Cloud Sword Art is created by me and derived from our family art. It might not be as good, but it certainly is a top-tier martial art, too."
The remorse disappeared from his face, and his expression returned to its usual stoic calm. "Since I created this art, I can decide who to teach it to. "Starting today, I will teach this art to you."
I nodded.
"But first," he said abruptly, raising the bokken. "Understand where you stand."
He pointed the wooden tip directly at my chest. "A third-rate warrior knows techniques. Forms. Strikes. Guards. Footwork. In battle, he merely uses what rigid training has drilled into him." The tip lowered slightly. "That is your current limit. You are a third-rate warrior relying on static moves."
He stepped forward. Instinctively, my muscles tensed.
"A second-rate warrior goes beyond memorization," Kobayashi continued. "He reads distance, rhythm, balance, and intent. When an opponent adapts, he has already changed first. When one path closes, he carves another."
He took another step. He moved in a seamless blur, the bokken snapping forward to stop a mere hair's breadth from my throat. I couldn't even blink.
"A third-rate warrior uses moves," he said, withdrawing the sword. "A second-rate warrior understands the reality of combat. That is the level you must reach next."
The training that followed was grueling, stretching well into the evening until every muscle in my body screamed in protest. When the old man finally called an end to the session, I was amazed he was letting me leave alive.
"Hey, old man," I called. He looked at me.
"You said your family was known for their sword art," I said with a serious face. "That 'was' wasn't a mistake, right?"
Suddenly, sadness washed over his face, but he controlled himself. The sadness disappeared, and all that was left was an inert look.
"That is not something you should concern yourself with," he said, turning his back to me. "Focus on getting stronger. For now, that is all that matters."
I didn't press further. I just watched his retreating, lonely shoulders fade into the shadows of the corridor.
—
The bass slammed into my chest before I even killed the engine. I slid the black sedan into a shadowed spot half a block from Eclipse, the nightclub's violet-and-sapphire neon bleeding across the street. Midnight on a Saturday meant peak chaos. Lines snaked down the sidewalk, the salt-laced air thick with laughter, expensive perfume, and the faint, sour tang of vomit from someone who hadn't quite made it to the alley.
I joined the tail of the line. A couple of girls in their early twenties, in short dresses, louder than the music leaking through the door, stood in front of me. They glanced back, sizing me up with matching half-smiles. I couldn't tell if my E2 Charisma was actively putting in work, or if they were just already half-drunk before even getting past the velvet rope.
The bouncer at the door was a mountain in a black polo. He gave me a standard scan, his brows furrowing slightly at my basic button-down and jeans—hey, it wasn't like I'd packed my bags expecting a night out at the club. I handed over a few crumpled twenties and stepped inside.
The heat and noise slammed into me like a wave. Eclipse was all mirrors and black lacquer, strobes slicing through artificial fog that smelled faintly of strawberries and something chemical. Bodies packed the dance floor shoulder to shoulder, hips moving in time to a bass drop that rattled the glasses behind the bar. A DJ in a glass booth high above the floor was hunched over his decks like a conductor, one hand in the air, the other spinning vinyl. Purple and gold lasers carved arcs across the ceiling. Up on the mezzanine, VIP booths glowed with bottle service candles and the kind of people who paid extra not to stand in line.
I let the current of the crowd carry me toward the long bar that curved along the left wall. I didn't rush. The job could wait five minutes. Even an hour wouldn't matter; it wasn't like I was in a hurry. After the back-breaking training with Kobayashi, I deserved some indulgence.
The bartender, a woman with a half-shaven head and tattoos crawling up both arms, raised a single eyebrow—the universal sign for "what'll it be?"
"Milk," I said. I kept my voice loud enough to cut through the thumping bass, but stopped short of an actual shout.
The bartender's face contorted as if she hadn't heard correctly. Next to me, a couple sitting at the counter turned to give me a look—the exact kind of look usually reserved for total idiots, or complete psychos.
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you correctly." The bartender blinked. "What did you order?"
"A glass of milk," I said, even louder this time.
The bartender realized she hadn't made a hearing mistake earlier. She looked at me strangely, too. "Are you sure that's what you want?"
"Yes," I nodded. "You don't have it?"
"We do," the bartender said awkwardly.
The bartender studied me for a moment. Realizing I wasn't joking, she gave a small, awkward nod. "Sure."
"Hey dude, daycare's down the street," the guy beside me snickered, leaning into his girlfriend so she could share the laugh. I offered them a slow, utterly vacant smile before turning back to the counter, dismissing them from my reality.
The bartender placed a glass filled to the brim with milk on the counter. I nodded to her as thanks, took a sip, then got up and left the bar area.
I sipped slowly as I let my gaze drift. The dance floor was packed, people moving however they felt like, with more energy than coordination. A few were actually trying to dance; most just followed the beat—and each other. Drinks spilled here and there, no one really caring. Near the edges, some stood with glasses in hand, watching or waiting for something. On raised stages, dancers in outfits that barely counted as clothes moved with the rhythm, while plenty of guys just watched, nursing their drinks.
I thought about enjoying it, but it got boring fast on my own. It had been more fun the first time I went to a nightclub with Jessica.
I glanced up at the VIP area. Maybe upstairs will be better.
I walked toward the stairs. As expected, I was stopped.
"Upstairs is only for VIPs," the bouncer said. He looked like he had repeated this line countless times and was now bored with it.
"Tell your floor manager that the real upstairs sent me," I said, flashing a pleasant smile.
The bouncer frowned, processing the words. Then, as the implication clicked, the boredom vanished from his eyes, replaced by a sudden, rigid tension.
"You better not joke about it," the bouncer said with a flat voice.
"I don't have time to joke with you." I laughed.
His eyes narrowed, then tightened even further when he noticed the glass of milk in my hand.
"Follow me," the bouncer said, turning around.
I followed him up the stairs. A few patrons in the VIP area glanced at me curiously.
The bouncer stopped in front of a man and whispered something in his ear.
The man studied me for a moment, then nodded and dismissed the bouncer with a glance.
"Mr. Kevin Kolt, I presume," the manager said, extending a hand. "We were told you'd be arriving tonight to collect this month's tribute."
"That's me," I replied, switching my milk glass to my left hand to give him a firm shake.
Kudos to him; he didn't show a single reaction to the milk glass in my hand.
"Please, follow me," the man said. "I will take you to the boss."
He took me to an office guarded by two bouncers. From the faint outline at their waists, beneath their shirts, both of them were armed.
We entered the office. It was small and simple—just a desk, a sofa, and a cupboard. There was also a one-sided glass window overlooking the dance floor and the bar.
There were three men in the room. I ignored the two and looked directly at my target, Luis Delgado. The leader of the Delgado family. A small crime family under the La Corona Roja Cartel. He had dense black hair and a square jaw.
"Jefe," the floor manager murmured, bowing his head slightly. Luis gave a brief nod, and the manager seamlessly excused himself, closing the door behind him.
"Kevin," the cartel leader said, a warm, expansive smile spreading across his face as he extended a hand. "Did you not enjoy the floor? You came up so quickly. It reflects poorly on my hospitality if my guests aren't having a good time."
I shook his hand and took a seat in the leather chair opposite him. "Nah, don't worry about it. It's not you, Luis. It's me."
Luis blinked, caught off guard for a fraction of a second before breaking into a booming laugh. He reached down, pulled a thick, heavy envelope from his desk drawer, and slid it across the mahogany. "Our dues for the month. All accounted for."
I took the envelope, gave him a brief nod, and slipped the tribute into my pocket.
"Come," Luis said, standing up and smoothing down his jacket. "Let me show you how we actually enjoy ourselves around here."
"Sure," I laughed, rising with him. "Lead the way."
We left the office and sat on a big sofa in the VIP area, across from each other, with a table between us. Two waitresses appeared as if on cue, dressed in little more than lace and promises. One set down a bottle of high-end single malt, pouring two heavy measures into crystal tumblers, while the other arranged an array of light snacks.
"Thanks," I said to the waitress serving me a glass of whiskey, then showed her the still-half-full glass of milk. "But I have this."
"You're a strange one, my friend," Luis laughed, shaking his head as he took a deep sip of his whiskey.
"You're definitely not the first person to say that," I chuckled.
Then four girls arrived in skimpy clothes, with two sitting on either side of both of us.
"Enjoy, my friend," Luis said, pulling one girl in with his free hand by the waist. The girl giggled as she was pulled.
We watched the sea of bodies dancing below us as we made small talk over the roar of the music.
My eyes casually drifted across the VIP lounge, scanning the other high-rollers, when my gaze locked onto a sofa across the mezzanine. Sitting together were two breathtaking women with matching cascades of dark hair. More importantly, they were identical twins.
The one on the left caught me looking. Instead of glancing away, I held her eyes, leaned forward, and lifted my glass of milk in a cool, silent toast.
She looked completely stunned for a beat. Then, a beautiful smile broke across her face, and she giggled, raising her wine glass to mirror the gesture. Intrigued by her sister's sudden amusement, the second twin followed her gaze right back to me.
I offered her the exact same deadpan salute. She, too, took a second to process the sheer absurdity of the dairy in a high-end cartel den, before her lips curved into a sharp, knowing smile. She raised her glass to join the circle.
My gaze drifted back to the dance floor downstairs. That's when something shifted on the dance floor.
A group of six men walked through the main entrance, swaggering in as if they owned the damn place. While five of them looked like textbook thugs, the guy in the center stood out. He had the unmistakable vibe of a rich playboy riding high on daddy's money. They were already aggressively shouting over the bass at one of the bouncers.
I glanced over at Luis. His brow was furrowed, his easygoing host persona vanishing in an instant.
"Who are they?" I asked.
"They are from the Reyes family," Luis said with a clenched jaw. "They are our rivals."
"Do they always throw tantrums at the door?" I asked, watching the man in the lead sucker-punch the bouncer. The guard absorbed the blow, his fists balling up at his sides, but he didn't strike back.
Luis caught the judgment in my voice. "They only pull this shit when they have that parasite with them," he spat, nodding toward the rich kid with the vacant, sunken eyes. "That little bastard eggs them on. Thinks daddy's bank account makes him bulletproof."
"Who is he?" I asked.
Before Luis could answer, the Reyes crew swept past security entirely, bypassing the lines and marching straight up the stairs to the VIP mezzanine. The man in the lead scanned the lounge, spotted Luis, and led his entourage directly toward our booth with an arrogant, unhurried stride.
"Yo, Luis!" Diego shouted, his voice easily cutting through the thumping bass. "Is this what you call hospitality? No one at the door to greet us? No premium table cleared? What kind of low-rent shithole are you running here?"
"Diego," Luis growled, rising slowly from the leather sofa. "You're standing in my club. Watch your mouth."
"Oh, I know exactly where I'm standing, Luis," Diego sneered, his arrogant grin widening. "But the real question is—do you know who's standing next to me?" His eyes finally flicked over to me, tracking up and down with pure disdain. "Instead of rolling out the red carpet for an esteemed guest, you're wasting your time playing host to a complete nobody."
He became annoyed when I just gave him a bored look. Then he looked at the three-fourths-full milk glass. Yes, I got another one.
"Drinking milk in a club?" He sneered. "What are you, five? Miss your mommy?"
His buddies roared with laughter.
I ignored him, casually picking up a French fry from the plate. French fries were more important than the opinions of random nobodies. Apparently, Diego didn't appreciate my priorities.
His face contorted in pure, ugly rage. Just as I was reaching for another fry, he snatched the ceramic plate and slammed it onto the floor. It shattered, scattering food across the VIP carpet. He smirked, his entourage laughing even louder now, confident they'd established dominance.
"Oi," I said. My voice dropped all casual pretense, turning cold.
"What?" Diego cackled, puffing out his chest. "You gonna cry to mommy now?"
"Didn't anyone teach you that you shouldn't waste food?" I said with an emotionless expression.
A sudden, bizarre silence fell over the immediate area. No one—not Luis, not the waitresses, not the Reyes thugs—could quite believe what they'd just heard.
Diego opened his mouth to retort.
I slapped him.
The crack was sharp, vicious. His head snapped sideways, eyes glazing over as the ringing in his ears drowned out everything else. He staggered two steps and collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, blood already trickling from his split lip.
Before his crew could process what had happened, I grabbed the empty whiskey bottle from the table and smashed it across the nearest thug's temple. Glass exploded. The man dropped instantly.
The third guy swung wildly. I slipped inside the punch and drove my fist straight into his nose. Cartilage crunched. He screamed, hands flying to his face as blood sprayed between his fingers.
The last two finally reacted. One charged. I pivoted and drove my knee hard into his groin. The sound that tore out of him was almost animal—high, broken, pathetic. He crumpled, clutching himself.
The final thug, the smartest of the bunch, tried to bolt. I caught him by the collar, spun him, and buried a short, brutal punch into his solar plexus. All the air left him in a wet wheeze. He folded, gasping like a fish out of water.
Everything happened so fast that no one could react in time.
Finally, I turned to the rich kid, who was technically older than me, as he looked to be in his early twenties.
"Y-y-you know who my father is?" the rich kid stuttered. Extreme fear filled his face, but he still tried to act tough.
I placed a hand on his shoulder, and he flinched but couldn't free himself from my grip. With profound pity, I said, "I'm sorry, you don't know who your father is. Must be tough."
"Y-y-you—"
Whatever he was about to say was cut off in his throat as the pity disappeared from my face, replaced by coldness. "You have a problem?"
"N-n-no," he stuttered.
"Then, fuck off," I barked. And he fucked off right away.
Then my gaze fell on the five thugs. Other than the first one, the rest were still conscious, even if in extreme pain.
"Oi," I called out.
They flinched in unison, looking up at me like whipped dogs.
"Eat them," I commanded, pointing down at the scattered, dirt-covered fries on the floor. The conscious thugs exchanged panicked, intensely humiliated glances.
"Eat it," I repeated with an emotionless voice.
"We will! We're eating!" They cracked instantly. Terrified of a second round, the four of them scrambled onto their hands and knees, frantically clearing the floor and shoving the ruined food into their mouths as fast as they could.
"Now get the fuck out of my sight."
They didn't need to be told twice. Dragging their unconscious comrade by his armpits, they scurried down the VIP stairs like wounded animals, disappearing into the crowd without a single backward glance.
I exhaled and slid back into the leather booth, picking up my glass.
Luis looked at me with wide eyes. He hurriedly controlled his features. "Thank you, Kevin, for your help," he said with respect. Previously, even if respectful, he did it all as a formality. But this time the respect was genuine.
The tension faded quickly, like it always did in places like this. Music resumed. People pretended nothing happened.
I was about to resume eating when the twins I'd noticed earlier approached our table with confident strides.
"Get up," the one on the left said coolly to the two girls flanking me. Her voice was soft, but carried the quiet, absolute authority of someone used to being obeyed.
The girls hesitated, clearly reluctant. They shot pleading looks at Luis, hoping he'd intervene. But Luis had already caught the spark of interest in my eyes. With a small gesture, he motioned for them to leave. They stood up with obvious disappointment and disappeared into the crowd.
The twins exchanged a quick, triumphant glance before sliding into the now-empty seats—one on my left, the other on my right.
We resumed eating. The twins helped themselves to the food without hesitation, matching my casual pace. Luis stuck around for a few minutes, making small talk, but it quickly became clear he was the odd one out. He gave me a knowing look, stood up, and clapped me on the shoulder.
"I'll leave you three to it. Don't burn the place down," he said with a smirk, then excused himself.
Now it was just the three of us. The twins sat close, their perfume mixing with the club's hazy atmosphere as we flirted casually between bites. Light teasing, lingering glances, playful challenges—nothing forced, but the energy between us kept building.
Time passed easily. Soon, it was time to leave.
I was about to say my goodbyes when one of the twins leaned in, her lips curving into a seductive smile.
"Wanna continue our discussion somewhere more private?" she asked, voice low and inviting.
I laughed quietly. "Lead the way."
The twins didn't need to be told twice. They followed me out of the club and slipped into my car, one in the passenger seat, the other leaning forward from the back with a playful smile.
As I started the engine, I realized I had a problem—I couldn't take them back to the old man's place. He'd turn my training into pure hell if he found out.
Before I could say anything, the twin in the passenger seat spoke up. "Our place. It's close."
I nodded and drove. I didn't expect much, but when we pulled up to the glittering entrance of a five-star hotel and they guided me straight to their private top-floor suite, I couldn't help but raise an eyebrow.
[R-18 Start]
The suite door clicked shut behind us, and the city lights spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting silver and gold across the luxurious room. Before I could say anything, both twins turned toward me with matching hungry smiles.
They moved in sync, as if they shared one mind. One stepped close and kissed me hard, tongue sliding against mine with bold confidence. The other pressed against my back, lips tracing the side of my neck while her hands slipped under my shirt, nails grazing my skin. Their perfume—sweet, dark, intoxicating—wrapped around me completely.
I didn't hold back. I grabbed the first twin by the waist and pulled her flush against me, deepening the kiss until she let out a soft, needy moan. The second twin reached around, unbuckling my belt with practiced fingers. Clothes came off in a heated rush—dresses sliding to the floor, revealing identical, flawless bodies: same full breasts, same narrow waists, same smooth curves. The sight alone made my blood run hotter.
I guided them both toward the massive king bed. One twin pushed me down onto my back, then climbed over me, straddling my hips. She ground against my cock slowly, teasing, while her sister knelt beside us and kissed me again. I cupped one twin's breasts, thumbs brushing her hard nipples, drawing a sharp gasp from her. The other leaned down and took my cock into her warm, wet mouth without warning. The sudden pleasure made me groan into her sister's mouth.
They worked together perfectly. While one rode my fingers, slick and eager, the other sucked me deeper, tongue swirling. Their moans filled the room, mixing in perfect sync. I sat up, pulling the first twin down onto my lap. She sank onto me in one smooth motion, tight and soaking wet, letting out a long, satisfied sigh as I filled her. Her sister straddled my face, thighs trembling as I licked and sucked her clit with firm strokes.
The rhythm built fast. The twin riding me moved faster, breasts bouncing, hands braced on my chest. Her sister ground against my tongue, fingers tangled in my hair, breathing ragged. Their voices mixed—soft gasps turning into desperate moans. I gripped the riding twin's hips and thrust up hard, matching her pace, hitting deep with every stroke. She clenched around me, crying out as her orgasm hit. Her sister followed seconds later, shuddering against my mouth.
They switched without a word. The second twin took her place on my cock, already dripping, while the first kissed me, tasting herself on my lips. I flipped the new one onto her back, spreading her legs wide and driving into her hard. She arched beneath me, nails raking down my back. Her sister lay beside us, touching herself as she watched.
I fucked the second twin deep and steady, then faster, the wet sounds of our bodies filling the room. She came hard, legs wrapped tight around me, pulling me even deeper. The sensation pushed me close to the edge.
I pulled out, and they both moved instantly, kneeling in front of me. Two identical faces looked up with lust-filled eyes. They took turns sucking me—one deepthroating while the other waited her turn—until I couldn't hold back anymore. I groaned and came hard, thick ropes spilling across their tongues and breasts as they moaned softly.
We collapsed together onto the sheets, bodies slick with sweat. The twins curled against me on either side, legs tangled with mine, fingers lazily tracing my chest. Soft kisses pressed against my neck and shoulders. Their breathing slowly calmed, matching each other even now.
One of them whispered against my ear, voice husky, "We're not done with you yet."
The night was still young.
[R-18 End]