Bold listened to the chime of the bell. No interference, no run-ins, nobody to ruin his moment. He held his titles high, leering down at the battered Oswald. A strong foe, unique style, he will go far, just not against a mixed-blooded Mongolian Vampire. The throb of the stab wound slowly repairing itself was an aching reminder that a normal mortal could fall to such a dastardly tactic. Maybe the old Mongolian warrior would have been laid low by a blow like that, but not today, and not going forward. He had shown him mercy after all, such cunning attacks would have driven the old warrior berserk until nothing remained but sinew and broken bones.
His hunger was great. His thirst was greater. He could feel the gnawing pangs deep in his chest, creeping into his mind. The drink had helped to dull it, but it was not enough. His addiction to Yokai blood, once a source of power, now threatened to break him. It was a dangerous weapon, more powerful than any of his foes.
The thirst wasn’t just physical. It was a hunger for control, a desire to keep his mind sharp, to feel alive. Without it, he felt himself slipping. His thoughts were muddled, erratic. The old warrior in him, he could still feel it, buried beneath the suffocating fog of his withdrawal. He wanted to fight it, but the need gnawed at him relentlessly.
He knew what he needed. He needed strength, true strength. Not the power of the vampire, not the blood he craved, but the strength to break free from this addiction that chained him to weakness. But that was a fight for another day.
Bold returned to the back of the arena, stopping at the speakeasy, the familiar buzz of laughter and conversation rising up to greet him. He knew it was a temporary distraction. The war was still upon him. He needed sustenance, more than just the drink Joey Taledega was offering. He needed Yokai blood.
Joey Taledega reached under the bar, opening up a cooler with dry ice fuming from the container. He withdrew a fancy glass decanter, its golden inlay gleaming in the dim light. He popped the cork, pouring the contents into a shaker with fluid, inhuman speed, before adding a few spirits and mixers. After shaking it with a flourish, he slid the martini glass toward Khan.
Joey Taledega: An extra bloody Mary for that who is kin. I must say, ole chap, you look quite under the weather. As if you haven’t fed in over a fortnight. What has you so under the famished spell?
The Mongolian Vampire glanced down at the drink, the chill of the glass barely registering against his burning skin. His fangs throbbed, but it wasn’t the drink he needed. His gaze lingered on the glass for a moment before he forced himself to look away.
Chuluun Bold: I found myself prisoner to an addiction, and it is the most dangerous weapon I have ever faced. I am suffering from withdrawal, unable to think or move clearly. It is… not going well. I feel myself drifting back to the weakness of my old mortal self, even beyond my warrior state. Weak. Frail. The sort of man who could be broken with a single blow.
The words felt like a confession, and his gaze hardened. He didn’t want pity. He didn’t want sympathy.
Joey Taledega: It seems like you got yourself in a predicament indeed. You know, us va… va… valuable members of society, and even more valuable in the deeper society ahem, we need to stick together. Make sure none of us are taking advantage of. Whether it’s that dastardly All Asia Pro Wrestling, or whomever got their hooks in you, there’s always aid for those who require it.
Bold let out a low, humorless chuckle, feeling the weight of the words. Was Joey truly offering help, or was he simply toying with him, like everyone else?
Chuluun Bold: I appreciate the kinship, but you owe me nothing, just as I owe you very little. Our drinks are covered with extra for their discretion. I must find my own way, and break these chains that bind me.
He stood, a quick and sharp motion, and left the speakeasy without another word. He had wasted too much time already. His hunger was becoming unbearable.
—
Khan waited patiently as two Yakuza thugs approached his room, the cool air thick with tension. Between them was a cooler, and it felt almost like an omen, reminding him of his weakness. They opened it, revealing the contents, and without hesitation, tossed a bag of blood at him. His eyes flickered to the bag, a sickly shade of red that made his stomach churn.
Khan's fangs involuntarily set into the pouch, his body craving the nourishment. He drained it greedily, but as the rancid taste hit his tongue, he nearly spat it out. His eyes burned with frustration. This wasn’t the blood he needed. This wasn’t even human.
Chuluun Bold: What is this? This isn’t Yokai, or even human.
The Yakuza thug chuckled darkly, confident in their control over the vampire.
Yakuza Thug: Diseased deer. Something to make sure you’re an equal for your fight against the Scorpion. Try as you might, the only way you’ll get more Yokai blood is by doing your best in that match. Show that All Asia Pro Wrestling is better than your pathetic mess, and maybe then we’ll reconsider.
Bold's eyes narrowed, but he held his anger in check. He could feel the raw hunger clawing at his insides, a dull ache growing sharper with each second. He forced himself to finish the blood bag, tasting the foul, tainted substance as it slid down his throat. He knew what he had to do, he would have to fight through this, for now. But when the time came, he would make them regret this insult.
He stared at the Yakuza thugs, barely containing the storm inside him.
Chuluun Bold: When given the chance, I will end both of you, and the Scorpion too. I will bring the Yakuza to its knees. That is my promise.
The thugs laughed, the sound echoing in the small room, but Khan could see it—mockery in their eyes, a belief that they had him contained. They had no idea what he was capable of, when he was free of this hunger.
Yakuza Thug: Good luck with that slave. We’ve seen men twice your size and with twice your will, say the same thing. They’re always brought to heel.
As the thugs departed, Khan was left alone, his fangs dripping with the last remnants of the diseased blood. His mind raced with thoughts of vengeance. Of the Scorpion. Of the Yakuza. He would make them all pay.
—
The arena buzzed with energy, the distant roar of the crowd barely audible through the walls. Khan paced the narrow backstage corridor, each step heavier than the last. The throb in his veins was constant now, a dull ache in his chest that mirrored the emptiness inside him. The hunger had only grown worse with each passing hour. He needed blood, real blood, not the sickly, tainted deer blood that had barely kept him alive. His fangs pulsed with need, the craving eating away at his focus, clouding his thoughts. Even draining a random homeless person would do wonders, but with everything locked down, there was no chance, and any body missing would make him the prime suspect.
It was hard to concentrate on anything else when every fiber of his being screamed for relief. His vision blurred briefly, a wave of dizziness threatening to pull him under. He stopped mid-step, gripping the wall for support, teeth grinding against the growing pain. The hunger was getting worse.
He had trained for years to overcome the weakness of his human side, but in this moment, it felt like the old, fragile man was coming back to the surface, clawing at his resolve. He couldn’t let this defeat him.
The doors ahead opened, cutting through the swirling fog of his mind. And there, like a shadow that had followed him his entire life, stood Kenzo Takahashi, the head of security for All Asia Pro Wrestling. Takahashi’s presence was suffocating, his body language every bit the embodiment of control and authority. The piercing gaze that locked onto Khan felt like a vice, as if he could see right through him.
Khan stood still, doing his best to suppress the growing tremor in his limbs, trying not to betray the depths of his struggle. Takahashi's expression was unreadable, his dark eyes cold and sharp.
Kenzo Takahashi: You’re late, Mongol. Your match is about to start.
Khan didn’t respond right away. The hunger inside him swelled, but he forced himself to focus, to ignore the throbbing pain in his throat. He had a fight ahead of him, one that would test his resolve like never before.
He lifted his chin, meeting Takahashi’s gaze.
Chuluun Bold: I’m ready.
Takahashi gave a small, humorless smile, his eyes flicking down to Khan’s hands as he clenched and unclenched his fists, trying to control the tremors.
Kenzo Takahashi: You don’t look ready.
He stepped forward, his shoes clicking on the concrete floor. The sound echoed in the quiet corridor, each step seeming to drag the tension tighter. Takahashi’s voice dropped, the words laced with an unsettling calm.
Kenzo Takahashi: You’ve had your fill of distractions. Saiko Sasori is no joke, and you will have to show him who you are. Show everyone.
Chuluun Bold: I know what I’m capable of.
Kenzo Takahashi didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he stepped closer, his posture radiating dominance. Khan felt his heart race, the pressure of the moment pressing down like a heavy weight.
Kenzo Takahashi: You’d better hope that you do. A man like you, so accustomed to winning, must have an excellent idea of how to handle himself in front of his entire federation. All eyes are on you. You must deliver to the best of your abilities. After that, we will reward you. Everyone else, they’re here for a show, Khan. And you know what happens when the show doesn’t deliver.
His words were deliberate, like the edge of a blade, slow and precise. Khan’s eyes narrowed, but he held his tongue. He didn’t want to give Takahashi the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort.
Kenzo Takahashi: But it’s all up to you, isn’t it? You can give them the performance they expect, or you can disappoint them. The choice is yours, Mongol.
He let the words hang in the air, letting the tension grow. Khan could feel the weight of the implication, even if Takahashi didn’t explicitly say it. The man was always in control. The pressure was palpable, as if Takahashi knew exactly what buttons to push, what fears to exploit. Khan had faced warriors who tested his strength, but no one had ever tried to bend him like this.
The need for blood gnawed at his thoughts again, louder this time, more insistent. His fangs pressed against his lips, aching for sustenance. His mind spiraled into a haze, but he refused to let Takahashi see it. He wouldn’t show weakness. Not now. Not here.
Chuluun Bold: I will defeat him, even without Yokai blood.
Takahashi’s gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, measuring, assessing. Finally, he spoke again, his voice low, almost an afterthought.
Kenzo Takahashi: Good. I expect nothing less. Make sure they remember who you are, Khan. And remember... I’m watching.
The threat was subtle, but it was there, a shadow lurking in his words. Khan didn’t need to be told twice. Takahashi might not have said anything outright, but Khan could feel it, the odds were stacked in Saiko’s favor. Takahashi’s manipulation was invisible, but it was there, like a tightrope strung between Khan’s legs, ready to snap if he didn’t play his part.
Khan swallowed the lump in his throat, his heart pounding in his chest. He was trapped. There was no winning, not in this state, not under the eyes of Takahashi’s influence. But he couldn’t back down.
Kenzo Takahashi turned to leave, his footsteps echoing down the hall, each one pulling Khan further into the darkness of his fate. Khan was left alone with his thoughts, the roar of the crowd now rising to an almost deafening pitch, as the Ronin Royal reached a feverish pitch.
Every breath he took felt harder than the last. His body screamed for blood, and his mind screamed for revenge. He had to keep going, even if his victory was already out of reach.
With a final breath, Khan straightened up, the edge of a grim smile curling on his lips despite himself. He wasn’t going to go down without a fight. He would endure. He would survive. And when the time came, he would make them all pay for this.