The clatter of weights crashing to the floor echoed through the dimly lit gym, the harsh clang reverberating off the walls like distant thunder. Red-tinted lights bathed the room, casting long shadows over the hulking figures of Hyun-Sik Hwang and Dong-Hyun Moon as they trained, pushing their bodies to the limit. This was no ordinary gym—it belonged to the Red Reapers, a Russian stable known for their brutal training methods, and today, it was the arena for the Pyongyang Punishers to hone their craft.
Hwang stood before a set of squat racks, his breath slow and measured. His muscular frame glistened with sweat, veins bulging as he prepared for another set. The "Iron Colossus" lived up to his name; his every move exuded strength, and each rep felt like a small victory in his ongoing war against weakness.
On the other side of the gym, Dong-Hyun Moon slammed his fists into a heavy bag, his rhythm sharp and precise. His strikes came faster, but behind every punch was something more—an undercurrent of frustration, a burning need to prove himself. Moon’s face was set in a grimace, his eyes locked on the target as if each hit was a blow to the doubt gnawing at him.
Hwang glanced at his partner, brow furrowing as he watched Moon’s form falter slightly. There was tension in his movements—tension that didn’t belong in a fighter of Moon’s caliber.
Hwang: You’re slowing down. Do you think Takuma Sato and Valora Salinas will go easy on you because you fought in a tag team match the same night?
Moon didn’t stop, but his breathing quickened, fists slamming harder into the bag. His frustration was evident, not just from the intensity of his strikes but from the way his jaw clenched with each word.
Moon: Maki’s no joke. You saw her last fight. She’s tough. But two matches in one night? That’s suicide.
Hwang’s eyes narrowed, unimpressed by the hint of doubt in his partner’s voice.
Hwang: You think we’ve made it this far by worrying about what’s possible? We fight. We win. We crush anyone who stands in our way. Even if it’s two matches in one night.
There was steel in Hwang’s words, a conviction born of the countless battles they had survived. In his mind, weakness had no place, not in their team, not in their mission. But Moon, despite his outward bravado, was starting to feel the weight of their journey pressing down on him.
The gym fell silent for a moment, save for the steady rhythm of their breathing and the distant hum of machinery in the background. Then, Hwang’s phone buzzed on the bench nearby. He glanced at the screen, spotting Devin Zeagal’s name. Without hesitation, he snatched the phone, bringing it to his ear.
Hwang: What do you want, Zeagal?
Zeagal’s familiar voice crackled through the speaker, laced with his usual sneer.
Zeagal: Well, boys, looks like you’re in luck. Wolfie King’s down for the count. Contracted Blovid. He’s hooked up to a ventilator in some hospital bed as we speak.
Hwang grinned, his eyes flicking to Moon. The thought of a free pass through the second round of the tournament already ignited a sense of victory within him. But before he could speak, Zeagal’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
Zeagal: Don’t get too excited. Maki’s decided to fight you both. Alone.
The words hung in the air like a bitter aftertaste. Hwang’s grin faltered, replaced with a look of mild surprise.
Hwang: She’s what?
Zeagal: That’s right. Stubborn as an ox and about as smart as one too. But hey, it’s not my problem. I tried talking her out of it, but she’s determined. Guess she thinks she’s got something to prove. Personally, I’d say it’s the dumbest move I’ve seen, but what do I know? I’m just the guy booking the matches.
Hwang’s grip tightened on the phone as his mind processed the news. Maki Nishimura—alone. It was either a sign of her arrogance or her desperation. But either way, it didn’t change the fact that she was walking into a slaughterhouse.
He lowered the phone and met Moon’s gaze.
Hwang: Wolfie’s out. Maki’s coming alone.
Moon blinked, caught off guard by the news.
Moon: Alone? She’s taking us both on by herself?
Hwang nodded, his smirk returning, albeit less certain.
Hwang: She’s either crazy or she’s tougher than we think.
Moon exhaled, his mind racing.
Moon: That’s not smart. She’s going to get destroyed. But… you know what? She might have something planned.
Hwang scoffed at the idea of Maki outsmarting them.
Hwang: It won’t matter what she’s planned. She’s walking into the ring with us, and we’ll show her why no one can stand against the Pyongyang Punishers.
Moon wasn’t so sure, though he kept his doubts to himself. Something about the way Maki refused to back down struck a chord in him. He admired her resolve, even if he believed it would lead to her downfall. But there was something else gnawing at him, something he couldn’t shake—the 4-on-4 death match looming on the horizon.
Moon: Two matches, Hwang. We’ve got two brutal matches in one night. Even we have limits.
Hwang’s jaw clenched, his eyes hardening.
Hwang: Limits? We fight because we have no limits. We win because we don’t back down. You want to question that now? After everything we’ve been through?
Moon didn’t respond, but the doubt lingered in his mind. He knew Hwang’s strength, his determination to never bend, never break. But Moon also knew what it meant to be stretched too thin, to fight battles on too many fronts. And somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if this was the night they would finally face their breaking point.
The tension between Hyun-Sik Hwang and Dong-Hyun Moon simmered beneath the surface, but the gym remained eerily quiet. Hwang tossed the phone back onto the bench, the conversation with Devin Zeagal still playing in his mind. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that Maki Nishimura was walking into what felt like a suicide mission. But even that couldn’t overshadow the looming threat of the night’s second match—the barbaric 4-on-4 death match against Takuma Sato, Valora Salinas, Abbigail Dresden, and the Lightning Man.
Hwang resumed his squats, the iron bar bending slightly under the weight. His muscles strained, but his mind was far from the physical exertion. There was no room for doubt, not in his mind. Victory was the only option, regardless of the cost.
Moon, however, was pacing, his thoughts churning. Maki’s stubborn decision had thrown him off, but the real concern gnawed at him like a slow burn—two matches in one night. He didn’t fear Maki, not truly. It was the combination of both fights, back-to-back, that unsettled him. His fists clenched and unclenched as he replayed their brutal schedule in his mind.
Moon: Hwang… we need to think about this. Two matches. It’s not about whether we can beat Maki. We will. But after that…
Hwang racked the bar with a loud clang, his eyes narrowing at Moon.
Hwang: We fight. Then we fight again. You’re starting to sound weak, Moon.
Moon stopped his pacing, turning to face his partner, his expression hardening.
Moon: I’m not weak, and you know that. But fighting one opponent, even someone like Maki, isn’t the same as stepping into that cage later tonight. It’s not just Sato and Salinas—we’re facing Dresden and the Lightning Man too. They’re out for blood.
Hwang stepped closer, his massive frame casting a shadow over Moon. His voice was cold, devoid of any sympathy.
Hwang: We’ve bled before, Moon. We’ve faced worse odds and came out on top. You think they’ll show us mercy? You think Sato and his friends care if we’re tired? We won’t break. Not tonight, not ever.
Moon met his gaze, but there was no warmth in his eyes. He respected Hwang’s strength, his resolve, but there was more to survival than sheer willpower.
Moon: It’s not about mercy. It’s about strategy. You’re so focused on winning both fights that you’re forgetting one thing—we’re not invincible. We’ve got to be smart about this.
Hwang’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin.
Hwang: Smart? We’ve trained for this our entire lives, Moon. What are you so afraid of?
Moon let out a slow breath, his hands resting on his hips as he tried to find the right words.
Moon: You ever think about what happens after, Hwang? After all the fighting, all the blood we spill. You think we’ll walk out of that cage? That we’ll still be standing by the end of it?
Hwang’s expression didn’t change, but his silence was enough to show that he was listening, even if only for a moment.
Moon: I’m not scared of dying, Hwang. But we need to face the truth—this isn’t about proving we’re strong anymore. It’s about survival. We’ve pushed ourselves harder than anyone else, but there’s a point where pushing too hard breaks you. We’ve got two fights in one night. That’s the reality, and if we don’t handle this right, we’re not walking out of that cage in one piece.
For the first time, Hwang’s eyes softened, just a fraction. Moon wasn’t wrong. He hated admitting it, but the reality of their situation was undeniable. Two matches, back-to-back, both brutal in their own right.
Hwang: So what do you suggest?
Moon: We take Maki out quickly. No games. No dragging it out to prove a point. The faster we finish her, the more time we have to recover before the death match. We need to keep our heads clear. Because once we step into that cage, it’s war.
Hwang nodded slowly, the wheels in his mind finally turning in a direction other than pure brute force. There was wisdom in Moon’s words. Their fight against Maki Nishimura couldn’t be about pride—it had to be about efficiency.
Hwang: Agreed. No wasting time with Maki. We end it quickly.
Moon: Good. And after that… we prepare for the real fight. The death match. That’s where we’ll avenge our people and Emperor.
Hwang turned, picking up a towel and wiping the sweat from his brow. The intensity in his eyes hadn’t faded, but there was a newfound understanding between them. They were warriors, yes, but even warriors needed a strategy.
Hwang: We finish her. Then we bleed the others dry.
Moon smirked, the fire in his chest reigniting.
Moon: Now you’re talking.
The tension between them dissipated, replaced by the cold, hard focus of men who knew what they were facing. The Pyongyang Punishers had never been ones to back down, and tonight wouldn’t be the exception. Maki Nishimura would fall, and after that, the bloodbath would begin.
The weight of their conversation hung in the air, but now the focus between Hwang and Moon had sharpened. They stood side by side, their shared understanding solidified—there was no room for error tonight. As they finished their workout in the Red Reapers’ gym, the hum of tension never left, only intensified.
Moon: Maki's going down fast. No mercy, no games.
Hwang: And then, we walk into hell together.
The phrase echoed between them, not as a declaration of courage, but as a statement of fact. They’d done this before—fought, bled, and pushed their bodies beyond human limits. But tonight, there was something darker in the air. The match against Maki Nishimura was only the beginning. The real war awaited inside the barbaric death match, a battleground where no rules existed.
They headed for the locker room, wiping away the last remnants of their workout. As they prepared to leave, the silence between them spoke louder than any words could. Hwang’s massive hands flexed, the anticipation of violence building in his veins, while Moon’s mind calculated, preparing for the brutal chess game of combat they would face later.
As they stepped outside into the cold Tokyo night, the streets were quiet—too quiet. The world outside was locked down, bound by the Blovid-13 pandemic, and the eerie silence only heightened their sense of isolation. They were warriors trapped in a foreign land, fighting not just for themselves, but for their Emperor's memory, and against enemies who would gladly see them fall.
Moon glanced over at Hwang, the massive frame of his partner casting a long shadow on the dimly lit streets.
Moon: You ever think about what happens if we don’t make it out of that death match?
Hwang didn’t answer immediately, his eyes fixed on the horizon, his mind a battlefield of its own. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady, devoid of doubt.
Hwang: We’ve been dead men walking since the day we left North Korea. Every fight since then has been a gift. If Ronin Rumble is our last, we go out on our terms.
Moon nodded, a grim smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t argue with that. The life they lived—brutal, unforgiving—had never promised a happy ending. But it had given them purpose. And if they were to die tonight, it would be with their enemies broken at their feet.