CROWNLESS
Japan, 1967.
It was a different world.
Not just the architecture or the clothes.
The air itself buzzed differently.
Because back then, Japan was caught in the brutal grip of the
Era of Legendary Fighters.
The Streets Were Battlefields.
Every city was a warzone.
Fists and feet decided borders.
Strength was law.
Mercy was weakness.
Buildings wore scars of endless fights, cracked stone, shattered windows, sunken concrete where titans had clashed.
It was not a kind era.
And Yet...
There was one man who stood like a giant above it all.
Not because he ruled with terror.
But because he refused to.
Daigo Enishi.
In his prime.
Lean.
Hard.
Unbelievably strong.
His body looked like it was sculpted from punishment itself,
every muscle defined, thick, and built purely for use, not show.
There was muscle on top of muscle.
When he turned his back,
the sheer depth and layering of his muscles made people gawk,
like staring at a wall of braided steel cables.
Broad shoulders.
Titanic lats.
A waist still slim enough to be deadly fast.
A living weapon.
But it wasn’t just his body.
It was his heart.
Kindness in a Savage World.
While others fought to conquer and humiliate,
Daigo walked among the chaos and helped pick people up.
He'd break up fights that didn’t need to happen.
He'd step in when gangs tried to strong-arm the weak.
And he would win.
Always.
Not with unnecessary cruelty.
But with the minimum force needed to end it.
The Legend of Daigo Grew.
At first, they mocked him.
"Kindness gets you killed," they said.
"Mercy is suicide."
But Daigo didn’t change.
And when the most ruthless warlords tried to crush him,
they fell.
Crushing defeats.
Every time.
Entire gangs disbanded after losing to him.
And slowly...
The laughter died.
The fear grew.
And then...
Respect bloomed.
People Followed Him.
They trailed behind him when he entered a city.
Children peeked from alleyways just to see him pass.
Old men tipped their hats.
Tough men stood straighter when he was near.
He didn’t need a throne or a title.
He was a king without a crown.
One Day.
Under a bleeding sunset sky,
after another brutal fight ended with Daigo helping his fallen opponent to their feet,
a small boy, no older than ten, tugged at his sleeve.
"Mister... are you a hero?"
Daigo looked down, still breathing hard, a split lip staining his smile with blood.
He knelt to the boy's eye level.
And said, with a voice that shook like tired mountains:
"I'm just someone who refuses to become a monster."
That Moment Etched Itself into History.
From then on,
even the monsters of the Era of Legendary Fighters
whispered his name with a different tone.
Not fear.
Not hatred.
But something closer to awe.
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He Didn't Want to Rule.
But by simply existing,
by refusing to bend,
Daigo Enishi became the symbol that even the strongest had to acknowledge.
The unbreakable.
The kind in the era of cruelty.
The living proof that power didn't have to be evil.
Japan, 1968.
The Era of Legendary Fighters was nearing its bloodiest peak.
And somewhere on the battered coastlines of a ruined industrial town,
two titans stood facing each other.
Daigo Enishi.
The unshakable wall.
The kind king with a body honed by endless wars.
And his opponent:
Rando Ikezawa.
A man few dared speak of.
A monster draped in scars.
Flesh tougher than steel.
Fists that had flattened entire buildings.
Both of them known across Japan.
Both undefeated.
Until now.
The wind howled through the shattered husks of warehouses around them.
The ground beneath their feet was already cracked,
as if the earth itself trembled in anticipation.
Neither man said a word.
No threats.
No taunts.
Just pure, focused violence waiting to be unleashed.
The First Move.
Rando came in fast,
far too fast for a man his size.
A low step.
A blur of muscle.
A right hook, aimed at Daigo’s ribs, carrying the force to break stone.
Daigo shifted, just slightly, and the punch screamed past him.
The shockwave alone split the ground open in a long jagged line.
Daigo's Counter.
Without a word, Daigo drove his elbow forward...
BOOM! smashing into Rando’s chest.
Rando staggered back, spitting blood,
but laughed.
The war had begun.
A Battle of Titans.
They slammed into each other again.
And again.
Each impact like a bomb going off.
Fists collided midair, creating shockwaves that blew apart the nearest buildings like they were made of paper.
Roofs peeled off.
Walls shattered.
The ground caved in from the sheer pressure.
Rando grabbed a truck, a full-size transport truck, and swung it like a bat.
Daigo caught it with one hand, muscles flaring under his skin like iron cables, and ripped it in half.
The torn steel screamed through the air as Daigo threw half of it at Rando,
who punched it into molten shrapnel mid-flight.
Craters Formed Where They Walked.
Every step they took cracked the ground deeper.
By the tenth clash, the entire port was in ruins.
Smoke.
Dust.
The distant sound of sirens from people miles away feeling the shockwaves.
The Final Round.
Rando was panting, blood dripping from a split eyebrow.
Daigo, too, had blood smeared across his jaw, his shirt torn.
But the fire in Daigo’s eyes hadn't dimmed.
It only grew hotter.
They charged each other,
for the final time.
Daigo Moved First.
A faint shoulder dip, baiting Rando into a high guard.
Then...
A devastating left hook to the ribs,
the sound like a tree snapping.
Then,
an uppercut to the chin, lifting Rando's entire 250-pound frame into the air.
While Rando was still airborne,
Daigo stepped forward, twisted his hips, and unleashed...
The Hammerfall Fist.
A technique only Daigo had ever mastered.
His entire body, hips, shoulders, legs, coiled and unleashed with perfect timing.
Impact.
The punch hit.
And the world broke.
A shockwave screamed outward.
The ground shattered into a crater the size of a city block.
Entire rows of buildings collapsed, windows bursting from the pressure.
Birds exploded into flight from forests miles away.
The clouds themselves seemed to ripple.
Rando Slammed Into the Crater Wall.
His body half-buried into the cracked concrete, completely unconscious.
One arm dangled uselessly.
Daigo Stood Alone.
Chest heaving.
Blood dripping down his fists.
He walked over to the fallen Rando.
Gripped his opponent’s head gently,
almost respectfully,
lifted it for a moment...
...and then dropped it.
Rando's head hit the dirt with a dull thud.
Daigo turned without a word, the wind flaring his long coat behind him.
And walked away.
The Earth Remembered That Battle.
The crater stayed there for decades.
Locals called it "The Fistprint of the King."
A reminder that once,
a man named Daigo Enishi fought and won against the strongest...
and left the world itself scarred in his wake.
1972.
Four years after the Battle at the Port.
The Era of Legendary Fighters was crumbling.
The once-glorious age of unrivaled battles, of titanic duels shaking entire cities,
was coming to an end.
New kings rose.
Old legends faded.
And Daigo Enishi... changed.
His Body.
The once razor-sharp muscles, the body built by countless wars,
began to soften.
Not because he had grown weak,
but because he no longer needed to be a weapon.
Daigo stopped seeking battles.
He started enjoying life.
Sweets.
Long naps under warm sun.
Lazy strolls through empty parks.
Food stands.
Old ramen shops.
Hot rice and grilled meat.
The Cost.
Daigo's frame grew heavier.
Muscle remained, thick, powerful, dense,
but now layered under a soft bulk.
His body looked... ordinary to the untrained eye.
Some called him "fat."
Some joked he had "retired."
They were wrong.
He was still a beast.
But by Daigo’s own design, he allowed his strength to drop by nearly 45%.
Not because he had to.
But because he chose to.
The World Forgot.
People stopped bowing their heads in fear.
Younger fighters, who had never witnessed the raw brutality of Daigo’s prime,
laughed when they heard his name.
“The Lazy King? That old dude with the long coat?”
“He’s not scary. He’s just some washed-up has-been.”
They forgot the crater he made with one punch.
They forgot the legends whispered in broken cities.
They forgot the man who once carried an entire era on his fists.
The Outfit.
Daigo’s style changed too.
Gone were the sleeveless battle uniforms and wrapped fists.
Now...
A brown long coat with thin white stripes,
casually thrown over his broad shoulders.
A dark red dress shirt underneath, half-buttoned, tucked lazily into loose black pants.
A pair of worn-out loafers dragging lazily across the ground.
Mafia-like.
Rough.
Casual.
Yet somehow still commanding respect, if you looked deep enough.
A New Life.
Daigo became a drifter.
Walking from city to city.
Eating.
Sleeping.
Laughing with strangers.
Sleeping under trees.
He fought only when necessary.
And even then,
he often let his opponents believe they were winning,
grinning behind his lazy posture,
until it was time to end it with one clean hit.
An Era Ended.
The Era of Legendary Fighters died with a whimper.
The kings of old either vanished or retired.
Daigo... stayed.
Watching.
Waiting.
Smiling.
A king without a throne.
A fighter without a war.
The New Blood Had No Idea.
To them, he was just some oversized guy with a big appetite and a weird coat.
They would learn.
Sooner or later,
they would remember.
Because a King... never really dies.
