Rain tapped softly against the rusted metal roof of the orphanage, each droplet a soft percussion beat in the quiet rhythm of a life lived on the edge of obscurity. The world outside was grey, shrouded in a misty drizzle that blurred the outlines of the Tokyo skyline. Inside, the room was dimly lit—just a single cracked LED panel buzzing overhead like a dying fly. Empty noodle cups littered the desk. A half-broken fan lazily spun overhead, wheezing like an old man trying to catch his breath.
Twenty-year-old Kaito Nakamura sat hunched in front of his ancient secondhand computer, the blue glow from the screen painting his face in soft light. His fingers hovered above the keyboard, trembling—not from fear, but from disbelief. He re-read the message again.
"We are impressed with your channel's growth and raw energy. We'd like to discuss a potential sponsorship deal. Just one question before we proceed:
Kiryu Kazuma or Majima Goro?"
He blinked.
Then blinked again.
"…what the hell?"
He let out a dry, disbelieving chuckle, scratching the back of his head. His fingers ran through his thick black hair, brushing away sweat and frustration.
All those sleepless nights. All those energy drinks that tore his stomach up. All those thumbnails designed with zero experience and fifteen hours of guesswork. All those streams with one, maybe two viewers. One of them probably a bot. And now…
Now someone wanted to sponsor him?
His eyes drifted to the upper corner of the screen. The sender was legit. A high-tier Japanese brand known for promoting content creators and grassroots culture. One of their last campaigns had made a breakdancer into a national icon. Another launched an entire indie fighting game league.
Kaito sat back, his chair creaking beneath his weight. He stared at the cracked ceiling and whispered:
"Is this… real?"
The air in the room felt heavier, electric even, as if the universe was holding its breath, waiting for his answer.
His hand moved to his mouse slowly, hesitantly. He opened a new tab and searched their name. Forums exploded with jealousy. "If they contacted you, you're already halfway there," someone had posted. "They don't ask unless they mean it."
But then that question…
Kiryu Kazuma or Majima Goro?
A litmus test. A riddle. No—a declaration of soul.
He leaned forward again, elbows digging into the chipped desk. His reflection stared back at him faintly in the monitor. Tired eyes. Eyes that had seen disappointment, betrayal, hunger. Eyes that had seen parents vanish without a goodbye, foster siblings come and go like leaves in the wind, dreams crushed under rent notices and broken promises.
"I grew up with nothing," he muttered, the words barely more than breath. "But I had them."
His mouse glided to a folder on his desktop.
/LEGENDS
It opened. Yakuza 0. Yakuza Kiwami. Kiwami 2. The Dragon Engine trilogy. All installed. All replayed dozens of times. Mods. Custom textures. Fan-made cutscenes he edited for fun. He'd cried at Nishiki's final moments, laughed at Majima's manic loyalty, idolized Kiryu's quiet strength.
"I survived because of them," he whispered. "When I had no one… they were there."
He exhaled shakily. The room felt smaller now. Claustrophobic. The soft hum of rain outside faded into memory.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard again, and his lips curled into a lopsided grin.
"Is that even a—"
Then he stopped.
He looked up, suddenly overcome with emotion. The computer. The cheap second-hand webcam. The frayed headset duct-taped at the side. All of it… all of it had led him to this moment.
He remembered the first time he played Yakuza 0. The PS4 was borrowed from a classmate, the TV screen barely functioning. He was 14. Lost. Alone. He hadn't eaten properly in two days. His foster dad at the time had been drunk, yelling about wasting electricity. Kaito locked himself in the shed out back and played until dawn.
Kiryu had taken his first fall in the story. That moment. That scene. Where he was betrayed and still stood tall with a quiet, burning dignity.
Kaito had cried. Not loud. Not sobbing. But tears had fallen anyway. Because in Kiryu, he saw what he wanted to be.
Strong. Resilient. Good.
But Majima… Majima reminded him that even the broken could laugh. That pain didn't have to make you cruel. That loyalty, even in madness, could be sacred.
He grinned again.
"Is that even a question?"
His fingers moved with conviction now.
"Is that even a question? Kiryu's the soul. Majima's the fire. But I'll always choose the Dragon."
He hit Enter.
There was no confetti. No dramatic music. Just silence.
And then…
Ding.
A reply.
"Welcome aboard. We'll be in touch tomorrow. Get some rest. You're going to need it."
That night, Kaito didn't sleep.
He couldn't.
He lay in bed staring at the water-stained ceiling, heart pounding like a war drum. His mind raced with possibility. With hope. For the first time in years, he felt something he hadn't dared to name in a long time.
Purpose.
He thought about the kids back at the orphanage. The ones who looked up to him now. The ones he played games with, taught how to edit videos, helped with homework. They believed in him—even if they never said it out loud.
Maybe this… this was the beginning.
His origin story.
The next morning, the rain had stopped. The sun peeked shyly from behind the clouds, as if unsure it was welcome after so long. The streets of Tokyo were wet, reflecting neon signs and rushing footsteps. The city buzzed with life, oblivious to the small miracle that had just occurred in that rundown room.
Kaito checked his phone. One message. A new contract.
His fingers shook as he opened it. Read it. Read it again.
It was real.
It was real.
Tears welled up in his eyes. He wiped them quickly, half-laughing.
But the final line made him freeze.
"Tell us where you want to begin your legacy. Tokyo… or Yokohama?"
He stared.
Yokohama.
The name echoed in his chest like a distant drum.
He didn't know why… but something about it called to him.
It felt right.
He took a deep breath and typed:
"Yokohama."
What happened next… he could never explain.
One moment he was sitting at his desk, grinning like an idiot, watching his dream begin to take shape—
—and the next, everything shattered.
Light. Blinding, burning light. Like standing in the heart of a furnace.
Sound. Like rushing water, crashing thunder, and a thousand voices calling his name from beneath the waves.
His chair vanished. The desk. The room. The fan. All gone.
And then—
Silence.
When he opened his eyes again, he wasn't in his room.
He was lying on asphalt. Wet. Cold. Rough.
His vision was blurry, his body aching.
He staggered up, clutching his chest.
He looked around.
Bright lights. Neon signs. Men in wide suits walking past, smoking. Cars from another era. The clack of leather shoes. The smell of cigarette smoke and yakitori.
A retro radio buzzed in the distance: "1988... Bubble Era continues as stocks soar. In other news—"
Kaito stared at his reflection in a store window.
—And what he saw wasn't him.
Not the lanky, sleep-deprived gamer kid with bags under his eyes and ramen stains on his hoodie.
This reflection looked like a myth drawn in flesh and shadow.
His white hair glinted under the neon like strands of moonlight, tousled in a way that looked careless yet deliberate. Sharp cheekbones. A strong, squared jaw. Crimson eyes—cold, unreadable behind dark-tinted sunglasses that sat on his face like they belonged there. His skin was clear and sun-kissed, veins barely visible beneath the tight stretch of muscle and grace. He was tall. Broader. Powerful.
He looked dangerous.
No—dominant.
He stepped closer to the glass, watching the crimson silk of his button-up ripple against his chest. It was slightly unbuttoned, just enough to show off the sculpted collarbones and a hint of the iron forged beneath his skin. The sleeves were rolled up to the forearm, exposing lean, vascular muscle and a gold watch that glinted like blood under firelight. His slacks were pressed and tailored, white with a fine crease, and his black leather belt sat perfectly along a tapered waist.
He didn't just look like a man.
He looked like a legend born in violence.
A Dragon.
"…What the hell happened to me?"
His voice was deeper now. Smooth like old whiskey. Rich with something… unfamiliar. Confidence? Strength?
He touched his face. The skin was warm. Real.
He pressed a palm to his chest. His heartbeat was strong—rhythmic. Not the erratic flutter of anxiety he'd known all his life. This was something else. Something deliberate. Like his body was a weapon forged for war, not survival.
Before he could process further, he heard a scoff behind him.
"Oi. You lost, bleach-head?"
He turned slowly, sunglasses still on.
Three men were walking toward him—young, maybe early twenties, but clearly local muscle. Two wore leather jackets, the third had a visible tattoo curling up his neck. One had a steel pipe in his hand. They swaggered, but there was hesitation behind their bravado.
Something about the way he looked put them off.
Still, the one in front tried to act tough.
"You deaf or just stupid? This is Yokohama turf. You don't just stand here like you own the block."
Kaito didn't move. He didn't even flinch. Instead, he slipped his hands casually into his pockets, his stance relaxed but balanced.
Dangerous.
The thugs slowed down just slightly. The air shifted.
Kaito tilted his head. "Yokohama, huh…"
The name rolled off his tongue like it belonged to him.
"You boys from Chinatown, or just bottom-rung punks pretending?"
That hit a nerve.
The pipe guy stepped forward. "You little sh—"
Kaito moved.
No hesitation.
His fist rocketed forward, a blur of red silk and bone, and struck the thug square in the jaw. The sound was a crack—sharp and final. The man dropped like dead weight, his weapon clattering to the ground.
The second rushed in with a yell, swinging wide. Kaito ducked, pivoted, and drove his knee into the thug's gut. The impact echoed in the alley like a gunshot. The man gasped, stumbled, then met the pavement with a pained grunt.
The third froze.
Kaito straightened up, adjusting his sunglasses with a single finger.
"You've got five seconds," he said coolly, voice like silk wrapped around steel.
The third ran.
Kaito exhaled, rolling his neck. A slow smirk played on his lips.
His reflection looked back at him in the window—unscathed, calm, perfectly composed.
This was no dream.
This was real.
Whatever had happened… he had become something else entirely. Not a god. Not a superhero. But a man given the peak of human potential. Every skill. Every edge.
He had become what the world feared and respected.
A Dragon.
From behind him, someone clapped.
He turned.
An old man in a bartender's vest stood in a shop doorway, arms crossed, a half-smile on his lips.
"You handle yourself well, son. Most people piss themselves the moment Genta swings that pipe."
Kaito glanced down at the unconscious thug, then looked back up. "He was telegraphing too much."
The old man chuckled. "You've got the look of someone new, but the moves of someone seasoned. Where you from?"
Kaito turned back to the street.
The rain had left the asphalt shining like obsidian. Neon lights painted the wet pavement in gold and crimson. In the distance, the sounds of jazz drifted out of an open club door.
He took a deep breath, and for the first time, smiled with a sense of ownership.
"…Doesn't matter where I'm from."
He looked at the bartender, eyes glowing faintly behind his shades.