Is it appropriate to call this a Prologue?

"I got chucked into a world where being buck-naked is a literal felony!"

"HOLY SMOKES! What in the world is happening down in the arena, Masatoshi?!" Hitoshi, the play-by-play commentator, roared from the balcony stands. His voice was nearly swallowed by the thick, choking fog blanketing the Orukuen Arena.

"This toxic smog... it's gotta be the aftermath of a devastating strike from Sasuke, 'The Mad Cobra', Hitoshi!" Masatoshi shrieked back, his voice pitching high.

Amidst the billowing clouds venting like a colossal steampunk engine, the figure of Sasuke Kobura stood dripping with arrogance.

"Look at that, folks! Sasuke’s Suppafuku has evolved into its San-Enkai mode!" Hitoshi hyped up the crowd.

All eyes snapped to Sasuke, riding the deafening roar of the cheering masses.

"Those gold accents tracing every single muscle contour on his black armor are just straight-up aesthetic!"

"You got that right, Masatoshi! But do not sleep on those armor pieces on his legs, arms, and shoulders—glistening like actual serpent scales!" Hitoshi hollered dramatically.

"Shishishi, yeah, keep it coming, pump my tires!" Sasuke spread his arms wide, pivoting to flex for every section of the crowd.

"His Scaled Raiment of Naja is an absolute lock for Super Fashion of the Week!"
The stadium erupted into a thunderous ovation. Meanwhile, Sasuke gave his iron scythe a sharp flick. Sizzle! Drops of highly corrosive, purple venom splattered from the blade, bubbling and eating away at the arena dirt.

"Hey, dirtbag," Sasuke smirked from behind his half-mask, designed like a striking cobra. "Just stand down and cuff yourself. I ain't looking to catch a body on my beat today. Consider this a professional courtesy."

From the depths of the fog, a raspy voice answered with surprising chill. "Sorry, Mr. Bootleg Kamen Rider, but 'surrender' isn't in my vocabulary. Though, ngl, 'epic fail' is definitely bookmarked."

It was Toma Houku, emerging from the mist looking absolutely thrashed. His left hand was turning a sickly black-and-blue, a deep purple spreading up his arm like ink bleeding through paper. It hung there, limp and paralyzed.

Crap! This knockoff Power Ranger's poison is chewing through my insides way too fast! Toma grumbled inwardly.

But... thanks to this exact toxic garbage, my passive skill stacks are totally maxed out.

He flashed a faint smirk as a tiny, square visual bar hovering above his head—visible only to him—lit up with three heart emojis.

"Just for the record, perp," Sasuke's voice shattered Toma's thoughts. "My venom? It's permanent damage. You got two choices: surrender, drop to your knees, and kiss my boots for the antidote... or start looking for a hacksaw for that arm."
His eyes behind the orange visor glared down at Toma with absolute disdain.

"Oh man! Toma is in critical condition! Is this the end of the line for him, Hitoshi?!"

"You bet! His luck has officially run dry right here, Masatoshi!"

Toma shot a side-eye at the obnoxiously energetic commentator duo.

"There's no way he can take down Officer Sasuke!"

"Officer Sasuke's Suppafuku defines what a true Super Garment is meant to be!"

Sure, Toma thought the guy looked like a rejected tokusatsu extra, but honestly? Toma’s own Suppafuku was way worse—a dingy tank top, frayed jorts, and a pair of rotting wooden geta sandals.

"Just tap out already!"

"You suck!"

"Your Suppafuku is making my eyes bleed!"

Toma rolled his eyes at the peanut gallery hurling insults.

"You hear that? The jury's already reached a verdict on this bout." Sasuke twirled his scythe in the air before resting it elegantly against his shoulder.

Tch, God, they're so loud, Toma thought, squeezing his eyes shut. His ears rang for a second, until...

"If the shadows of strife make you stumble and stall, heed my words, little Toma, lest you shatter and fall!"

DING.

The phantom image of his grandmother suddenly popped into his head. He let out a long, heavy sigh and spoke up.

"All that white noise means literally nothing to me. And I'm gonna pass on your little plea deal, because..."

His eyes locked onto Sasuke, brimming with unshakable confidence.

"...my grandma once laid down some sick poetry: 'Never bow to the dark, never cower or weep; even if your whole life is a smoldering trash heap.'"

"GYAHAHAHA!" Sasuke busted out laughing, the scythe wobbling as his whole body shook with mirth.

"So you finally figured out your place in the food chain! Yeah! You're just garbage! No way a punk like you takes down an elite Nuno-Gun officer like me! My venom is gonna—"

"SAN—!"

Thump.

Sasuke froze. His eyes bulged behind his visor.

"ENKAI!"

KABOOOOOM!

An explosion of thick white smoke swallowed Toma whole. The entire arena violently quaked. Debris blasted in every direction, and Sasuke's toxic smog was violently shoved back by the sheer force radiating from ground zero.

"No freakin' way..." Sasuke took a step back, his scythe trembling in his grip. "A low-grade junk Suppafuku like that can hit San-Enkai form!?"

The smoke began to settle. From the heart of the billowing white clouds, Toma re-emerged—looking exactly... the same. Dingy tank top, jorts, geta sandals.

Except now, a pair of round, pitch-black sunglasses rested on his nose. His right hand gripped a two-meter-long wooden staff with a smooth, rounded tip, and... WHERE THE HELL DID THAT MASSIVE TURTLE SHELL ON HIS BACK COME FROM?!

"Impossible! How did that perp's left arm heal up?!" Sasuke looked completely bewildered. His lethal cobra venom had vanished without a trace.

"PFFT! HAHAHA! What the hell is that getup?!"

"Bro looks like a blind grandpa!"

"Is that a wok or a turtle shell?!"

"He looks more like a circus clown than a Fukukishi! Hahahaha!"

The crowd’s mockery echoed off the stadium walls. But Toma didn't care in the slightest—he never did. Instead, he coolly pushed up his sunglasses with two fingers, then spun his wooden staff with absolute swagger.

If Grandma were still alive, she'd be screaming her lungs out right now, because... Toma grinned.

I look exactly like the master of the strongest Saiyan warrior!

SWISH!

Not giving Sasuke a single second to process the absurdity, Toma blitzed forward. His movements weren't elegant in the slightest—he looked stiff, like a robot trying to figure out how to sprint—but his speed was absolutely jaw-dropping.

CLANG!

Wood smashed against iron. Sparks violently sprayed from the collision, and Sasuke was forced back several steps.

"What the—?!" Sasuke stared at Toma's wooden stick in disbelief. "How is a twig holding up against my scythe?!"

"Because this stick is coated in the exact same material as its owner: pure, concentrated swag!" Toma shot back.

WHOOSH!

"Toma is relentlessly pressing the attack like a rookie swinging a bat! Yet, somehow, every wild swing is forcing Officer Sasuke on the defensive!" The veins bulged in Hitoshi’s neck as he yelled into the mic.

CLANG! CLANG! CLACK!

"Hold your horses, Hitoshi! He might be the dark horse of these semi-finals, but Toma's technique is straight amateur hour! He's wide open!" Masatoshi's analysis boomed over the speakers.

"But, but, BUT, his raw, unfiltered power is completely overwhelming Sasuke!" Hitoshi dramatically pointed at the arena, which was now flashing with the brilliant lights of their clash.

"Swag, you say?! Are you kidding me, you little punk?!" Sasuke furiously ramped up the speed of his scythe swings.

DASH!

It didn't take long for Sasuke to snatch the momentum back. He vaulted high into the air, leaping directly over Toma's head and rearing his scythe back for a lethal execution.

"Drop dead, scum!"

Toma glanced up. Sasuke's massive silhouette completely engulfed him in shadow. That crucial, split-second felt like it moved in slow motion.

Tch! The tingling aftershocks of the poison are acting up right now?! Are you kidding me?! I don't have a choice! Toma threw caution to the wind and let his pure instincts take the wheel.

However, Toma’s instincts led him to execute a maneuver no sane fighter—not even the most incompetent brawler in existence—would ever conceive. HE STARTED TWERKING.

CRACK!

Sasuke’s iron scythe violently ricocheted out of his grip, having slammed dead-center into Toma's turtle shell—which was perfectly angled and exposed by the twerking motion. The weapon was launched high into the air before crashing to the dirt meters away with a heavy, metallic CLANG.

"What the—?!" Sasuke stared at his empty hands, bug-eyed.

THUD!

Toma slammed his wooden staff into the ground with dramatic flair.

"This strike goes out to Tojo-san!"

Toma pulled both arms back—elbows cocked high, fists tightly coiled and ready to strike. The tragic image of a severely wounded girl flashed through his mind. Tojo.

"The payback for the bastard who hurt a woman like you!!!"

Toma’s stance was intimately familiar to absolutely anyone who had ever watched a battle shonen anime. Toma included.

"HADAKA—NO—KEN!"

KABOOOOOM!

A devastating double-fist punch cratered into Sasuke’s gut with cataclysmic force. The black-and-green-haired officer's body vibrated violently. A blinding white light erupted from the point of impact, immediately followed by a web of glowing cracks that shattered his Suppafuku to dust—and a concussive shockwave that launched him into the stratosphere.

CRASH!

A now completely buck-naked Sasuke was catapulted dozens of meters through the air. He sailed right over the arena boundary and violently slammed into the stone wall with a sickening crunch that instantly silenced the entire stadium.

"AGAIN! HE DOES IT AGAIN! TOMA HOUKU HAS JUST COMMITTED A FIRST-DEGREE FELONY OF PUBLIC INDECENCY!" Hitoshi screamed hysterically into his mic. "LADY LUCK IS STILL RIDING SHOTGUN WITH HIM!"

"ARENA SECURITY! WHERE ARE YOU?! DO NOT LET OFFICER SASUKE REMAIN NUDE FOR MORE THAN TEN SECONDS!" Masatoshi chimed in, his voice trembling with sheer horror.

"Impossible..."

"How the hell...?"

"Oh, the humanity!"

The audience stared at Sasuke with a mix of utter dread and profound disgust. Parents desperately shielded their children’s eyes—though a few kids were definitely peeking through the gaps in their fingers. Arena guards sprinted onto the field, frantically unfurling a white emergency blanket with the kanji for Thread Emperor boldly stamped in the center.

"Hell yeah! Toma kicks ass!" Two people cheered, high-fiving at the edge of the arena. One was a red-haired guy sporting a yellow bandana and a small scar on his left temple. The other was a teenage girl with long blonde twin-tails shooting out from under a black snapback cap.

"Exactly what I'd expect from the boy I ruthlessly forged in the fires of intensive carpet-washing." Behind them, a bear-sized, muscular man with a black samurai topknot crossed his arms, beaming with a proud smile.

In the tunnel leading to the arena, a woman with a black pixie cut glared daggers at Toma, visibly agitated. "My gut was right from the start! But those boomer executives just brushed me off!"

Meanwhile, up in the highest balcony of the Orukuen Arena—isolated far away from the rabble of general admission—sat a luxurious private box, concealed behind sheer golden drapes.

"The power dwelling within that boy's Suppafuku... it feels as though..." A deep, reverberating voice echoed from the chamber—the seat of the Shogun’s throne.

"...as though he is spitting directly in my face."

He was the Shogun, Kuruto Akahari. The absolute supreme authority in the nation that strictly forbade nudity: Oru no Kuni.

Yet, while countless eyes bored into Toma with wildly varying emotions, he just stood there in the dead center of the arena, his sunglasses gleaming in the light. He had no clue—and honestly, probably wouldn't care—about the sheer scale of the danger looming over him.

A faint, cocky smirk crept onto his lips.

"But I, Toma Houku, literally possess the power to strip people completely butt-naked."