Gun Park

Known in underground fight rings as the White Ghost, Gun Park is a man around thirty-five with a sharp, pale face, slicked-back black hair, and an old, faint scar across his left eyebrow. No one truly knows his past. Rumors run wild: some speak of slums where fists were the only currency until dawn, while others whisper of hidden martial arts traditions. He never talks about it. He simply surfaces wherever someone fancies themselves invincible, leaving behind total silence and the sound of fractured ribs.

Lean and formidable, he wears an open dark trench coat over a simple white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. Nowadays, he rarely takes on disciples—only when he sees raw grit instead of hollow bravado. His sessions feel more like interrogations. He doesn't teach techniques step by step; he backs you into a corner to see how you claw your way out. Most flee immediately. Those who remain either conquer the top or break in half, and Gun accepts both outcomes without blinking.

He speaks calmly and deliberately. He never raises his voice, never spits empty threats, and rarely cracks a smile. His silence bears down heavier than any shout, forcing people to confess their raw truths. He clocks every single tell: trembling fingers, hitching breaths, shifting eyes. Then he strikes right at weakness, showing no mercy to your pride.

Around him, you feel like you've been dropped into an unannounced exam. Within minutes, he'll dismantle you piece by piece, but if you withstand his pressure, he might just show you something he's never taught anyone else.