4317 stood still, letting his vision adjust to the ambient light filtering down from high above – weak, artificial illumination revealing the scale.
Thick vines slithered down the fractured walls like veins in rotting flesh. Mushroom and pale moss clung to the crevices between metal and stone, drinking from the years of blood that had seeped into the cracks.
The ceiling was a mass of industrial grates and trapdoors, mechanism and chambers humming softly behind them.
The entire arena was encased in high, murky glass. A seamless ring of observation panels. Behind them, shadows stirred. Some moved, some stood still. But 4317 could feel them watching, breathing. Whispering things he couldn't hear.
He stood on a raised metal platform, rusted, stained with dried gore, slick with algae in some spots. The platform was like a small island in a sea of roots. Below, the ground dropped into a pit, its floor a nest of tendrils and the skeletal remains of the fallen.
And across from him on the other side of the platform, maybe thirty feet away, stood a figure. Broad-shouldered, head bowed. As if sensing his presence, the figure slowly lifted its head.
4317's breath hitched.
Jax.
But not the Jax he remembered. The brutal overseer was gone. In his place stood a broken shell. Thick, crude bandages were wrapped around Jax's head, completely covering his eyes, stained a dirty brown in places. His face, what was visible below the bandages, was gaunt, etched with lines of pain and something else – a simmering, directionless rage. Recognition wasn't visual; it was the sheer, brutal presence, diminished but still potent, twisted by blindness and evident suffering.
Jax tilted his head, as if listening intently, a low growl rumbling in his chest. He couldn't see, but he knew. The raw hatred radiating from him was a physical force across the space. "You filth…" Jax's voice was a ruined rasp, scraped raw by pain and fury. "You… I will kill you. SLOWLY.."
4317 shifted his stance. Every breath still stung. The potion had healed worse of it, but the pain lingered, humming in his bone.
A quiet, mechanical hiss echoed from the ceiling above. Something shifted up there. A hatch opened. From it, a platform began to descend.
A man stood on it.
He wore a pristine white suit, crisp and spotless against the filth-stained arena. A black mask concealed his face, smooth and featureless except for a wide, painted smile that stretched across it grotesquely. It glistened under the harsh artificial light.
He said nothing at first.
The descent halted midway between ceiling and ground—just high enough that he remained untouchable, suspended above them like some divine arbiter.
Then, his voice boomed, mechanical and modulated, laced with something almost gleeful.
"Everyone, the most awaited event is to unfold. On one corner we have the OVERSEER JAXX! Well, he used to be. A bloomed tier 10.
And on another side today's underdog, slayed a GRAVET-MAW unarmed, TIERLESS slavee, 4317."
Jax snarled across the platform , pulling at his restraints like a caged beast.
The man tilted his head. "There's no rule. Survivor wins.
COMMENCEE!"
The chains on Jax's wrists dropped with a heavy clang.
4317 stood guard, heart hammering.
Jax moved first. He charged like an enraged bull. He stumbled slightly on the edge of the platform but caught himself, roaring, fists clenched, charging the narrow bridge of metal grating that marked the middle of the platform.
4317 reacted purely on instinct, years of surviving in the pits kicking in. He sidestepped the wild charge, lashing out with a foot as Jax barreled past, catching him behind the knee.
Jax stumbled, crashing hard onto the grating. He roared again, a sound of pure animal fury and humiliation. He scrambled up, swinging wildly, powerful blows cutting through the air where 4317 had been a moment before. 4317 danced back, staying light, using the limited space, his own fear sharpening his senses. He saw Jax's vulnerability – the blindness, the rage that made him predictable.
He darted in, landing a sharp jab to Jax's ribs, hearing a satisfying grunt of pain. He ducked under a wild backhand, driving a knee into Jax's thigh. Jax staggered but didn't go down. He lashed out, catching 4317 with a glancing blow on the shoulder that sent sparks of pain shooting down his arm.
The fight was brutal, primal. Jax was stronger, fueled by pain and hatred, but blind and clumsy. 4317 was faster, more aware, fueled by desperation to survive.
He avoided the crushing blows, weaving, striking where he could – ribs, kidneys, the back of the knees. He used the platform's edge, feinting moves that made Jax lurch towards the abyss. Blood streamed from Jax's nose, staining the bandages. Sweat plastered 4317's hair to his forehead, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He saw his moment. Jax, off-balance from a missed swing, lurched forward. 4317 pivoted, putting all his weight and momentum into a savage kick aimed at the back of Jax's already buckling knee. The impact was solid, bone-jarring. Jax cried out, a sound more of shock than pain, and crumpled forward onto the grating, one leg twisted awkwardly.
4317 stood over him, chest heaving, fists clenched. Jax tried to push himself up, his movements weak, labored. He was beaten. Broken. The raw, unadulterated humiliation radiated off him in waves, thicker than the blood or sweat. The hatred was still there, but now it was mixed with something terrifying – a profound, shattering despair.
"You… tierless… vermin…" Jax rasped, spitting blood onto the metal. "I… lost… everything" The words were a lament, "every fucking thing, for youuu!" It was a denial of his utter defeat by the lowest of the low.
Jax twitched. Then screamed.
Blood poured out of his eyes, mouth, nose and ears, painting the arena floor, soaking into the cracks of the stone like it belonged there. His body convulsed once—twice—before something grotesque began tearing itself out from within.
Bones cracked and stretched. Skin bubbled like over boiled meat. A choked roar erupted from Jax's ruined throat as his muscles swelled unnaturally, flesh splitting and reforming with wet slaps. Where eyes wept bandages, obsidian thorns erupted like fractured crystals. Its mouth split into a grin too wide for any human skull, teeth like shattered tombstones.One arm snapped backward at the elbow before regrowing as something inhuman—layered with scales and bone-like ridges.
4317 took a shaky step back, bare feet dragging over stone, his mind ringing.
What the hell is that…
Before the transformation even finished, Jax lunged.
No planning. No cunning. Just brute, mindless rage.
A thick, clawed hand swung wide. 4317 ducked under it, the gust of air behind the blow strong enough to stagger him.
Too strong… I can't hurt that thing.
He circled, narrowly avoiding a ground-smashing fist. Cracks spidered outward from the impact. 4317's own blows—fists, elbows, even a jump kick—felt like he was striking ironwood. The creature barely reacted.
Feels like punching a goddamn wall…
He backed off, panting, blood started leaking from his broken ribs and broken nose. His breath came out in ragged gasps.
"What kind of fight is this!?" he suddenly bellowed toward the stands. "You expect me to kill that with my bare hands!?"
The crowd didn't answer. Their silence stung more than mockery.
"Cowards!" 4317 spat blood. "If you really want a fight then give me a damn weapon!"
He avoided another blow, but lost footing as the shafts cranked. With a mechanical clang, compartments along the upper walls hissed open. Weapons—dozens of them—poured into the air. Spears, chains, blades, spiked maces, throwing daggers, even an axe with a broken handle.
4317's eyes widened. He wasn't smiling.
He ran.
The sky rained steel.
A falling shortsword nearly skewered his shoulder. A whip tangled in his leg for a split second before he ripped free. A halberd slammed beside him, tip-first, cracking the stone.
What the fuckk!
A spiked chain clanged off his thigh. He stumbled—bad timing. It grabbed his ankle mid-step.
Shit—!
He was yanked skyward like a ragdoll. The arena spun. He twisted mid-air, panic and instinct colliding. That's when he saw it—a heavy chained mace caught between the stones, half-buried.
He reached out. Caught it.
The weight almost dislocated his arm—but it held.
He slammed into the ground, but the grip saved him from being flung like garbage.
"Alright then," He roared.
Dragging himself upright, he swung the mace with both hands. It hit the mutant's shoulder—hard—and actually dented the flesh. Not deep. Not enough. But it felt good.
Jax roared back, the obsidian crystals twitching with confused pain. The mutated Jax charged again. 4317 danced between strikes, using fallen blades, chain-links, even a splintered axe head to chip away.
Slash. Slam. Gouge. Move!
He kept going until his limbs shook. The only reason he wasn't dead yet was because Jax wasn't thinking. Just reacting. Just smashing.
But that couldn't last.
The mace snapped in half.
And 4317 slipped.
The massive claw closed around his midsection. Lifted him. Slammed him down.
And then—
Teeth.
Black gums, needle-thin fangs like broken glass, and breath reeking of spoiled blood.
Jax bit down.
4317 screamed. His vision blurred. One shoulder went numb. But his other hand—his good one—still held a jagged piece of iron from the arena floor.
He stabbed.
Over and over.
Into the temple. Into the hideous face. Into the soft places he could think of.
He didn't stop.
Even as Jax's jaw clamped harder.
No. NO. I am not dying here. I'll kill you before you kill me..
4317 screamed. And shot a flurry of hands, black blood oozed from its face but it still clamped on. Sudden heat surged up his spine—no, through his entire body. Like lightning threading through his nerves. Like liquid fire igniting every cell.
He couldn't scream anymore.
Color exploded behind his eyes.
Not blood.
Not pain.
Just—light.
Shimmering. Alien. Multicolored and endless. He saw a thousand branching shapes, fractals made of roots and stars. It swallowed everything.
And then—
Darkness.