Ryoma's attention is then pulled by a strange sound. It's a crowd, thousands of voices, roaring from somewhere above.
He blinks once, then again. His breath doesn't rattle. His legs move, both of them. For a moment, he just stares down at his knees, then slowly tugs up the left leg of his slacks.
"Whoa… no ache. And the scars… the stitches… they're gone?"
He doesn't know what happened. But he simply accepts it without resistance.
"Ha! My left leg is back. I can move it."
Then he hears it, a voice booming through the stone ceiling like a demon-possessed sportscaster.
"And he's down!"
"That's the second time this round!"
"The beast is relentless! Does this worm still want to live?!"
The crowd erupts again, a chorus of bloodthirsty glee.
Ryoma freezes, and then looks around him, trying to learn the situation. There are other people beside him. But unlike his salaryman outfit, they dress like genuine fighters. Nothing uniform, but clearly functional, they look like they came from a gym.
Before Ryoma can think further, the sound of heavy boots echoes down the corridor. A man steps into view, dressed in chainmail and rough leather.
His appearance is a jarring contrast to the two men in black suits. He stops at the entrance, unrolls a scroll, and calls out:
"Mikhail Drozdov. Get prepared. Your fight begins next."
A large, well-built figure in the corner rises. He slaps his cheeks hard, twice, jolting himself into focus. Ryoma watches him. His eyes just start analyzing, like the habit is already in his blood.
The way the man breathes. The way he stands, broad shoulders, thick neck, sweat-damp shirt stretched tight over lean muscle. He could be an MMA athlete, maybe even ex-military.
Then, something flickers across Ryoma's vision, a shimmer. He blinks, trying to focus. Then the distortion sharpens into lines, thin and angular.
***
[SYSTEM INTERFACE: VISION GRID ACTIVE]
Scanning…
Target: Candidate #R91 – MIKHAIL DROZDOV
Physical Status: Above Average
Threat Level: Moderate
Highlighted Weakness Detected:
— Joint Range Interference (Mobility Class)
— Muscle Mass Imbalance (Dexterity Penalty)
***
Now, Ryoma gets the time to question his reality. "What are these things?"
Two zones begin to glow faint red: the back of Mikhail's left thigh, and the center of his spine, lumbar area. He watches as Mikhail rolls his shoulders, stretches his neck, and begins to walk toward the gate, smooth, slow, full of confident.
But he sees the man's stride ever so slightly uneven. His hips move with too much resistance. The upper body shifts aggressively to compensate.
"Too much power stacked on bad mechanics," Ryoma thinks.
A readout appears again, briefly:
***
[Weakness Category: Efficiency Loss]
→ Effect on Target: Reduced agility, unstable balance under directional shift
→ Counter Strategy: Angle-based disruption, feint + pivot trap, lateral misdirection
***
Ryoma stares at it, heart ticking a little faster. This isn't just a scan. It's a blueprint, a real-time combat dissection.
"Am I turning into a robot now?"
Mikhail Drozdov leaves without a word, following the guard down the corridor like a soldier reporting for duty.
As Ryom is busy pondering about his sanity, the cheering above starts again. Distant at first, then rising like a wave breaking over stone walls.
Then he hears the commentator's voice, booming above the roar:
"Strong form, heavy hits…"
"But too slow!"
"This isn't the gym, sweetheart!"
Ryoma chuckles. "Heh. I could see that before he even left."
Another commentator roars:
"And down he goes! The beast takes another soul!"
The crowd's roar dips, not in silence, but disappointment. A few groans, then a sigh, almost collective.
Ryoma blinks, tilting his head. "That voice… that rhythm... it's like a damn MMA crowd."
But when he glances around, the atmosphere in the cell has completely changed.
"Another one gone," someone says near the corner.
Another sits down with a heavy exhale. "Knew it the moment I saw his stance."
Ryoma frowns, confused.
"That's it? One loss and he's done?" Ryoma thinks, frowning. "The guy was solid, big, calm, clearly experienced. You'd think they'd give him another shot. Hell, people would surely buy tickets just to watch him fight."
Then he thinks deep. Judging by the situation, there's a good chance he was brought here as payback.
For the champion's loss, and the role he played in it.
"Could it be the Yakuza?"
He starts doing the math. His turn must be coming soon. But weirdly, he's not afraid.
Hell, this is almost nostalgic.
In his younger days, he dreamt of this; boxing, MMA, taekwondo, kendo. He trained, fought, and sweated through broken gloves in an underground gym. And then came the truck, the end of everything.
Now he looks down at his left leg, stable, strong, pain-free. But before he gets the chance to question anyone, the sound of boots appears once more, the same clanking rhythm.
The guard returns, unrolls the scroll and reads:
"Ryoma Takeda. You're next."
Ryoma freezes.
Then… he slaps his own face, once, hard.
"I've fought worse odds. Been through worse hell. And this freaky eye-system-thing that lets me dissect people like lab frogs? Yeah. I can win this. Easy."
He rises to his feet immediately, grinning with anticipation.
"They even know my name? Heh, they must have studied me, and learned my potential."
A few heads turn. One pale guy with a nasty scar squints at him, sizing him up.
"Are you new here?" he asks.
"Yeah," Ryoma says casually, brushing off his wrinkled shirt.
"Tch. Be careful out there. Don't think about winning. Just survive."
Ryoma shrugs. "Don't worry. I've already been through hell."
The guard gestures for him to follow, and Ryoma walks after him, keeping pace.
"Hey," he says, scanning the man's armor. "What is this place, really? Some kind of a TV show?"
But there's no response. The guard just keeps walking with rigid mechanical rhythm.
Ryoma raises an eyebrow. "Right. Cool talk."
They walk down a long corridor, dimly lit by flickering torchlight. Then they reach it, the armory room.
"Okay... What the hell kind of setup is this?"
Armor racks line both walls, rows of mismatched gear in various states of decay; cracked leather harnesses, dented chestplates, wooden bucklers, all kinds of medieval weapons, boots and slippers.
Ryoma slows his pace, scanning the racks. Nothing looks new. It's like someone looted a dozen battlefields and dumped the leftovers here. He glances at the guard, but still no words from him.
"Sigh. No briefings at all?"
Then the guard finally speaks.
"Are you ready?"
Ryoma squints. "Ready for what?"
"For the fight."
Ryoma smirks, kicking his left leg on the floor.
"Born ready."
The guard actually smiles, just a little, then gently shakes his head, a mix of disbelief and pity. Still silent, he leads Ryoma to the double doors. And beyond that doors, muffled sound leaks through: cheers, boots on stone, claws dragging across something hard.
The guard steps aside, one door swings open slightly. And through it, Ryoma sees the arena, wide, circular.
It's not an octagon. It's a colosseum, the sand stained dark in places, not red, but brown. Weapons litter the ground like debris after a storm; blades, clubs, pikes, even a broken hammer half-buried in the dirt.
Some are rusted, some gleam, one even has a hand still gripping it, unmoving.
Ryoma mumbles as he walks in, "What in the hell is this?"
A gate across the arena begins to rise. From there, something snarls, and the crowd responds with screaming, stomping, hungry.
Ryoma stands frozen, looking less like a fighter and more like a man who just lost a job interview. His smile fades, his fingers twitch.
And then…
The beast emerges.
It's not a man, not an MMA fighter, not anything Ryoma was prepared for. It's real, a creature torn straight from nightmares. A hunched, ridged back, jaws filled with crooked unnatural teeth, and claws like polished blades, sharp, strong, made to tear.
Ryoma's jaw tightens.
"…I definitely never signed up for this."