Three hours before the next match.
The fighter gym was quieter than usual—most contestants either resting in their quarters or watching the ongoing matches from the arena seating. The space was functional rather than luxurious: reinforced punching bags hanging from ceiling chains, weight benches bolted to the floor, a few training mats scattered around, and equipment designed to withstand NovaBreed strength.
Lucius stood at one of the heavy bags, wearing simple black athletic wear instead of his usual fur-hooded jacket. His movements were precise as he worked through combinations—jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Each strike landed with controlled force, the bag swaying slightly with each impact but never wildly.
Nearby, Liu Yan worked through forms on one of the training mats, his movements sharp and focused. His eyes kept drifting toward the young fighter at the punching bag, watching the technical precision of each strike. The way this guy moved—there was no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourish. Every punch had purpose, perfect weight transfer, textbook form. For someone so young, his fundamentals were exceptional.
Liu returned his attention to his own training, but filed the observation away. That fighter was more than he appeared.
Across the gym, Jacob Blade Wilson sat on a bench near the wall, his right hand immobilized in a medical wrap and sling. The fight with Iron Clad Wang had been brutal—a good match, hard-fought on both sides—but ultimately he'd lost. The broken hand was a small price to pay for surviving a fight with a veteran like Wang. He watched the other fighters train with the quiet acceptance of someone who'd given his best and come up short.
Two guards stood near the entrance, engaged in conversation. Marcus "Mack" Thompson leaned against the wall, his relaxed posture belying the alertness in his eyes. Despite working in this hellhole, he still maintained the bearing of the military veteran he'd been before the tournament recruited him.
Beside him stood Harrington—the guard who'd escorted Lucius to his quarters on that first day. Average height, buzz cut going gray at the temples, the kind of face that was easy to forget. He'd been working security in the Underground for three years now, long enough to recognize patterns, short enough that he hadn't completely lost his soul to the place.
"I'm telling you, Mack," Harrington said, keeping his voice low, "there's something scratching in the walls at night. I've heard it on three different patrols now. Started maybe three or four days ago."
Mack raised an eyebrow. "Scratching? What kind of scratching?"
"I don't know, just... scratching. Like something's moving around in there. In the ventilation shafts, behind the panels. It's faint, but it's there."
At the punching bag, Lucius continued his combinations, but his attention had shifted slightly. He kept his rhythm steady, his expression unchanged.
Mack scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Could be the ventilation system acting up. These old facilities, the ductwork expands and contracts with temperature changes. Makes all kinds of weird noises."
"Maybe," Harrington said, though he didn't sound convinced. "But it doesn't sound mechanical. It sounds... organic. Like something moving."
Lucius threw a particularly solid cross, then paused, catching the bag as it swung back. He glanced toward the guards with that flat, unreadable expression.
"Ghosts," he said, his deadpan delivery making it impossible to tell if he was serious.
Both guards turned to look at him.
Harrington blinked. "What?"
"Ghosts," Lucius repeated, going back to hitting the bag. "Underground facility built on top of who knows how many bodies. Probably haunted. Makes sense."
Mack snorted, a slight grin tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, sure. Ghosts. That tracks."
"Actually," Harrington said slowly, "I saw a couple rats near the storage area yesterday. Big ones, too. Might be that."
Mack's expression shifted to mild concern. "Rats? We never had rat problems before. This place has always been relatively clean. Well, relatively speaking for an underground criminal operation."
"That's what I thought," Harrington agreed. "But I definitely saw them. Two of them, maybe three, moving along the wall near the supply closet."
"Shit," Mack muttered. "Knowing rats, they multiply fast. Gotta get an exterminator down here before they multiply and infest the whole facility. Last thing we need is a rat problem on top of everything else."
"I'll file a report," Harrington said. "See if anyone upstairs actually cares enough to do something about it."
Lucius continued his training, throwing combinations with the same mechanical precision, his face betraying nothing. But behind his eyes, his mind cataloged the conversation, noting the timeline, the locations mentioned, the guards' observations.
Right on schedule.
The gym entrance opened, and three figures walked in.
The first was a man who immediately commanded attention—not through size or obvious power, but through sheer presence. Tact stood around six feet tall with a build that spoke of both natural athleticism and years of training. His dark hair was styled back, and he moved with the confident swagger of someone who'd been here before and knew exactly how dangerous he was. He wore casual fighter gear—tank top and loose pants—but somehow made it look almost stylish. His eyes swept the gym with casual arrogance, dismissing most of what he saw.
Behind him came two other fighters.
Hawk Tomas was taller, leaner, with the wiry build of someone built for speed rather than power. His features were sharp, almost bird-like, which probably explained the nickname. His eyes were constantly moving, restless, taking in everything. He stayed slightly behind Tact, clearly recognizing the pecking order.
Yan Dawo was shorter and stockier, with broad shoulders and a thick neck. His face carried old scars, and his hands looked like they'd broken concrete on multiple occasions. He had the appearance of a brawler, someone who won through sheer toughness rather than technique. He followed Tact with the loyalty of a subordinate who'd found someone stronger to follow.
Tact's eyes swept the gym and landed on Lucius at the punching bag. His lips curved into a condescending smile.
"Well, well," Tact said, his voice carrying across the space. "Look at this. Kids these days, thinking they're fighters because they can hit a bag."
Lucius caught the bag mid-swing and glanced over. His expression didn't change—still that flat, unreadable look that could mean anything or nothing.
"You talking to me?" Lucius asked, his tone so neutral it bordered on disinterested.
Tact's smile widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, I'm talking to you. How old are you, sixteen? Seventeen? Let me guess—watched some martial arts movies, decided you were tough, somehow found tour way to the tournament thinking you'd make a quick buck?"
"Nineteen," Lucius corrected, turning back to the bag. "And no, I don't watch movies. They're boring."
The casual dismissal—the complete lack of deference or acknowledgment—made Tact's smile falter slightly. Behind him, Hawk and Yan exchanged glances.
"Boring," Tact repeated slowly. "Right. Well, kid, this isn't a movie. This is the real thing. People die here. You understand that?"
"I've noticed," Lucius said, throwing another combination. His strikes were still perfectly measured, his breathing controlled. "Hard to miss, what with all the blood and screaming."
Tact's jaw tightened. He was used to intimidating younger fighters, used to them showing fear or at least respect. This kid's complete lack of reaction was... irritating.
"I've been watching the fights," Tact continued, moving closer. "Saw you sitting with some desperate-looking guy in the arena. You two charity cases sticking together? Thinking if you buddy up with other losers, it'll help you survive?"
Lucius paused again, this time turning to face Tact fully. His royal blue eyes met Tact's gaze with no emotion whatsoever.
"He's not desperate," Lucius said simply. "He's got more reason to be here than most. And he's not a loser. But I wouldn't expect you to recognize that."
The insult was delivered so flatly, so matter-of-factly, that it took Tact a moment to register it. When he did, his face darkened.
"What did you just say to me?"
"I said you wouldn't recognize it," Lucius repeated slowly, like he was explaining something to a child. "Pattern recognition requires observation skills. You seem to lack those."
Liu Yan had stopped his training completely now, watching with barely concealed interest. Even Jacob was paying attention, his expression somewhere between concern and amusement.
The guards shifted slightly, hands moving closer to their shock prods.
Tact took another step forward, his casual swagger replaced by genuine anger. "You've got a mouth on you, kid. You know who I am? I competed in this tournament four years ago. Made it further than most. I know how this place works, know what it takes to survive here. And you—you're just some cocky teenager who doesn't know when to shut up."
"Four years ago," Lucius said, tilting his head slightly. "And you're back. Which means you didn't win, and whatever you got for placing wasn't enough. So now you're here again, hoping this time will be different."
The silence that followed was heavy.
Tact's face flushed red. His hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"You disrespectful little shit," he said quietly, his voice tight with controlled fury. "You think because you're young, because you haven't fought yet, that you're special? That you're different?"
"No," Lucius said, his tone still maddeningly neutral. "I just think you're boring. And kind of predictable."
That did it.
Tact's eyes flashed, and the air in the gym suddenly felt heavier.
The weight bench nearby groaned. Then the metal frame began to crumple, folding in on itself like paper being crushed in an invisible fist. Dumbbells on a nearby rack started to compress, their circular weights deforming into irregular shapes with sounds like grinding metal.
It was an impressive display. Intimidating. The kind of power that made people reconsider their attitudes.
Lucius watched the equipment crumple and deform. His expression didn't change. He didn't flinch, didn't step back, didn't show even a flicker of concern.
He just looked... bored.
"That's supposed to scare me?" Lucius asked.
Tact's control wavered for just a moment, the crushed equipment dropping with a clang. The complete lack of reaction—the absolute absence of fear—was more infuriating than any insult.
"You—" Tact started forward, the air around him distorting again.
"Hey!" Mack's voice cut through the tension like a knife. Both guards had moved forward, shock prods raised. "No fighting outside the arena! You know the rules. Save that shit for the matches."
Harrington's hand was on his radio. "We call this in, both of you get penalties. Maybe disqualification. That what you want?"
Tact stood there, trembling with barely controlled rage. Every instinct screamed at him to crush this disrespectful little bastard, to teach him what real power felt like.
But the guards were right. Fighting outside the arena meant penalties. Possibly elimination. And he hadn't come back here after four years just to get kicked out for losing his temper.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. The pressure in the air normalized.
"Fine," Tact said, his voice low and dangerous. He pointed at Lucius. "But you and me? We're going to have a conversation in the arena. And when we do, I'm going to make you regret every word that came out of your smart-ass mouth."
He turned and stormed toward the exit, his footsteps heavy with fury. Hawk and Yan quickly followed, neither looking back.
The gym was silent for a moment.
Then Lucius spoke, his deadpan delivery perfect: "Well, that escalated quickly. Should I be worried, or is this just foreplay?"
The gym erupted.
Liu Yan actually doubled over laughing, his usual serious demeanor completely shattered. Jacob's good hand slapped his knee repeatedly as he wheezed with laughter. Even the guards broke—Mack had to turn away to compose himself, shoulders shaking, while Harrington covered his face with one hand, trying and failing to maintain professionalism.
"Oh my god," Liu Yan managed between laughs. "Did you just—foreplay? You actually—" He couldn't finish, overcome by another wave of laughter.
Jacob wiped tears from his eyes. "Kid's got a death wish, but damn if he isn't funny about it."
Harrington finally composed himself enough to speak, though his voice still carried traces of amusement. "When's your fight, kid?"
Lucius glanced at the wall clock. "The very next fight, actually. I should probably get going."
He grabbed a towel from a nearby bench, wiping sweat from his face and neck. His movements were casual, unhurried, like he hadn't just provoked a veteran fighter into nearly attacking him.
"Good luck," Liu Yan said once he'd caught his breath, genuine respect in his voice. "You'll need it against that one."
Lucius just nodded and headed for the exit, leaving the others to process what they'd just witnessed.
---
Lucius moved through the corridors with purpose, but his first stop wasn't his own quarters or the medical area.
He needed to find Odd.
The mess hall was his first check—a large space with long tables and a serving area that smelled perpetually of reheated food and industrial cleaning solution. A few fighters sat scattered around, eating or talking in low voices. But no Odd.
He checked a few other accessible common areas—a recreation room with a broken television and some worn furniture, a corridor with vending machines, a small observation area overlooking a lower section of the facility. Nothing.
Which meant Odd was probably in his quarters.
Lucius navigated to the fighter housing section, checking room numbers until he found the one assigned to Odd. He knocked twice.
"Yeah?" Odd's voice came from inside, muffled.
"It's King."
A pause, then the door opened. Odd stood there in comfortable clothes, looking like he'd been resting. His expression shifted to concern when he saw Lucius.
"Hey, man. Everything okay?"
"Fine," Lucius said. "My fight's coming up. Need you to pass a message to Seung for me."
"Sure, yeah. What's the message?"
Lucius told him the betting instructions—specific details that made Odd's eyebrows climb higher and higher as he listened.
"Are you... are you sure about that?" Odd asked when Lucius finished. "That's—"
"Just tell him exactly what I said," Lucius interrupted. "He'll understand."
"Alright, man. I'll find him and pass it on." Odd hesitated, then added, "Good luck out there. Be careful, yeah? I know you're good, but still."
"I'll be fine," Lucius said. "See you after."
He left before Odd could respond, heading to his own quarters for a quick shower.
---
Twenty minutes later, Lucius emerged from his room freshly showered, wearing clean fighter gear. His hair was still slightly damp, but he'd toweled it enough that it wasn't dripping.
He made his way through the corridors toward the medical area, following the route all fighters were required to take before their matches. The path led deeper into the facility, toward the section where the fighter entrance tunnel connected to the main arena.
The medical area was more extensive than most fighters realized. Beyond the main checkup room, there were several private examination rooms, a small surgery for emergency procedures, recovery beds, and storage for medical supplies. The walls were the same reinforced concrete as the rest of the facility, but painted a sterile white that was supposed to be calming and only managed to be clinical.
Several medical staff moved through the area—nurses, a couple of doctors, technicians. Guards were stationed at key points, maintaining security.
Since this was the morning match block, only the fighters scheduled for today were present—Tact and Lucius for the current match, and the two fighters for the afternoon bout. Most fighters didn't bother watching matches unless they had a specific reason to, so the crowd was always rotating based on who was fighting when.
Lucius approached the main desk where a young nurse sat with a tablet, checking in fighters.
"Name and fighter number," she said automatically, not looking up.
"King. Fighter number—" Lucius provided his number.
The nurse tapped her screen, then nodded. "You're cleared for examination. Dr. Sacah will see you. Room three, down the hall on your left."
Lucius followed her directions, finding room three easily. The door was open, and he knocked on the frame before entering.
"Come in," a woman's voice called.
Lucius stepped inside.
The examination room was standard medical facility fare—examination table, cabinets with supplies, a sink, some basic diagnostic equipment. But his attention went immediately to the woman standing by the counter, reviewing something on a tablet.
Dr. Lois Sacah was around five-eight, with ginger hair pulled back in a practical ponytail that still managed to look elegant. She wore the standard white lab coat over professional attire, and glasses that framed intelligent, knowing eyes. Her features carried that particular kind of beauty that came from confidence and competence rather than just genetics—though she had plenty of the latter too. There was something almost maternal in her bearing, but with an edge of playful warmth that put people at ease.
She looked up when Lucius entered, and her expression shifted from professional neutrality to genuine interest.
"Well, well," she said, setting her tablet down. "If it isn't the mysterious King. I was wondering if you'd show up."
Most fighters were forgettable to Lois—just another face, another body to examine and clear for fighting. Occupational hazard of working in a place where people came through like cattle. But this one...
She remembered him from the initial medical screening. Hard not to, really. There was something about his presence that made him stand out, even when he was clearly trying not to. That face didn't help—the kind of looks that turned heads whether he wanted them to or not. But it was more than that. Something in the way he carried himself, the way he looked at people with those royal blue eyes that seemed to see more than they should.
"Dr. Sacah," Lucius acknowledged with a small nod.
"Please, call me Lois," she said, gesturing to the examination table. "Have a seat. Let's make sure you're in one piece before they throw you into the pit."
Lucius sat on the examination table, posture relaxed but somehow still maintaining that alert quality he always carried.
Lois approached with practiced efficiency, pulling on examination gloves. "So, your first match is coming up. How are you feeling? Nervous? Excited? Terrified?"
"Fine," Lucius said simply.
She smiled at that. "Fine. Of course. The strong, silent type." She placed her fingers on his wrist, checking his pulse. Her ability activated automatically—a heightened sensory perception that let her read biological information through touch, like having an internal diagnostic scanner. "Heart rate's calm. Actually, remarkably calm for someone about to fight in a tournament where people regularly die. Either you're very confident or very good at hiding fear."
"Maybe both," Lucius said, his tone making it impossible to tell if he was joking.
Lois checked his eyes with a small light, then his ears, working through the standard examination with professional efficiency. But the whole time, her ability fed her information—his physical condition was exceptional, muscle density beyond normal for his age even for a novabreed, hydration perfect, no signs of substance use or enhancement drugs. His biological markers were... interesting. Very interesting.
"Breathe in deeply," she instructed, placing her stethoscope against his back. He complied. "And out. Good. Again."
She moved through the rest of the examination—reflexes, joint mobility, checking for any injuries or conditions that might disqualify him. Everything came back perfect. Too perfect, almost.
"Well," Lois said, stepping back and removing her gloves, "you're in excellent condition. Honestly, some of the best I've seen come through here. Whatever training regimen you've been following, keep it up."
"Thanks," Lucius said.
She leaned against the counter, studying him with open curiosity now that the professional portion was complete. "You know, most fighters I examine are either bouncing off the walls with adrenaline or trying very hard not to throw up from nerves. But you... you're just sitting there like you're waiting for a bus. Aren't you even a little bit concerned?"
Lucius met her gaze, that flat expression giving nothing away. "Would being concerned help?"
"Probably not," Lois admitted. "But it would be normal."
"I'm not particularly normal."
She laughed at that—a warm, genuine sound. "No, I suppose you're not. Well, King, you're cleared for your match. Try not to get killed out there. It would be a waste."
"I'll do my best," Lucius said, standing.
As he headed for the door, Lois spoke again. "Hey, King?"
He paused, looking back.
Her expression had shifted to something more serious. "Be careful out there. I've seen a lot of fighters come through this facility. The ones who treat it like a game don't usually make it very far. But the ones who take it too seriously... they don't make it far either. You need to find the balance."
Lucius considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Noted."
He left the examination room and made his way to the designated waiting area. The corridor split here—one direction led to the blue corner waiting room, the other to the red corner. A guard checked his credentials and directed him to the blue corner room.
The room was small and sparse—a bench along one wall, a sink, a mirror, and nothing else. Designed for function, not comfort. This was where fighters waited for their names to be called, where they had their last moments of peace before stepping into potential death.
Lucius sat on the bench, leaning back against the wall. The sounds of the arena were muted here but still audible—the crowd noise, the occasional boom of impact, the commentators' voices rising and falling with the action.
In the quiet, Lucius closed his eyes.
His mind worked through scenarios, considering variables, preparing for multiple contingencies. He ran through Tact's likely approach, the man's psychology, how anger would affect his decision-making. The fight itself wouldn't be difficult—Tact was skilled, experienced, but predictable in the ways that came from overconfidence.
No abilities needed. Just skill, tactics, and the element of surprise that came from people constantly underestimating him.
A small smile ghosted across Lucius's face, gone almost before it appeared.
This was going to be easier than they thought.
---
Meanwhile, across the facility, Odd was making his way through the corridors with purpose. He'd changed into slightly more presentable clothes—still casual, but not the loungewear he'd been wearing when Lucius visited.
Finding Seung wasn't difficult. The man had claimed a semi-regular spot in the arena seating. He sat alone, tablet on his lap, reviewing betting options for upcoming matches.
"Seung," Odd said, approaching.
Seung looked up, recognition flickering across his face. "Odd, right? King's friend?"
"Yeah. Speaking of King, he asked me to pass you a message. About betting."
Seung's expression sharpened immediately, attention fully focused. "What's the message?"
Odd relayed Lucius's instructions exactly as they'd been given to him.
There was a long moment of silence.
Then Seung started laughing. Not a small chuckle, but genuine, slightly unhinged laughter that made Odd take a step back.
"That kid," Seung said when he'd caught his breath, shaking his head with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "There's something seriously wrong with him. You know that, right?"
"I'm starting to get that impression," Odd admitted. "But... you're going to do it? Place the bet like he said?"
Seung's laughter faded, replaced by calculation. His fingers drummed against his tablet. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm going to do it. Because even though it's insane, he's been right about everything so far. Every single prediction, every analysis. The kid sees things other people miss."
"He's different, that's for sure," Odd agreed.
"Different," Seung repeated with a snort. "That's one way to put it." He pulled up his betting interface, fingers already moving across the screen. "Alright, tell your friend I got his message. And tell him... tell him good luck. He's going to need it if he's planning what I think he's planning."
"I will," Odd said. "Thanks, Seung."
He headed back toward the arena proper, finding a seat where he could watch the upcoming match. His stomach was tight with nervousness—not for himself, but for Lucius. The kid had been good to him, looked out for him, and now he was about to step into that arena for the first time.
Odd had seen what happened to fighters in that pit. Seen the blood, the broken bones, the bodies carried out.
Please let him know what he's doing, Odd thought. Please let him be as good as he thinks he is.
---
Back in the blue corner waiting room, an announcement echoed through the space.
"Fighter King, report to entrance tunnel. Match beginning in two minutes."
Lucius stood, rolling his shoulders once to loosen them. His expression remained that same flat, unreadable mask.
He stepped out of the waiting room and into the entrance tunnel—a long corridor lit by harsh fluorescent lights, leading to the arena proper. The sounds of the crowd grew louder with each step, the energy of thousands of people baying for blood.
The arena opened before him—massive, circular, the sand pit in the center already stained from previous matches. The crowd filled the tiered seating, a sea of faces hungry for entertainment. The executive boxes loomed above, their occupants barely visible behind barriers and distance.
And standing in the arena already, warming up with casual stretches, was Tact.
When the older fighter saw who was entering from the opposite tunnel, his expression transformed. Surprise melted into savage satisfaction, a grin spreading across his face that promised pain.
"Must be my lucky day," Tact called across the arena, his voice carrying clearly. "They're letting me put you in your place officially. Hope you said your prayers, kid. Because you just made the biggest mistake of your life pissing me off."
The crowd's energy spiked, sensing the personal animosity between the fighters. This wasn't going to be a clinical match. This was going to be personal.
Lucius walked to his starting position, movements unhurried, expression unchanged. He didn't respond to Tact's words, didn't acknowledge the threat.
He just stood there, waiting, those royal blue eyes flat and cold as winter ice.
Above them, Jamal's voice boomed through the speakers.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! MATCH EIGHT OF ROUND ONE! This one's got some SPICE to it, folks! In the red corner, veteran fighter TACT, returning after four years away from the tournament! And in the blue corner, making his tournament DEBUT—the mysterious newcomer known only as KING!"
The crowd roared.
"Experience versus youth!" Haurang added. "Veteran skill against fresh blood! Let's see who comes out on top!"
The betting windows opened. Numbers flickered across the Jumbotron—odds heavily favoring Tact, the experienced fighter. First-timers rarely lasted long.
In the crowd, Seung placed his bet with trembling fingers, still not quite believing what he was doing.
In another section, Odd gripped the armrest of his seat, stomach churning.
In the arena, both fighters took their stances.
Tact's grin was feral, eager. He'd been waiting for this since the gym. Time to teach this disrespectful little bastard a lesson he'd never forget.
Lucius's expression remained unchanged. Flat. Empty. Waiting.
"Fighters ready!" Haurang called.
The entire Underground Tournament held its breath.
"BEGIN!"
TO BE CONTINUED