The corridor at 7:15 AM was quiet, most fighters still sleeping off previous matches or preparing for the day in their own ways.
Lucius made his way toward the mess hall, his pace unhurried, mind already running through the day's requirements.
Morrison appeared around the corner, doing his morning patrol route.
They made eye contact.
Morrison's expression was professional, distant. He gave a brief nod and continued past without slowing.
No conversation. No acknowledgment beyond basic courtesy.
Lucius noted the change. Morrison had been more approachable before—tired, uncomfortable with his environment, responsive to basic human interaction. Now he was locked down, focused elsewhere, deliberately avoiding engagement.
Something had changed. Either reassignment, warnings from superiors, or orders to limit contact with fighters.
Lucius continued toward the mess hall, filing away the observation.
---
The mess hall at 7:30 AM was more crowded than usual.
Lucius entered and immediately noticed the difference. More fighters than normal for this hour. Several who'd already been eliminated but were still hanging around—Liu Yan, Wu Dan, Lam Wing Yan, Reaper, Tim Young, Luc Shadow. All sitting at various tables, eating, talking quietly.
And at a corner table, sitting alone, was a woman in an immaculate black suit.
She stood out immediately. Not fighter attire. Not staff uniform. Professional, corporate, completely out of place in the Underground's utilitarian environment.
Late twenties, with sharp features and an air of competence that suggested rapid corporate advancement. Her dark hair was pulled back in a neat bun. Her posture perfectly straight—the kind of discipline that came from high-pressure work environments.
She had a tablet in front of her, occasionally making notes. Her eyes moved between the device and the fighters present, analytical and evaluating, cataloging with professional detachment.
Lucius made his way to the serving area where Big Mama was preparing breakfast.
"Morning," he said simply.
Big Mama was already in the middle of a complaint to one of her kitchen staff. "—and I'm telling you, these rats are getting WORSE! They're not just eating the food, they're destroying it! Tearing into supplies, spoiling everything they touch! It's like they're attacking it on purpose!"
The staff member nodded wearily. "Should I call the exterminators again?"
"Already did. They're coming back tonight. But at this rate, we're going to have to request an early resupply this month. Half our inventory is ruined!"
Lucius accepted his breakfast tray, processing the information.
If they're requesting resupply for the regular sections, they'll likely send supplies to the executive areas at the same time. Single shipment, more efficient.
He'd need to prepare. Get one of his remote scouts into position to slip into the executive-bound supplies when the shipment arrived.
But it all depended on when the auction was scheduled. That information was critical—and he'd find out today.
Big Mama noticed him glancing toward the woman in the suit.
"You curious too?" Big Mama asked, lowering her voice slightly.
"Who is she?"
"Apparently the District Head's daughter is looking for a new bodyguard. That woman there is her assistant—been assessing fighters since yesterday afternoon. That's why we've got so many of the eliminated ones still hanging around."
Lucius processed that. "Bodyguard for the District Head's daughter."
"I wouldn't recommend it, though." Big Mama shook her head. "Lord knows what happened to the last one."
"Not interested anyway."
"Smart. Nothing good comes from getting too close to people like that."
Lucius took his food and found a table with a clear view of the entrance corridors.
A few minutes later, Odd entered, spotted Lucius, and made his way over with his own breakfast.
"Morning," Odd said, sitting down. He glanced around. "There's way more people here than usual."
"Bodyguard recruitment apparently," Lucius replied. "The woman in the suit is assessing fighters for the District Head's daughter."
Odd looked over at her, then back at Lucius. "I mean, I need the money, but I don't think I could work for people like that. Lord knows what she's actually like."
"Probably worse than you're imagining."
They ate in silence for a moment.
"So what's the plan for today?" Odd asked. "My match is at 4 PM."
"Training first. Gym. Run through a few drills."
"Are you going to watch William versus Idris?"
"We'll swing by around 1 PM after we finish the drills. "
Odd nodded, absorbing the logic.
The mess hall's television screen switched to an announcement.
"ATTENTION ALL PERSONNEL AND FIGHTERS. Due to ongoing pest control concerns, security protocols in residential and common areas will be temporarily enhanced. Room inspections may occur. Cooperation is mandatory. Thank you."
The message repeated twice.
Odd frowned. "Enhanced security? What's that about?"
"Rats. They're trying to figure out how the infestation keeps happening despite exterminators."
That explains Morrison's behavior, Lucius thought. Guards have been told to tighten up, watch fighters more carefully, report unusual behavior.
"Makes sense," Odd said. "Though it's kind of annoying. More guards poking around."
"It won't last forever. Just increased vigilance."
They finished eating. Lucius stood.
"Come on. We've got work to do before your match."
---
Charlotte gathered her tablet and stood from the corner table.
She'd observed enough for now. Several promising candidates identified, notes compiled, assessments complete.
She made her way toward the exit, passing through corridors back toward the executive section checkpoint.
The time it took to navigate security, pass through gates, and reach the executive district proper was substantial—nearly thirty minutes of walking, verification, and transport.
---
The executive section gates slid open, revealing the district beyond.
The space was enormous—impossibly vast for something underground. The architecture struck an unusual balance: brutalist concrete and sustainable materials blended seamlessly with Mandarin design elements. Clean lines and efficient construction softened by curved rooflines, decorative lattice work, and traditional architectural flourishes.
It was a two-layered city. The upper level held residential buildings, commercial spaces, administrative centers—all arranged with careful urban planning. The lower level, visible through sections of transparent flooring and open courtyards, contained support infrastructure, additional housing, recreational facilities, maintenance systems.
No skyscrapers could fit given the ceiling constraints, but the buildings were substantial. Well-designed. Arranged along wide streets with actual trees and plants grown under specialized lighting systems. Water features created ambient sound, making the space feel alive despite being entirely artificial.
Civilian-looking people moved through the streets. Mostly women. Some sat in cafes, others shopped in storefronts, walked dogs, carried groceries. They looked normal, comfortable, like residents of any upscale district.
But the undercurrent was visible if you knew where to look. The way some moved—too carefully, too aware of their surroundings. The haunted quality behind certain smiles. Most were here because they had no choice. Entertainers, service workers, companions. The dark economy of the Underground dressed in civilized clothing.
Guards were stationed throughout at strategic points. Elite security, better equipped and trained than the fighter section personnel, always watching with professional detachment.
And at the entrance, flanking the massive gates, stood two death machines.
Autonomous combat robots. Eight feet tall, humanoid shape but clearly mechanical. Matte black armor plating, glowing red optical sensors that tracked movement with unsettling precision. Weapons systems integrated into arms and torso—retractable, ready to deploy instantly. They stood motionless but vigilant, running constant threat assessment protocols.
Charlotte had witnessed them activate once during a security drill. The efficiency had been terrifying.
She walked past them without hesitation, her credentials granting automatic clearance.
Hidden turrets lined the district—stored in wall compartments and building facades, ready to extend and fire if threat protocols activated. Camera coverage was total, monitoring every angle, every corner. No blind spots existed here.
This wasn't just a residential area. It was a fortress disguised as a city.
Charlotte raised her wrist, activating her watch interface. She requested transport.
A sleek vehicle arrived within seconds. Not a regular cab—one of the Underground's autonomous luxury transports. Smooth aerodynamic curves, tinted windows, silent electric propulsion. The door opened automatically.
She stepped inside, and the vehicle glided through district streets with perfect precision, navigating traffic seamlessly.
Five minutes later it stopped before a large building near the district center. Modern architecture, multiple floors, heavy security presence at every entrance.
Charlotte exited and entered the building.
More checkpoints. Biometric scanners. Credential verification at each stage. Her clearance level granted passage where most would be denied.
An elevator carried her up several floors. The doors opened to a private corridor with only three entrances, each leading to exclusive spaces reserved for high-level personnel.
She approached the middle door. Final scan. Final verification.
The door slid open silently.
Beyond was the hidden executives viewing section.
The space commanded attention immediately. Designed for comfort, power, and unobstructed observation. The far wall wasn't truly a wall—instead, an enormous display showed the tournament arena from multiple angles simultaneously. The technology allowed focusing on specific fighters, zooming to different sections, displaying various feeds. Image quality was flawless, the interface intuitive.
Seating wasn't traditional theater-style. The room contained several private booth areas—semi-enclosed spaces with high-backed chairs, small tables, privacy screens that could activate for complete isolation. Each booth offered excellent viewing while maintaining separation from other occupants.
Only a few were occupied currently. Shadowy figures, executives whose features were deliberately obscured by lighting and positioning. Some had assistants. Others sat alone, watching in silence.
Near the exit along the right wall stood a full bar. Professional staff in crisp uniforms moved quietly, taking orders, delivering drinks, maintaining an atmosphere of refined observation.
Charlotte made her way toward a booth on the left side.
A woman sat there, posture suggesting youth and confidence despite features being partially hidden by shadow and the booth's design.
"Young miss," Charlotte said, approaching.
The woman glanced over. "Charlotte. Did you finish your assessment?"
"Yes. I observed the remaining fighters and compiled detailed evaluations on potential candidates."
The woman—Hannah—sighed with obvious annoyance. "Do I really need another bodyguard? I'm more than capable of protecting myself."
"Your father insists," Charlotte replied patiently. "And it's best for you not to go around using your abilities. You know his position on that."
Hannah leaned back, frustrated but not arguing further. "Fine. We can discuss it after the matches. I want to see what these fighters can actually do first."
"Why not simply make the tournament winner your bodyguard?" Hannah suggested. "Adam Mavrick has won three years consecutively. Statistical analysis indicates he's most likely to win again."
"That's predictable," Charlotte dismissed. "Besides, not to mention he's aready working for us. And i doubt hell he interested, he seems to only care about getting stronger."
"However several other promising candidates remain," Charlotte continued, accessing her tablet. "I've compiled comprehensive assessments—skill analysis, psychological profiles, combat methodology. Any could serve adequately."
"After the matches," Hannah repeated, attention returning to the display. "Let me see how the tournament develops."
Charlotte nodded and took a seat nearby, tablet ready.
The display shifted as arena preparation began for the first fight.
---
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jamal's voice exploded through speakers. "Welcome to ROUND THREE! We're down to EIGHT fighters! Every match from here is DO OR DIE!"
"Round 3, Fight 1," Haurang added professionally. "William Walker versus Idris A. Hamza. Two contrasting combat philosophies about to collide."
The display showed both fighters entering from opposite sides.
William Walker emerged from the blue entrance—athletic build, powerful legs, professional runner's physique. Movements controlled and confident. Eyes focused and sharp.
Idris A. Hamza entered from red—lean build, approximately five-foot-seven, trained but not bulky. Expression calm and analytical.
Hannah leaned forward slightly. "Tell me about these two."
Charlotte accessed files. "William Walker. Former Olympic sprinter. Career destroyed by false doping accusations. Seeking vindication through tournament success. Previous matches demonstrated exceptional speed and spatial awareness."
"The other?"
"Idris A. Hamza. East African. Limited public background. Tournament performance solid—defeated two opponents through strategic fighting and endurance. Known for effective defensive capabilities."
Both fighters reached positions.
"BETTING IS OPEN! Sixty seconds!"
Throughout the arena and executives section, betting interfaces activated.
Hannah placed a casual bet on William without much consideration. Charlotte abstained—her role was assessment, not gambling.
Timer countdown.
:10 :05 :03 :01
"BETTING CLOSED!"
Odds appeared: WILLIAM 44%, IDRIS 56%.
"Interesting," Hannah murmured. "Crowd favors the underdog."
"BEGIN!"
Idris moved immediately.
He brought both palms together before his chest, fingers interlaced. Slowly, deliberately, he twisted hands apart while separating them.
Wind erupted between his palms—visible air distortion growing stronger as hands moved. Pressure built, concentrated, taking physical shape.
A staff materialized. Initially like compressed air forming semi-solid structure, but as Idris completed the motion, wind condensed into something tangible—a six-foot staff appearing almost crystalline, constructed from tightly compressed wind currents.
He spun it experimentally, testing weight and balance, then fixed his stance. Staff pointed directly at William, held in both hands.
Waiting.
"What is that?" Hannah asked, genuinely surprised.
Charlotte was analyzing already. "Wind manipulation. Creating physical construct from compressed air. Quite unusual."
William bounced on his feet, loosening up, stretching legs. Expression showed focus, calculation.
Then—BOOM!
He exploded forward.
Speed was staggering. One moment stationary, next covering twenty feet in motion blur.
Came in low, targeting Idris's abdomen with devastating strike.
But Idris's staff was already moving—swinging down from above in perfectly timed arc aimed at William's head.
William weaved sideways mid-sprint, momentum carrying him past initial target. Adjusted instantly, redirecting attack toward Idris's lower ribs.
Idris slammed staff into ground.
WHOOM!
Wind exploded outward from impact point—concussive blast launching William backward, feet leaving sand.
William flipped mid-air, landed in crouch twenty feet away, barely fazed.
From dust cloud created by wind blast, something flew toward him.
The staff—thrown like javelin, spinning end-over-end with tremendous force.
William dove sideways. Staff missed by inches, embedding in sand behind him.
Rolled, came up running, instantly closed distance.
But Idris was already moving. Palms together, another staff forming—faster this time, motion practiced and smooth.
William reached him before staff fully solidified.
Rapid combination—low kick to destabilize, following with strikes aimed at midsection.
Idris backstepped, half-formed staff completing just in time to block incoming strikes. Impact sounded wrong—like hitting compressed air rather than solid wood—but held firm.
They separated.
"He can create multiple constructs," Charlotte observed, making notes.
Fight continued, both fighters assessing each other.
William's speed was primary weapon. Blurred forward, landed combinations, created openings, disengaged before Idris could counter effectively.
But Idris's staff provided reach and defensive capability. Every time William closed distance, staff intercepted—blocking, redirecting, creating space with wind blasts.
Two minutes elapsed, pattern shifted.
William went low again, but didn't commit to single attack. Instead used the arena itself.
Powerful legs launched him toward electromagnetic barrier wall. Moment before impact, twisted, planting feet against barrier surface, pushed off.
Angle impossible for most fighters—but William's leg strength made it work.
Came at Idris from side, completely bypassing his staff's defensive positioning.
Kick caught Idris's ribs with pile-driver force.
Idris gasped, stumbled, tried creating distance.
William didn't allow space. Bounced off another barrier wall—using arena dimensions as three-dimensional fighting space—approached Idris from different unexpected angle.
"Creative tactics," Hannah admitted. "Using barriers as launch points."
Idris was defensive now, staff barely keeping pace with William's multi-directional assault. Every defensive position William circumvented by launching from alternate angle.
Kick to shoulder. Strike to knee. Another hit to ribs.
Idris sustained damage, breathing labored.
Then—without warning—dropped staff.
Hands came together, pressed against own chest.
Released.
FLASH!
Blinding white light exploded from Idris's body in all directions—like flashbang detonating point-blank.
Entire arena illuminated. William, mid-leap toward Idris, caught full force directly in eyes.
Crashed into sand, hands going to face, momentarily blinded.
"HOLY SHIT!" Jamal screamed. "DID YOU SEE THAT?! Idris just turned himself into a FLASHBANG!"
Idris didn't waste opportunity.
Created another staff—seconds only—advanced on disoriented William.
Staff came down in brutal, efficient strikes. William tried defending blind, other senses compensating, but Idris had advantage now.
Strike to shoulder. Another to thigh. Third catching William across ribs.
William rolled away, creating distance, blinking rapidly to clear vision.
Idris pressed forward, staff spinning in complex patterns, landing hits whenever William's guard dropped.
Thirty seconds brutal assault. William bleeding from multiple impacts, movements slower, more defensive.
But vision was returning. Blurred initially, then clearing.
Expression shifted.
No more testing. No more caution.
William exploded forward again—but with desperate aggression this time. Speed somehow faster than before, strikes carrying more power.
Closed distance despite staff, taking hit to reach Idris, delivered devastating combination to midsection.
Idris gasped, tried countering, but William was already moving.
Bounced off barrier wall again—vision still partially compromised, operating more on instinct than sight—came at Idris from above.
Knee drove into Idris's chest with tremendous force.
Idris collapsed backward, staff falling from grip, gasping for air.
William landed, stumbled—vision still not fully clear—but stayed upright.
Idris tried standing, tried creating another staff, hands shaking, breathing too disrupted.
William advanced slowly, deliberately. Eyes bloodshot, tears streaming from flashbang effects, but could see adequately now.
One more exchange.
William's kick caught Idris's head.
Idris dropped, unconscious before hitting sand.
"WINNER—WILLIAM WALKER!"
Crowd erupted.
Hannah sat back, genuinely impressed. "Fought through being blinded. Respectable determination."
Charlotte made notes. "Exceptional resilience. High pain tolerance. Creative environmental usage. Viable candidate."
"Maybe," Hannah said noncommittally. "Let's see who else shows promise."
Medical personnel rushed in, treating both fighters—William for eyes and sustained impacts, Idris for combination exhaustion and head trauma.
Display shifted as crews prepared for next match.
---
Hours passed. Charlotte continued compiling assessments. Hannah ordered drinks, made several comments demonstrating surprising technical knowledge.
At 3:55 PM, arena prepared for Fight 2.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jamal's voice boomed. "Time for Fight TWO of Round Three! This one's gonna be INTERESTING!"
"King versus Iron Clad Wang," Haurang announced. "The mysterious analytical fighter against veteran commander monk."
Hannah reached for her fourth drink when display showed fighter introductions.
"In the blue corner—the enigmatic King!"
Blue entrance opened.
A young man emerged—late teens, early twenties maximum. Combat wear—functional black pants, simple gray shirt, boots designed for movement. Bandaged left arm carefully wrapped. Royal blue eyes scanning arena with analytical precision.
Walked toward position with fluid confidence, expression neutral, revealing nothing.
Hannah had just taken sip of her drink.
Immediately spit it out, coughing, eyes going wide.
"Young miss?!" Charlotte stood quickly, concerned.
Hannah stared at display, at young fighter moving into position, expression shifting rapidly through shock, confusion, something else.
"That's..." Couldn't finish sentence.
"You know him?" Charlotte asked quietly.
"I..." Hannah's composure cracked completely. "How is he here? Why is he—"
Cut herself off, seemingly remembering location. Other executives in nearby booths glanced over at commotion.
Hannah forced calm, sitting back, wiping spilled drink from suit.
But eyes never left display.
Never left King.
"And in the red corner," Haurang continued, "the warrior monk seeking peace through one final tournament—IRON CLAD WANG!"
Iron Clad entered—impressive figure commanding immediate respect. Six feet four inches tall, broad shoulders, thick arms. Build suggesting decades conditioning body as weapon and fortress. Shaved head, weathered but composed face, red eyes holding depth of experience.
Wore simple black baggy pants, loose gray martial arts shirt. No adornments, no ceremony. Pure function.
But expression was wrong.
Serene focus defining previous matches absent. Instead showed reluctance. Distress. Like didn't want being here at all.
Reached position, settled into defensive stance—but heart clearly not in it.
"BETTING IS OPEN! Sixty seconds!"
Throughout arena and executives section, betting interfaces activated.
Hannah didn't place bet. Just stared at display, at King, mind racing.
Timer countdown.
:10 :05 :03 :01
"BETTING CLOSED!"
Odds appeared: IRON CLAD WANG 67%, KING 33%.
"BEGIN!"
Both fighters moved into ready positions.
---
To Be Continued