Adam was now one hundred percent serious.
The electricity around him crackled with renewed intensity, arcing across his body in chaotic patterns. His eyes showed absolute focus. No more testing. No more evaluation.
This was full power.
Lucius settled into a wide stance—right leg extended forward, left arm held back near his hip, right hand raised with fingers beckoning Adam forward in a clear challenge.
Bring it on.
Adam didn't hesitate.
He vanished.
One moment standing fifteen feet away, the next appearing directly in front of Lucius. His hand had formed into a claw shape, fingers rigid, electricity crackling around them like razors.
The downward slash came with devastating speed and force, aimed to shred Lucius in half.
But Lucius's left hand shot out.
Caught Adam's descending wrist mid-strike.
The weight behind Adam's attack was immense. The sand beneath Lucius's feet exploded outward in a crater, his legs sinking into the floor several inches as he absorbed and redirected the force.
But he held it.
And in the same instant, Lucius's right hand moved.
Five strikes delivered with such blinding speed they appeared as one single attack. His knuckles found Adam's solar plexus, the soft tissue beneath his jaw, his sternum, the muscles between his ribs, each impact precise and devastating.
Then Lucius pulled back his fist mere inches and drove it forward again.
The short-range strike hit Adam's center mass with concentrated force that seemed to compress his entire torso.
Adam staggered backward, air exploding from his lungs, his eyes going wide.
Lucius dashed forward immediately, closing the gap before Adam could recover.
But Adam regained his footing faster than expected. His left hand clawed into the ground, scooping up sand and dirt, and flung it directly at Lucius's face while simultaneously sidestepping and throwing a devastating haymaker with his right.
Lucius twisted and turned, avoiding the blinding debris. He got in close, matching Adam's direction of movement, and used the larger man's own momentum against him. His hands found Adam's arm and shoulder, redirecting the force while stepping through Adam's stance.
Adam's body lifted off the ground, rotated through the air, and crashed down hard.
But Lucius didn't stop.
He rushed forward while Adam was still on the ground, driving his fist down toward Adam's face with killing intent—
Adam immediately started rolling.
A tactical log roll, moving his entire body in a tight rotation to evade the strike.
Lucius's fist hit empty sand with tremendous force. BOOM. The impact created a crater.
He followed, throwing another punch. Adam kept rolling. Another miss. Another crater in the sand.
Lucius pursued relentlessly, each strike missing by inches as Adam maintained his defensive rotation, risking distance to avoid the devastating ground strikes.
Each blow that hit the arena floor sent sand exploding outward and left deep impressions in the packed surface.
Adam finally gained enough distance and started to get up—
But Lucius was already moving around his left side.
Before Adam could even fully get to his knees, Lucius came in with a direct knee strike to his face.
THUD.
The impact sent Adam tumbling sideways, blood spraying from his nose.
Lucius was already airborne, coming down with a fully extended leg aimed at Adam's head like a falling axe—
But Adam, still caught in his lateral momentum, transitioned his roll into an explosive upward movement. His legs swept in an arc that acted as both shield and spring, his body uncoiling from the ground with tremendous force.
He bypassed the descending strike by centimeters.
Lucius's heel slammed into the sand where Adam had been a heartbeat before. The impact jarred his balance for a fraction of a second—the vulnerable moment after a heavy missed attack.
Adam didn't waste it.
Having regained his feet in one fluid motion, he drove upward with a savage uppercut.
The strike caught Lucius completely off-guard.
His head snapped back violently. Stars exploded across his vision. Blood filled his mouth.
"THERE IT IS!" Jamal's voice carried genuine excitement. "Adam connects! Clean uppercut! That's the first real damage King's taken!"
"Momentum shift," Haurang observed. "King's been controlling the pace, but Adam just proved he can still hit back hard."
Rage flared in Adam's eyes. The fact that his physical strikes weren't ending this—that this fighter kept getting back up, kept countering, kept dominating despite Adam's superior power—it was infuriating.
He roared and swung his fist with his full electrical output loaded behind it.
A killing blow aimed at Lucius's head.
Lucius ducked.
Adam's electrified fist slammed directly into the electromagnetic barrier wall.
The impact was cataclysmic.
A massive discharge of blue light arced across the entire arena. The barrier flickered violently—then sections of it actually shut down completely. The electromagnetic field in a ten-foot radius around the impact point disappeared entirely, the machinery unable to handle the voltage overload.
Emergency systems kicked in immediately. Warning lights activated. The disabled section began its reboot sequence.
The crowd in the front rows screamed, scrambling away from the temporarily-disabled barrier as sparks showered down like rain.
Within three seconds, the barrier section flickered back to life, the electromagnetic field re-establishing itself with a deep hum.
But those three seconds had been enough to send panic through the spectators.
"JESUS CHRIST!" Jamal shouted. "The barrier actually shut down! That discharge was powerful enough to disable the containment field!"
Adam pulled his hand back, electricity still crackling around his knuckles—
But Lucius didn't allow any recovery time.
Despite the heavy uppercut that had just whipped his head backward, despite blood running from his split lip, he pulled himself back into the fight.
Both hands came up and grabbed Adam's head.
Then he drove his own forehead into Adam's skull.
CRACK.
Headbutt. Once.
He pulled back and did it again.
CRACK.
Twice.
And once more.
CRACK.
Three times, each impact rattling both their brains.
Then Lucius drove his knee into Adam's abdomen with devastating force—
Adam caught the knee.
His hands locked around Lucius's leg, stopping the strike. He pushed back hard, forcing Lucius's knee away while simultaneously breaking free of Lucius's grip on his head.
They separated, both breathing hard, both damaged.
Adam stood five feet away, staring at Lucius with something approaching disbelief.
His electricity had barely any effect. Even direct contact when Adam was in this enhanced state—contact that should electrocute a regular human being into unconsciousness—seemed to do minimal damage. Sure, he'd already established that King was strong, exceptionally skilled, far beyond normal fighters.
But it was as though his abilities had almost no impact at all.
Lucius stood there, looking directly at Adam with eyes that were dead cold. No emotion. No fear. Just absolute focus.
He exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the electrically-charged air.
Then he took a stance.
His posture settled into a deep, immovable position—legs wide, center of gravity low, perfectly balanced. His lead hand was open, fingers curved, while his rear hand rested near his hip. The stance radiated complete stillness, like a statue carved from stone.
The sudden lack of movement was more terrifying than all his previous attacks.
Adam felt the psychological weight of those dead eyes. Felt the presence of someone who was utterly, completely comfortable with violence and death.
He began to circle.
His speed increased gradually, accelerating until he was nothing more than a blur of blue lightning. A flickering ring of high-voltage kinetic energy moving at near-supersonic speeds around Lucius's position.
He was looking for a blind spot. An opening. Any vulnerability in that perfect defensive stance.
But Lucius's head didn't move. He wasn't tracking with his eyes. He was sensing the subtle shifts in air pressure, the minute changes in electrical field, the patterns in Adam's movement.
Adam finally committed.
A bolt of electricity-fueled speed, aiming for Lucius's blind side from behind and to the left.
But as he entered the five-foot radius around Lucius, the stance shifted.
Lucius simply pivoted on a single heel, his body rotating with minimal movement to face Adam's incoming attack.
His hand shot out, catching Adam's forearm with a sharp slapping block that redirected the force. The electricity grounded harmlessly against Lucius's skin.
Before Adam could even register the contact, Lucius's other hand moved.
A blur of straight-line strikes launched from his centerline. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Each punch faster than the last, each one using Adam's own momentum to increase the impact force.
Each strike drove Adam backward, unable to escape, unable to counter.
Every time Adam tried to move away or dodge, Lucius's hands found him. Grabbed his arm. Pulled him back into range. Struck again.
The combination was relentless—punches, kicks, elbows, knees, a flowing mixture of techniques that gave Adam no room to breathe, no space to use his speed, no opportunity to create distance.
They moved across the entire arena floor.
Lucius drove Adam backward step by step, strike by strike, a systematic dismantling that didn't allow any escape.
It wasn't until Adam's back touched the barrier wall that he realized what had happened.
This fighter had cornered him. Had controlled the entire exchange. Had dictated every movement. Hadn't allowed him to get away.
Adam was strong. Tough. Decades of combat experience. Three-time tournament champion.
But the damage was accumulating.
Bruises across his ribs. Cuts on his face. Blood running from his nose and mouth. His breathing was labored. His movements were slowing.
And the barrage was still ongoing.
Strike after strike, precise and devastating, targeting weak points, breaking down his defense piece by piece.
"This is unbelievable," Haurang said quietly. "Adam Mavrick—three-time champion, one of the most dominant fighters in tournament history—is being systematically dismantled."
Adam had no choice.
He hadn't been forced to use this technique in years. The last time was during his second championship, against a fighter who'd nearly killed him. He'd sworn not to rely on it again because of the cost.
But this kid had pushed him to it.
Adam concentrated, drawing every ounce of electrical power his body could generate into his core.
Then released it all at once.
A massive electrical discharge exploded outward from his body in all directions. A sphere of pure voltage expanding with tremendous force, designed to obliterate anything within ten feet.
The barrier wall behind him flickered violently from the proximity to the discharge, sections temporarily disabling before rebooting.
Lucius, caught at point-blank range against the barrier, was launched backward.
His body flew through the air like a ragdoll, propelled by the explosion. He crossed the entire width of the arena—forty feet, fifty feet, sixty feet—before crashing into the opposite barrier wall.
BOOM.
His back hit the electromagnetic field with devastating force. The impact drove the air from his lungs, sent pain screaming through his already-damaged ribs, rattled his brain inside his skull.
He slumped to the sand, sitting against the barrier, blood running from the corner of his mouth.
Adam stood on the opposite side of the arena, hands on the ground, almost dropping to his knees. The discharge had exhausted him. His electricity was completely gone—the crackling energy that had covered his body throughout the fight had disappeared entirely.
That was why he hated using this move. It forced his abilities into cooldown. Left him vulnerable. Drained.
But he'd needed the space. Needed the breathing room.
He pushed himself to stand upright, breathing hard, and looked across the arena at Lucius.
For a moment, he felt relief. Almost let out a sigh.
But the relief didn't last long.
Lucius simply got up.
He stood slowly, one hand braced against the barrier wall for support. Then straightened completely.
He spat blood onto the sand. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Dusted himself off as if the explosion had been a minor inconvenience.
He was damaged. The electrical discharge had burned his skin in places. The impact against the barrier had clearly hurt. Blood ran from multiple cuts. His breathing was labored.
But he was standing.
He cracked his neck. First one side, then the other. The sound echoed across the quiet arena.
Then cracked his knuckles methodically. Right hand. Left hand.
He looked across the arena at Adam directly.
It was not over.
Lucius started walking toward him.
Not rushing. Not charging. Just walking. Steady. Inevitable. Like death itself approaching with measured steps.
Adam's jaw clenched.
He proceeded to do the same. Started walking forward, matching Lucius's pace.
They met at the center of the arena.
Stood face to face for one heartbeat.
Then both threw punches simultaneously.
Adam's left met Lucius's right. The collision sounded like a gunshot. The forces canceled each other out perfectly.
Again. Left. Right. Right. Left.
Each attack meeting its opposite. Each strike neutralizing the other. Pure technique against pure power, perfectly matched.
"They're evenly matched," Haurang observed. "No abilities. No advantages. Just raw fighting skill."
That equilibrium lasted for eight exchanges.
Then Lucius utilized a street-fighting maneuver—stepped down hard on Adam's lead foot with his left leg, anchoring Adam in place. Preventing him from dashing away or creating distance.
His left hand shot out and grabbed Adam's collar.
Adam already knew what was about to happen.
He didn't hesitate to grab Lucius's shirt and pull him in close.
What followed was no longer a martial arts display.
This was a phone booth brawl. A savage slugfest. An iron-jawed test of attrition to see whose will would break first.
They traded blow for blow at point-blank range. Hooks, uppercuts, straight punches, elbows. An unrelenting flurry of violence with nowhere to retreat, no room for technique, just pure brutality.
Lucius's lefts and rights rained down. Adam countered with desperate, powerful hooks.
Blood sprayed from both men's faces with each impact. Their features began to swell and distort. Eyes puffing up. Lips splitting. Noses streaming crimson.
The sand beneath them became dark and slick with their combined blood.
"This is insane," Jamal said, his voice carrying something like awe. "They're just standing there destroying each other. No defense. Just pure offense."
"Whoever's chin gives out first loses," Haurang added. "This is a war of attrition now."
The Jumbotron suddenly activated.
The yes/no wheel appeared, spinning rapidly.
The crowd barely noticed, too focused on the brutal exchange happening in front of them.
The wheel slowed. Stopped.
NO DROP.
The Jumbotron display faded.
No interruption. No gimmick. Just two fighters trying to beat each other unconscious.
The slugfest continued.
One minute. Two minutes. Three minutes.
Neither man gave an inch. Neither man backed away. Neither man showed any sign of quitting.
Despite his imposing physique and superior power, Adam was taking the worse end of the damage. His movements were slowing incrementally. His counters were becoming less coordinated. His legs were starting to betray him.
Lucius's granite chin held firm. His technique remained precise even through exhaustion and pain. His strikes continued finding their targets with mechanical consistency.
Five minutes. Six minutes. Seven minutes.
The crowd had gone completely silent, watching something that transcended normal fighting. This was two human beings pushing past every physical and mental limit, refusing to acknowledge pain or exhaustion or reason.
Eight minutes of non-stop punishment.
Then Adam's legs finally gave out.
He staggered backward, his stance collapsing. He fell, his back hitting the blood-soaked sand. His arms came up instinctively, forming a high guard to protect his head.
But he was down. And Lucius was still standing.
Lucius was already moving.
He dropped down, mounting Adam instantly. Securing the dominant position. His knees pinned Adam's arms partially, limiting defensive options.
Then he unleashed a torrent of ground-and-pound.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Hook after hook. Each blow rattling Adam's skull. Each impact sending blood splattering across the sand. The arena floor beneath them compressed from the repeated force.
Adam's guard was up but weakening. His arms were getting heavier. His vision was blurring.
In the haze of semi-consciousness, a memory surfaced.
He was six years old. Small for his age. Weak.
The other children mocked him relentlessly. Called him pathetic. Pushed him around. Even the adults looked at him with dismissal in their eyes.
"You'll never be strong, Adam. Accept it."
But he didn't accept it.
He trained. Alone. Obsessively. Every day. Pushing his body past its limits. Building strength when others said he never would. Developing speed when they said he was too slow. Becoming powerful when the world had written him off.
The desire to be the strongest had been born then. In that childhood humiliation. In that burning need to prove everyone wrong.
He grew. He fought. He killed.
Seventeen years old, standing in a military barracks. A superior officer handing him his first real assignment—eliminate a high-value target. Prove yourself.
The fear he'd felt then. The uncertainty. Would he be able to kill? Could he do what needed to be done?
He'd done it. And then done it again. And again. Each kill easier than the last. Each death meaning less.
But the desire for strength never faded. He kept training. Kept pushing. Kept searching for someone who could challenge him. Someone who could push him beyond his limits the way he'd pushed himself as a child.
That's why he entered the tournaments. Not for money. Not for fame. To find worthy opponents. To test himself against the best. To see if anyone could break him the way he'd been breaking others.
First championship. Systematic destruction of every opponent. The validation. The proof that all that childhood training had meant something.
Second championship. Third championship. Never losing. Never defeated. Becoming a legend.
Big Boys had recruited him. Made him an enforcer. But that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was the fight. The challenge. The constant search for someone strong enough to truly test him.
And now...
Now he was here. On his back. Nearly unconscious. Dominated completely by someone who'd pushed him further than anyone had in years.
'Is this it?' The thought was distant, disconnected. 'Finally found someone who could break me... and he probably won't even finish it?'
Lucius continued the assault.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Adam's eyes were fluttering now. Consciousness fading. His arms had dropped slightly. His guard was failing.
Nearly unconscious. Almost gone.
The crowd held its collective breath.
Lucius pulled his left arm back.
Loading every remaining ounce of strength into one final, devastating punch. The kind of strike that would crater Adam's skull. That would end the fight completely. That would kill.
The crowd anticipated the skull-crushing impact.
Lucius's fist came down—
And drove into the sand beside Adam's temple.
BOOM.
The sand exploded outward. A deep crater formed. Debris scattered.
But Adam's head was untouched.
Lucius stood.
He climbed off Adam's nearly-unconscious form. Rose to his full height. His chest heaved with exhaustion. Blood covered his face and torso. His ribs screamed with every breath. His knuckles were shredded and bleeding.
He stood there for a moment, looking down at Adam's broken form.
Adam's eyes were half-open, barely aware. His face was a mess of blood and swelling. His breathing was shallow and ragged.
But alive.
Lucius took a breath.
Deep. Controlled. Despite the pain. Despite the exhaustion.
Then spoke clearly enough for everyone to hear:
"I forfeit."
The arena went dead silent.
For three full seconds, nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Nobody even breathed.
Then the noise exploded.
"WHAT?!" Jamal's voice cracked completely. "DID HE JUST—DID KING JUST FORFEIT?!"
"He..." Haurang sounded genuinely stunned. "He dominated the entire fight. Had Adam nearly unconscious. One more punch would've ended it. And he forfeited."
The crowd was chaos—confusion, disbelief, outrage, appreciation, nobody quite knowing how to process what they'd just witnessed.
Malik Hayes appeared at the arena's edge, flanked by other officials. His expression showed the same confusion everyone else felt.
"King," his gravelly voice carried across the pit. "Are you certain? Do you understand what—"
Lucius didn't respond verbally.
He simply walked to the nearest barrier wall and sat down, his back against the electromagnetic field. His movements were careful, his body clearly damaged. Blood dripped from his chin onto his chest.
He sat there, breathing controlled, eyes closed.
The officials looked at each other. Consulted briefly.
Then Malik's voice rang out officially: "By forfeit... the winner is ADAM MAVRICK!"
The crowd's noise intensified—some cheering for Adam's victory, others protesting the forfeit, most just trying to understand what had happened.
Medical personnel rushed onto the arena floor immediately.
One team headed straight for Adam. He was still on his back, eyes fluttering, barely conscious. They assessed quickly—severe facial trauma, possible concussion, internal injuries likely, but stable enough to move.
They loaded him onto a stretcher carefully. His eyes opened slightly as they lifted him, awareness returning fractionally. He tried to speak but only managed a weak sound. They secured him and began transport toward medical.
Another team approached Lucius.
"Can you stand?" one of them asked.
Lucius opened his eyes, nodded once, and stood without assistance. His movements were stiff, painful, but functional.
They flanked him, providing support he didn't refuse, and began escorting him toward the exit.
As they passed through the arena, the crowd's noise gradually faded behind them.
---
Medical Area - 7:30 PM
Lucius sat alone in a recovery room.
The treatment had taken an hour. Dr. Lois's team had worked efficiently—cleaned and bandaged the facial lacerations, wrapped his damaged ribs, treated the electrical burns on his back and arms, administered pain medication he'd initially refused but eventually accepted.
Now he sat on the edge of the medical bed, shirtless, his torso wrapped in compression bandages. His face was a mess of bruises and cuts, one eye partially swollen, lip split in two places. His knuckles were heavily bandaged from the repeated impacts against Adam's skull and the sand.
But he was functional. Would heal.
He stared at the wall across from him, thinking.
The forfeit had served multiple purposes.
First, he'd kept his word to Adam. The promise made during the killing intent moment. Let him live, and I forfeit. A promise kept carried weight.
Second, someone had orchestrated his entry into this tournament. Had manipulated events to get him here. Lucius had felt that presence watching throughout. Forfeiting after dominating the finals was something they wouldn't expect. A deviation from whatever plan they'd constructed.
Third, winning came with complications. The champion got recruited into the Big Boys organization—direct integration into their structure, constant oversight, loss of autonomy. He already had Mike Ross's attention. That executive would likely approach him anyway, seeing his capabilities. But as the runner-up, Lucius could decline, could disappear, could maintain his freedom to operate.
And fourth—the mission. He'd already acquired what he'd come for. The information about the boy. The auction date. The intelligence needed for the next phase. The tournament itself was no longer relevant to his objectives, sure infiltrating the bigboys could prove useful in the long run but it wasent worth the complications it'll bring.
'Tournament wraps up in a few days. Then I can leave. Disappear back into whatever life they think I have. Regroup at Green Gate. Plan the next move.'
The fight had revealed more than he'd wanted. Had pushed him closer to his limits than was comfortable, well pysically at the very least. Had shown capabilities that would make people ask questions.
But he'd maintained the fundamental lie. Hadn't used hydrokinesis. Hadn't shown his true power.
The door opened.
Dr. Lois Sacah entered, tablet in hand. She looked exhausted—managing two critically injured fighters in one day had clearly taken its toll.
"How are you feeling?" she asked, moving to check his vitals display.
"Sore. Functional."
"That's an understatement." She reviewed the readings. "Three cracked ribs, severe facial trauma, second-degree electrical burns, shredded knuckles. You're going to be recovering for weeks."
"I'll manage."
She sat down in the chair across from him, setting the tablet aside. "Adam's in intensive care. Severe concussion, broken nose, fractured orbital bone, internal bleeding we're still monitoring. He'll survive, but recovery will be extensive." She paused. "You could've killed him. That last punch would've done it."
"I know."
"But you didn't. Then you forfeited after dominating the entire fight." Dr. Lois studied his expression. "I've been working this here for a long time . Seen a lot of fighters. A lot of violence. Never seen anyone do what you did today."
Lucius didn't respond immediately.
"The killing intent during Odd's match," she continued. "The way you dismantled Plague. The forfeit after beating Adam. You're operating by a completely different set of rules than anyone else here."
"Maybe."
"Definitely." She leaned back slightly. "I won't pretend to understand what drives you. Won't ask questions I know you won't answer. But I've been covering you since you entered this tournament. Treated your injuries, watched your fights, seen how you interact with people like Odd." Her tone softened slightly. "You're not like the others. You actually care. Even when you pretend not to."
Lucius met her eyes. "Caring doesn't change the reality of this place."
"No. But it changes how you operate within it." She picked up her tablet again. "You're cleared medically. Tournament formalities wrap up in a few days—closing ceremonies, prize distributions, final paperwork. After that, you're free to return to whatever life you had before this."
She stood, preparing to note his discharge status.
Lucius stood as well, his movements careful but determined.
Dr. Lois looked up, genuinely surprised. "You're leaving now?"
"Feel okay enough to move."
"You just fought the most brutal match I've seen in years. You should rest—"
"I'll rest in my quarters."
She opened her mouth to argue, then seemed to recognize the futility. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"I've been told."
Dr. Lois shook her head, but there was something almost like fondness in her exasperation. "Fine. But if those ribs get worse, if you start coughing blood, if anything feels wrong—you come back immediately. Understood?"
"Understood."
She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the handle. Turned back.
"Actually, wait. Before you go—you have a visitor."
Lucius looked at her, his expression showing the first hint of genuine curiosity.
"Someone's been waiting for about twenty minutes. Said they'd wait as long as necessary to see you." Dr. Lois remained by the door, not leaving. "Want me to send them in?"
"Who is it?"
"Someone very important."
Lucius considered for a moment, then nodded. "Send them in."
Dr. Lois opened the door and spoke briefly to someone in the corridor. Then stepped aside, remaining in the room but moving to give them space.
Footsteps approached.
The visitor entered.
---
TO BE CONTINUED