Cain sat in the corner of the ring, blood drying against his skin. The roar of the crowd slowly faded, replaced by the dull, persistent ringing in his ears. Andrew still hadn't moved. A few medics dragged him away on a stretcher, his head hanging limp, blood streaking his mouth and chin.
Cain's chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing. Every muscle screamed in protest. His knuckles throbbed beneath soaked bandages, each pulse of pain reminding him of the fight he had just survived. Yet his mind was elsewhere, blank, distant. He had won again. But somehow, it didn't feel like victory.
The referee mumbled something about medical checks, but Cain waved him off. He'd had worse. He was about to step out of the cage when a hand landed on his shoulder. It wasn't a medic. Not one of Gregory's usual lackeys either.
The man was dressed too clean for this place: black suit, white gloves, hair slicked back like he'd never broken a sweat in his life. His expression was empty, professional, unreadable.
"Mr. Gregory requests your presence," the man said, tone flat but firm.
Cain frowned.
"Now?"
"Immediately."
Without waiting for an answer, the man gestured for Cain to follow. The crowd parted as they walked toward the side stairway leading to the upper level, the forbidden special stands. Cain had never been up there. Fighters weren't supposed to. That space belonged to men with money and names, people who watched blood spill from behind bulletproof glass while sipping aged whiskey.
The security presence thickened with every step. Black-suited guards appeared at every turn, faces obscured by tinted visors. Cain could feel their eyes on him, curious, judging, hungry. By the time they reached the top, his chest tightened, and the air itself seemed heavier, thicker.
The man in the suit stopped in front of a large steel door with a glass panel. He adjusted his tie.
"Mr. Gregory is expecting you inside. Don't touch anything. Don't speak unless spoken to."
Cain met his cold stare for a moment, then pushed past him. As he stepped inside, the noise of the arena vanished instantly, swallowed by silence and a thick air scented faintly of cigar smoke and expensive liquor.
The floor beneath his feet was carpeted with something soft and clean, out of place in a warehouse of death. The lights were dim, shadows pooling in the corners. And there was more, that same oppressive pressure, stronger now, as if power itself had weight.
Then Cain saw him.
White hair that seemed to glow with its own light. A presence that made his mind go blank.That explains it… an angel.
Alright, lesson time. Angels are beings from a parallel dimension, and no, not another universe. Parallel dimensions exist in the same plane as ours but are separated by a nearly unbreakable layer of space fabric. Angels aren't the biblical kind. They appeared in the 1800s and were called angels because of their white hair and powerful mastery over energy.
Sent by their gods to ensure humanity's survival, though even the angels themselves don't know why, they were scientifically classified as Homo Aetherialis. Most people still called them angels.
The angel stood near the window, the city lights catching in his hair like molten silver. The sheer force of his presence filled the room long before Cain laid eyes on him. That weight, that oppressive energy, made every instinct scream run. Yet standing there, Cain realized it wasn't malice emanating from him. It was raw, infinite power, perfectly controlled.
The angel turned slightly. Cain caught a glimpse of his eyes: not white, not blue, but a stormy shade somewhere in between, alive with calm destruction. His features were sharp, sculpted with precision, flawless. No scars, no blemishes. Just perfection. He wore a white coat that brushed the floor, threads of gold faintly shimmering in the dim light.
Cain had seen monsters, killers, and beings that could shatter steel with their bare hands. But this… this made them all look like children playing at war.
This wasn't a soldier, a god, or a weapon. This was the line between mortal and divine, the peak of power. And as Cain faced him, he felt something he'd never felt before. Not just fear. Awe.
Close to the angel, Gregory sat as well, looking nearly as awed as Cain. With a subtle gesture, he signaled Cain forward. The fighter shook off his paralysis and approached.
"Hello. I'm Cain. Nice to meet you."
He extended his hand, still slick with dried blood, and wiped a smear on his pants unconsciously. The tension in his shoulders hadn't eased since the fight.
The angel smiled, slow and calm, and despite Cain's battered hand, he shook it. The moment their palms met, Cain felt a force that wasn't like anything he'd ever touched, solid, immovable, like trying to push against a mountain. His fingers went numb for a heartbeat, and he nearly stumbled back instinctively.
"Name's Michael. And the pleasure is all mine," the angel said, his voice smooth, warm.
Cain straightened his back, trying not to stare too openly at the flawless being in front of him or give any signs of weakness.
"So… what did you need me here for, Gregory?" Cain asked, forcing his tone into casual, though his fingers itched with adrenaline.
"This gentleman wished to speak with you," Gregory replied, stepping back slightly, his eyes flicking briefly toward Michael as if to remind Cain who the real authority was in this room.
"Yes. I would like a private word with you, Cain. Mr. McNeil, if you would, please leave us. Thank you." Michael's voice was gentle but commanded obedience, and Gregory didn't hesitate, he left quickly, moving almost on autopilot, like a well-trained dog.
Cain's gaze flicked between the angel and Gregory's retreating back. A strange shiver ran down his spine.
"So, Mr. Thorne… I hear you're quite the motivated fighter," Michael said, his eyes calm yet piercing, scanning Cain like he was reading every hidden scar, every ounce of exhaustion.
Cain didn't flinch. "I want to live. This is the only way to do it," he said, his voice low but steady, grit coating every word.
Michael's eyes lingered on him, thoughtful, almost amused."Yes… but what if it wasn't?"
Cain's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
Michael leaned slightly forward, the faint light from the window catching strands of his white hair, making it shimmer like molten silver."I am offering you an opportunity. I am seeking an apprentice. I have found about thirty people I would consider, including you. But I can only take one. Tomorrow, I will host a Domain raid."
Lesson two: domains. When large amounts of natural energy gather and concentrate, they form doorways to pockets of space, mini dimensions. Some are temporal, recreating slices of the past or future. Some are spatial, stable enough to host colonies or entire countries. Most are hostile. Beings inside want to escape but must wait a day for the energy to calm. Humans, however, can enter, kill hostile beings, harvest resources, and let the energy dissipate. Extermination companies, or guilds, as nerds call them, organize these raids.
"I've never participated in a raid," Cain admitted.
Michael's lips curved slightly in amusement."Doesn't matter. Whoever survives and impresses me most becomes my apprentice. And, not to brag, but my apprentices turn out influential, powerful. Ever heard of David Wells?"
Cain shook his head again. "No."
"That's because he wasn't my apprentice. Matthew Sullivan?"
"No."
Michael's eyes glinted with a faint humor. "Well, that's because, as I've been told, you live under a rock." He stepped closer, and Cain instinctively straightened even more. "The point is this: you can continue surviving here, scraping by… or try your hand at becoming my apprentice. Food, home, allowance come with it."
"I'll do it," he said, firm, without hesitation.
Michael's expression softened. He placed a hand on Cain's shoulder, gentle, but heavy, like a weight pressing down and holding him steady. Cain flinched slightly under the pressure, almost like he could feel the gravity of the worlds that hand had held.
"I think we'll do great together, kid," Michael said, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Cain let himself breathe, a small, cautious relief settling over him.