Midnight settled over Keystone City like a stained blanket—heavy, suffocating, and reeking of industry. Unlike Central City's gleaming optimism, Keystone wore its decay proudly. Rusted factories squatted beside glittering tech startups. Neon signs flickered above cracked sidewalks. The air tasted of oil, ozone, and opportunity for those willing to look in the darker corners.
Kairon liked it immediately.
No Flash here to respond in microseconds. No Rogues' code keeping violence civilized. Just raw, unfiltered chaos barely contained by gang territories and corrupt cops. Exactly what he needed.
He stood in the shadows across from the Crossroads Motel—a three-story testament to urban blight with flickering vacancy signs and bars on the ground-floor windows. Perfect. Cheap, anonymous, and the kind of place where questions weren't asked because answers were dangerous.
[Sage: Charming accommodation choice. I'm detecting cracks in the foundation and what smells like a meth operation somewhere on the second floor. Sure you wouldn't prefer the Hilton?]
"The Hilton keeps records," Kairon murmured, pulling his hood lower. "This place keeps secrets."
[Sage: Fair point. Though if the building collapses on you in the night, don't say I didn't warn you.]
He crossed the street with practiced ease, moving through pools of shadow between streetlights. The lobby smelled like cigarettes, mildew, and resignation. A tired man in his fifties sat behind bulletproof glass, not even looking up from his phone.
"Need a room," Kairon said.
"Sixty a night. Cash only. ID required." The manager's voice was flat, automatic.
Kairon met his eyes through the glass. His own golden irises flickered, and beneath them, the Sharingan's single tomoe began its slow rotation.
The manager blinked. His pupils dilated slightly, focus sliding away from the present and into something softer, more pliable.
"Room 214," Kairon said quietly, his voice steady and assured. "I paid already. You don't need to see my ID. You don't need to write anything down. I was never here."
The man nodded slowly, mechanical. "Room 214. Second floor. Here's your key." He slid a brass key under the glass.
Kairon took it and walked away. Behind him, the manager blinked again, frowned at his phone, and went back to scrolling. By tomorrow, he wouldn't remember the interaction at all.
[Sage: No hesitation. No guilt. Cold efficiency. Either you're adapting remarkably well to this world, or you're a sociopath. Jury's still out.]
"He's fine," Kairon said, climbing the stairwell. The steps creaked under his weight. "Just missing five minutes he wouldn't have remembered anyway."
[Sage: Pragmatic rationalization. Very healthy.]
Room 214 was exactly what he expected—stained carpet, sagging bed, bathroom that had seen better decades. But the lock worked, the window faced the street, and no one would think to look for him here.
He set his bag down and moved to the window. Keystone City sprawled below, a patchwork of light and shadow. Somewhere in that sprawl was what he'd come for—the underground tournament that would push him beyond training, beyond theory, into genuine combat.
His golden eyes gleamed in the darkness.
[Sage: Rest. Tomorrow we map the city. Then we find your hunting ground.]
Kairon allowed himself a small smile. "Tomorrow."
***
The next day, Kairon moved through Keystone City like a ghost.
He'd changed into nondescript clothes—dark jeans, plain hoodie, gray cap hiding his distinctive hair. Just another young man wandering the streets, unremarkable and invisible.
[Sage: You know, for someone who looks like a Greek god had a baby with an Amazon warrior, you're surprisingly good at blending in.]
"It's called not drawing attention," Kairon muttered, turning down an alley. "Try it sometime."
[Sage: I'm an AI. I don't have a body. Blending in is literally all I do.]
He started in the financial district—glass towers during the day, empty canyons at night. Kairon memorized rhythms: which alleys stayed dark, which streets the cops patrolled, where cameras watched and where they didn't. Madara's tactical instincts made patterns obvious that others would miss.
By noon, they'd covered the warehouse district. Abandoned factories perfect for disappearing. Loading docks where cargo moved without paperwork. Rail yards where security was a joke.
[Sage: You're building a mental map like you're planning an invasion.]
"I'm planning to survive one."
The afternoon brought them deeper into commercial downtown. Not the legitimate businesses—the ones that operated in the margins. Kairon found them easily, reading signs civilians missed.
A pawn shop with too many high-end weapons in the display case. An apothecary whose window advertised "rare herbs" in six different languages. A bar where the clientele all carried concealed and the bartender had a shotgun within easy reach.
[Sage: That's the fourth weapons dealer you've catalogued. Planning to start a war or just paranoid?]
"Prepared," Kairon corrected, noting the shop's hours. "There's a difference."
They turned down another street, and Kairon paused. The same spraypaint tag he'd seen three blocks back—a stylized fang dripping red. Now that he was looking for it, the pattern was obvious. This block had them. The previous block didn't.
"Territory marker," he muttered, watching how foot traffic changed here. People walked faster, eyes down, aware of invisible boundaries.
[Sage: Gang territory. Want to test the theory by crossing the line, or file it under 'useful information for later'?]
"Later. No need to pick fights before the tournament."
[Sage: Character growth. I'm so proud.]
By evening, Kairon sat at a bar called The Grindstone, nursing a beer he wasn't drinking, listening.
"...heard Rodriguez got his arm broke last week," a rough voice muttered two stools down. "Preliminaries under The Iron Gauntlet. Poor bastard thought he was tough."
"Anyone can enter those," another voice laughed. "But only idiots try without a recommendation. Five-on-one cage match. Most don't walk out."
"Yeah, but if you win, you're in. Tournament starts in five days. Big money this year. Some serious fighters signed up."
Kairon set down his beer and stood. He'd heard enough.
[Sage: The Iron Gauntlet. Want me to mark the location based on the conversation context?]
"Already know where it is," Kairon said quietly, stepping into the street. Three blocks west, neon sign shaped like a fist. He'd passed it twice during his afternoon walk.
[Sage: Five-on-one preliminaries. Your Amazonian physicals and shinobi skills give you an advantage, but we don't know what powers they might have.]
"Then we'll find out when I fight them."
[Sage: Ah, the 'punch first, ask questions never' approach. Classic.]
Kairon allowed himself a small smile. The city lights blurred as he walked, already planning. Five days until the main tournament. But first, he needed to earn his entry.
Tonight, he'd pay The Iron Gauntlet a visit.
***
The Iron Gauntlet looked like any other dive bar from the street—neon sign, bouncers at the door, bass thumping through brick walls. But Kairon could see what others missed: the way certain patrons were waved through without question, disappearing down a corridor marked "Private." The knowing glances between security. The tension beneath the artificial cheer.
He'd changed in his custom combat suit—sleek black armor, reinforced but flexible, designed for maximum mobility. No white mask tonight. For this, he wore something different.
A kitsune mask. Elegant and unsettling. White porcelain with red accents and a slight grin. Anonymous. Memorable. Perfect.
[Sage: The mysterious warrior aesthetic really works for you. Very dramatic.]
"It's called maintaining operational security."
[Sage: It's called being theatrical. But I'll allow it.]
He moved past the first bouncer with confidence—not aggressive, just assured. The kind of confidence that said he belonged. The bouncer's hand twitched toward his arm, then stopped. Something about the masked figure made him reconsider.
Inside, Kairon bypassed the main bar and headed straight for the private corridor. A second guard stood there, bigger, meaner, with scar tissue where his left eyebrow should be.
"Lost?" The guard's voice was gravel and threat.
"Preliminaries," Kairon said. His voice was calm, level.
The guard looked him up and down, taking in the combat suit, the kitsune mask, the absolute stillness of someone comfortable with violence. "No recommendation?"
"Don't need one."
"Everyone needs—"
"I said I don't need one." Kairon's golden eyes gleamed through the mask's slots. "Either let me fight, or tell me who I talk to about letting me fight. Your choice."
The guard stared. Something in that steady, predatory gaze made him uncomfortable in ways he couldn't articulate. He jerked his thumb toward the corridor. "Basement. Third door on the left. You die down there, that's on you."
"Noted."
The corridor descended into concrete and shadow. Sound changed—muffled bass replaced by distant roars, the wet smack of flesh on flesh, the metallic taste of blood in recycled air. The temperature dropped. The walls were stained with things Kairon didn't examine too closely.
The basement was exactly what he expected—a blood-stained cage in the center, harsh industrial lights, crowd of maybe forty watching with hungry eyes. These weren't casual spectators. These were people who understood violence intimately and appreciated it as art.
A match was ending as Kairon arrived. One fighter was unconscious, face swelling. The other stood over him, breathing hard, knuckles split and bleeding. The crowd made sounds that weren't quite cheers—more like acknowledgment of a successful kill, even though the loser was still breathing.
A wiry man with scar tissue where his left ear should be approached Kairon. He looked him up and down, taking in the kitsune mask with a slight smirk. "You the new meat?"
"I'm here to fight."
"Name?"
Kairon considered. His real name stayed buried. He needed something else. Something that fit the mask, the city, the storm he was about to become.
"Raze."
The man's smirk widened. "Raze. Cute. You know the deal? Five fighters, all at once. Last one standing moves up. Tap out and you walk—maybe. Don't tap out and, well..." He shrugged. "We've got a hose for cleanup."
"Understood."
"Weapons stay outside the cage. Powers are fine—we ain't got the tech to suppress 'em anyway. But if you kill someone, you're disqualified. Maim's fine. Permanent damage is fine. Kill's not. Tournament wants fighters, not corpses. Got it?"
Kairon nodded.
"Then get in the cage, Raze. Let's see what you got."
"Good," Kairon murmured, stepping toward the cage.
He climbed through the door. The cage was smaller than it looked from outside—maybe twenty feet across, chain-link walls, concrete floor dark with old bloodstains. The crowd pressed close, faces eager, hungry for violence.
His opponents filed in. Five men, all bigger than him, all scarred in ways that spoke of survival. Street fighters. Brawlers. Veterans of a hundred back-alley scraps and basement cage matches.
They spread out, circling. Predators recognizing a smaller target.
The scarred man raised his hand. "Fighters ready?"
Kairon settled into stance—weight balanced, hands loose, breathing steady. His Sharingan remained dormant. He wouldn't need it. Not for this.
The five fighters exchanged glances. One cracked his knuckles. Another rolled his shoulders. They'd done this before. New meat came in confident, left broken. The pattern was familiar.
"Begin!"
The first fighter lunged immediately—telegraphed haymaker, amateur hour despite his experience. Kairon sidestepped with minimal movement, grabbed the extended arm with both hands, and drove his elbow into the man's solar plexus. The fighter folded with a wet gasp, all the air leaving his lungs in a rush.
The second came from behind—smarter, trying to capitalize on Kairon's apparent distraction. Kairon heard the footstep, spun on his heel, caught the incoming punch on his forearm and redirected it past his head. His counter came instantly—a knee to the thigh that buckled the fighter's leg, followed by a palm-heel strike to the jaw. The man dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Two down in four seconds.
The remaining three hesitated, reassessing. This wasn't going according to pattern.
"Together," one growled, the biggest of the group.
They rushed as one. Kairon moved like water—ducking a punch, redirecting a kick, using their momentum and numbers against them. Amazonian strength made each of his strikes devastating. A ridge-hand to the throat sent one reeling, gasping. A sweeping leg takedown put another on the ground where a precise strike to the temple ended his involvement. The third caught Kairon's fist in his gut and folded, dropping to his knees.
The biggest fighter—the one who'd called for the group attack—stood alone now, breathing hard, eyes wide with something that might have been fear.
"You're fast," he admitted, voice rough. "But fast don't mean shit if I connect once."
Kairon said nothing. Just waited.
The fighter charged—bull rush, trying to use mass and momentum to overwhelm technique. Kairon waited until the last possible second, then dropped low, sweeping the man's lead leg. Physics did the rest. Two hundred fifty pounds of muscle hit the cage floor with bone-jarring impact that echoed through the basement.
Before he could rise, Kairon's knee was on his back, arm twisted at an angle that promised dislocation if he moved wrong.
"Tap," Kairon said quietly.
The fighter's hand slapped the floor three times. Fast. Urgent.
Kairon released him and stood. The entire fight had lasted eight seconds.
Silence blanketed the basement. Then someone started a slow clap. Others joined, not quite applause—more like acknowledgment. The new meat wasn't meat at all.
The scarred man approached the cage, grinning wide. "Well shit, Raze. Guess you earned your spot." He pulled out a small card, slid it through the chain-link. "Tournament starts in five days. 32 fighters. You just became number 28. Don't be late."
Kairon took the card—simple black plastic with a time, date, and address embossed in silver.
"I won't."
He left the cage, ignored the eyes tracking him like predators reassessing a potential threat, and disappeared back up the corridor. Behind him, whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dead leaves.
Voices surfaced only after he was gone—low, uncertain.
***
Kairon stripped off the mask in the alley three blocks away, storing it and the combat suit back in his inventory. Just another guy in street clothes again, anonymous and unremarkable.
[Sage: Well. That was efficient. Eight seconds for all five opponents. I'm genuinely impressed, and I'm programmed to have high standards.]
"They were good fighters," Kairon said, walking toward the motel. His knuckles ached slightly—pleasant reminder of impact. "For street brawlers. But they'd never faced someone with formal training and enhanced physicals."
[Sage: So humble. Very becoming. Status update: You're officially entered in the tournament. Five days until it begins. 32 fighters total. Single elimination, one match per day until the final. Death is not just expected—it's encouraged for the audience's entertainment.]
"Good."
[Sage: Most people would be concerned about the death part.]
"Most people don't need what I need." Kairon pulled up his status screen mentally, checking the system points counter. Still zero. The preliminary fighters hadn't been strong enough to register as worthy opponents. "The tournament will have real challenges. Meta-humans. Enhanced fighters. Magic users. That's where the rewards are."
[Sage: Assuming you survive long enough to collect them. But sure, let's go with optimism.]
Kairon reached the motel, climbed to Room 214, and locked the door behind him. He moved to the window, looking out over Keystone City's nightscape.
Five days.
He pulled the tournament card from his pocket, studying the silver embossing in the moonlight.
His reflection in the window showed golden eyes burning with purpose.
[Sage: Five days, Kairon. What's the plan?]
"Train. Prepare. Refine." He turned from the window. "And then we see who's worthy."
The tournament card caught the light. Somewhere out there, 31 other fighters were preparing.
None of them knew what was coming.
Kairon smiled.
"Let them come."
[END CHAPTER 2]