Sure enough, as I approached the training center, I spotted a crowd gathered around a young woman with shocking pink hair. She was beautiful in a manufactured way—perfect features, flawless skin, and an outfit that strategically revealed just enough to keep her predominantly male audience engaged. Her crop top strained against full breasts, and her training shorts hugged curves that had clearly never seen actual combat.
"And that's why Frost is going to dominate this season," she was saying into a floating camera drone. "Her ice techniques have evolved beyond simple freezing. She's working with crystalline structures now, almost encroaching on my territory."
The crowd laughed appreciatively. I paused, studying her. Crystal element, according to Zack. Rare and visually impressive—perfect for streaming. Her power level was likely secondary to her marketing skills.
I approached the edge of the crowd, confident in my charm. When there was a break in her monologue, I raised a hand with a question, flashing the smile that had opened doors (and legs) throughout my previous life.
She glanced at me, then through me, not even bothering to acknowledge my existence before turning to another fan. Her eyes dismissed me as thoroughly as if I were invisible.
"As I was saying about the upcoming rankings..." she continued, her voice carrying the practiced enthusiasm of someone who'd built a career on manufactured excitement.
I stood there, momentarily stunned. In my previous life, in this new body, I wasn't used to being ignored. Especially not by women.
"Damn, I wish I was popular," I muttered, retreating from the crowd.
(Not everyone will fall at your feet,) the assistant commented, sounding amused. (Some trophies require more work.)
I watched Pixie for another moment, adding her to my mental conquest list. I imagined how those perfect lips would look wrapped around my cock, how that practiced enthusiasm would sound when it was genuine, desperate. She'd learn. They all would.
---
Coach Marcus's training yard was less impressive than the Harrison facility, but had a gritty authenticity that spoke of serious training. The man himself matched his environment—weathered, scarred, and radiating the quiet confidence of someone who had nothing to prove.
"Harrison," he grunted as I approached. "About time. David called ahead, said you showed promise with sonic techniques."
"Thank you for making time for me, Coach," I replied, respectful but not subservient.
He circled me slowly, assessing. "C-rank with 'unusual harmonic patterns,' according to your test results. David shared the report with me."
I nodded, making a mental note that information flowed freely between David and Coach Marcus. I'd need to be careful what I revealed around either of them.
"I'm still figuring out what that means myself," I said carefully.
"Bullshit," he said flatly. "You're holding back. I want to know why."
The directness caught me off guard. This man was sharper than I'd anticipated.
"I'm not sure what you mean," I said, maintaining my innocent facade.
"Cut the crap, kid. I've been training fighters for thirty years. I know when someone's sandbagging." He stopped in front of me, eyes narrowed. "Show me what you can really do."
For the next hour, Coach Marcus pushed me harder than David had, demonstrating advanced sonic techniques that a C-rank shouldn't know yet. I pretended to struggle, then showed "surprising aptitude," learning just quickly enough to be impressive but not suspicious.
"You're either a quick study or a good liar," he said finally, watching me execute a sonic wave that shattered a practice dummy. "Maybe both. In the Arena, that second quality might be more valuable than the first."
I wiped sweat from my brow, maintaining my innocent facade. "I'm just trying to learn, Coach."
He grunted, unconvinced. "Come on. Time for you to see what you're really getting into."
---
Coach Marcus led me through the training center, pointing out professional fighters, explaining rankings and match structures. The Arena system was more complex than I'd realized—a carefully balanced ecosystem of talent, politics, and entertainment value.
"Talent gets you in the door," he explained as we watched a sparring match between two B-rank fighters. "Politics determines how far you go. Sponsors want winners, but they also want personalities. Fighters who move merchandise, drive viewership."
I nodded, absorbing the information. This wasn't so different from the corporate world I'd left behind—just more honest about its brutality.
As we rounded a corner, I spotted Jake Mercer in a private training room, electricity crackling around his fists as he demolished a series of targets. His power was impressive, but his technique was straightforward, lacking subtlety.
Beside him, looking bored, sat a stunning brunette who I recognized from the testing center—Amber, Jake's girlfriend. She wore a training outfit that left little to the imagination, her sports bra revealing toned abs and the swell of perfect breasts. Her leggings hugged every curve, and as she shifted in her seat, I could see the outline of her ass—firm, round, and completely wasted on a possessive prick like Jake.
She glanced up as we passed, her eyes meeting mine for a brief moment. Something passed between us—recognition, interest, possibility. She gave a slight nod, almost imperceptible, her tongue darting out to wet her lips in a gesture that could have been innocent but felt deliberate.
Coach Marcus noticed the exchange. "That's trouble you don't need, rookie," he warned quietly. "Jake Mercer is possessive and powerful, a bad combination. He's put three guys in the hospital for less than what you're thinking."
I feigned innocence. "I was just looking at his technique."
"Sure you were," Coach snorted. "Just remember, hospital beds don't lead to championship matches."
---
As we finished our tour, a muscular guy with a lightning bolt shaved into his hair intercepted us near the exit. Two equally unimpressive friends flanked him.
"You're Harrison, right? The new C-rank?" he asked, his tone making the rank sound like an insult.
"That's me," I replied pleasantly.
"Jake says to stay in your lane, rookie. Especially around his girl. Some roads you don't want to go down."
I was surprised—we'd only exchanged a glance. Either Jake was even more possessive than Coach had suggested, or Amber's interest had been more obvious than I'd realized.
A small crowd had gathered, sensing confrontation. From the corner of my eye, I noticed Pixie's camera drone hovering nearby. She'd been filming general Arena content, but now her attention had shifted to our confrontation, her pink hair visible behind the drone as she moved closer.
I could have escalated, could have shown this messenger exactly how outmatched he was. Instead, I smiled, my voice carrying clearly to the onlookers.
"Please thank Jake for his concern. It's always touching when champions take interest in new talent. I'm just here to learn... from everyone." I emphasized the last words just enough to carry a double meaning.
The messenger frowned, clearly expecting either fear or aggression, not polite ambiguity.
"Just watch yourself," he muttered, before stalking away with his entourage.
Coach Marcus shook his head. "Diplomatic. Smart. But you just painted a target on your back anyway."
I shrugged. "Some targets are worth having."
As we parted ways, I noticed Pixie watching me with new interest, her camera drone capturing my face. Perhaps being ignored had been a blessing in disguise. Nothing created interest like a potential conflict, especially with an established champion.
---
That night, back in my room, I practiced the sword summoning technique David had taught me. It was harder without his guidance—the blade barely twitched at first. I spent an hour focusing, sweating with concentration, before I could make it slide even a few inches across the floor.
(Patience,) the assistant advised. (You're expecting too much too quickly.)
"I don't have time for patience," I muttered, wiping sweat from my brow.
A soft knock interrupted my practice. Before I could answer, the door opened, and Lila slipped inside, closing it behind her.
"Working hard?" she asked, leaning against the door. Unlike this morning, she was fully dressed, but her choice of outfit—tight yoga pants and a thin tank top with no bra—was just as provocative.
"What do you want, Lila?" I asked, not bothering to hide my irritation at the interruption.
She smiled, pushing off from the door and moving toward me with deliberate steps. "I've been thinking about what you said this morning."
"And?"
"And I'm curious." She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell her perfume—something expensive and floral with an undertone of musk. "About what it would take to make you lose control."
I set the practice sword aside, studying her. "Is that what you want? Me out of control?"
She reached out, trailing a finger down my chest. "I want to see what's behind that mask you wear. The real you."
I caught her wrist, holding it firmly but not painfully. "Careful what you wish for."
Instead of pulling away, she stepped closer, her body nearly touching mine. "I'm not afraid of you, Kelvin."
"You should be," I said, my voice dropping lower.
Her free hand came up to my face, thumb brushing across my lower lip. "Show me why."
I released her wrist, but before she could react, I had her backed against the wall, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping her hip. I didn't kiss her—not yet—just held her there, our faces inches apart.
"Is this what you wanted?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "To be trapped?"
Her breathing had quickened, pupils dilating with arousal. "I'm not trapped. I could leave if I wanted to."
"But you don't want to," I said, not a question but a statement of fact.
"No," she admitted, her voice husky. "I don't."
I leaned in, my lips brushing her ear. "Tell me what you want, Lila. Exactly what you want."
Her hands gripped my shoulders, nails digging in slightly. "I want you to touch me."
"Where?" I demanded, remaining perfectly still.
"Everywhere," she breathed.
I smiled against her skin. "Not good enough. Be specific."
Her frustration was palpable, but also her arousal. This power play was exactly what she wanted, even if she hadn't realized it.
"My breasts," she finally said, her pride giving way to desire. "I want your hands on my breasts."
I pulled back slightly, looking into her eyes. "See? Was that so hard?"
Slowly, deliberately, I slid my hand from her hip upward, over her ribs, until I was cupping her breast through the thin fabric of her tank top. Her nipple hardened instantly against my palm. I squeezed gently, then with more pressure, watching her reaction.
"Like this?" I asked, my thumb circling her nipple.
She nodded, biting her lower lip.
"Words, Lila. I want to hear you say it."
"Yes," she gasped. "Like that."
I brought my other hand to her other breast, kneading both now, feeling her arch into my touch. Her head fell back against the wall, eyes half-closed with pleasure.
"More," she demanded.
I pinched both nipples simultaneously, just hard enough to make her gasp. "Patience. You don't get to make demands here."
My hands left her breasts, trailing down to her waist, then around to grip her ass. I pulled her against me, letting her feel exactly what she was doing to me.
"Feel that?" I murmured. "That's what you're asking for."
She ground against me, shameless in her desire. "Then give it to me."
I chuckled, the sound dark and promising. "Not yet. First, you're going to show me how badly you want it."
I stepped back, breaking contact completely. She made a small sound of protest, reaching for me.
"Uh-uh," I said, shaking my head. "On your knees."
Her eyes widened, but there was no hesitation as she sank to her knees in front of me. This was what she'd wanted all along—to be dominated, controlled.
"Good girl," I said, my hand coming to rest on her head. "Now, show me what that smart mouth of yours can really do."
She reached for the waistband of my shorts, her eyes never leaving mine. There was challenge there still, but also submission—the perfect combination.
"One more thing," I said, stopping her hands. "After tonight, you're mine. Not just for sex. Mine. Understand?"
She nodded, a slight smile playing at her lips. "I was yours the moment you said no last night."
I smiled back, dark and possessive. "Then prove it."
As she pulled down my shorts, I knew I'd won more than just this battle. Lila would be my first conquest in this world—but far from my last.