Time feels hazy in the sea of flames.
Barry has no idea how long he's been fighting amid the cheers—sometimes he's the one knocking his opponent down, other times he's getting elbowed into next week.
More often than not, he's the one taking a beating. But with each clash, he's racking up experience, and his win rate's starting to climb.
He's gone toe-to-toe with one opponent after another—some human, some… not so much.
He doesn't get why everyone who steps up to pummel him comes at him so hard.
It's like they're carrying some heavy burden, like they've got a reason they have to win.
Every attack, every look in their eyes—Barry can feel their desperate hunger for victory, their burning desire to live fiercely again.
They want to win. So does Barry.
Can a mere mortal body take down something inhuman?
Barry doesn't know.
Through every fall and every time he drags himself back up, his body grows stronger, tougher—like raw iron being hammered over and over, getting closer to tempered steel with each strike.
When his fighting spirit ignites, his charred body sparks with dazzling flashes. His chest pulses with molten heat, and every breath carries the ashes of something burned out.
He doesn't know where this power comes from or who it belongs to, but all he knows is he's gotta give it everything to take down whoever's in front of him.
Fall, damn it!
His furious fists tear through grotesque, inhuman creatures. A leaping knight's kick smashes through snarling demons.
Holy crap, how'd I get this strong?!
The relentless battles wear on, but Barry's opponents are thinning out. The really tough ones—those freaky, monstrous-looking guys—are nowhere to be seen anymore.
Instead, he keeps running into weaker opponents, over and over again.
The sea of flames is shrinking.
This time, Barry faces an old rival.
The guy's ugly as sin—deformed face, bald head, built like a tank.
He's always been the strong, silent type. Even after multiple fights, he's never said a word.
Total opposite of that other chatty, equally ugly dude.
But none of that matters. What matters is taking this guy down and claiming victory.
They're old acquaintances by now.
The moment they lock eyes, they charge at each other in perfect sync, trading blows in a brutal, no-holds-barred brawl.
Fists and feet fly, each hit landing with raw force.
Barry swings punches and sweeps kicks—his fists cut through thick smoke, his legs slice through flames. Every move unloads all his strength onto the hulking man.
The big guy, though, moves a bit stiffly, a touch slow. But he's built like a brick wall, soaking up damage without going down, just stumbling back step by step.
When he swings, though, it's a different story. One punch comes down like a sledgehammer, and Barry has to muster every ounce of strength in both arms to block it.
If he doesn't, he's gotta go all out—ignite his power to match the guy blow for blow or even overpower him. But that comes at a cost: a cooldown period where he's drained and needs time to recover.
If he runs into a tough opponent during that window, he's toast.
And if he loses, the next opponent he faces will be even stronger.
He doesn't know why it works that way.
His opponent, though, doesn't seem to have that limit. The guy's like a punching bag with a bad habit of getting back up. Win or lose, he's back for the next round—or the one after that. A real pain in the neck.
So Barry's strategy with this guy is to play the long game, wearing him down bit by bit until he finally drops.
After a grueling grind, Barry's lost count of how many rounds he's thrown. The ugly brute's racked up enough damage that he's moving slower, his life hanging by a thread, like a candle flickering in the wind.
Just a little more, and Barry's got this in the bag.
Hell yeah, I'm about to win this one.
A faint grin crosses Barry's charred face, though it's hard to tell through the soot. He's got a feeling—this fight's the last one he needs.
Why? No clue. Just a gut instinct.
Ever since he landed in this hellscape of fire, smoke, and cheers, an invisible thread's been guiding him, pulling stronger with every fight.
That thread's giving him an upward tug, a direction to follow. It keeps him from falling too far when he loses and pushes him higher when he wins.
And now, if he takes this fight, he's out of here.
Somehow, he just knows.
No need to hold back anymore. Time to blast this persistent bastard with everything I've got!
Barry's blackened body glows like smoldering coal, flickering with unsteady light. His chest pulses with molten hues.
Power surges through him, stronger than ever before. A spark of flame ignites deep in his eyes.
Die, you nameless ugly goon!
His right palm opens, and a burst of fire sparks out of nowhere. Barry clenches his fist, crushing the flames into tiny fiery serpents that coil around his hand.
He throws a self-styled fire punch, and in an instant, a massive fist-shaped crater explodes into the brute's chest. A split second later, a small burst of flames erupts.
The guy's injuries worsen, and Barry's fist punches clean through from chest to back.
This time, it's Barry's eyes burning with that desperate hunger for victory.
The brute's gaze dims rapidly. Unable to keep fighting, he's done for.
Or he should be.
I'm the last one standing!
This endless, grueling fight is finally over.
In that moment, the invisible chains binding Barry to this arena loosen. The thread's pull is strong enough now.
Then, Barry starts to float upward. Above him, a massive door looms.
The gap in the door widens, revealing glimpses of the human world—springtime, life, everything.
Time to go.
Barry gets it.
He looks down at the fiery battlefield, and his face twists in shock, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks.
What the hell?!
The ugly brute's body is trembling violently, like he's having a seizure. Then, he starts floating up too—faster, catching up to Barry.
No way! Why the hell are you coming too?
What kind of champion are you, tagging along with me?!
Barry's mind races with questions. In a flash, the brute dons a white hockey mask, and the gaping hole in his chest starts healing at an alarming rate.
Jason!
The name pops into Barry's head out of nowhere.
A savage, murderous intent seeps from beneath Jason's mask. He stares coldly at Barry, like he's carving his face into memory.
Marking his enemy!
Anyone who causes Jason pain has to die!
Barry reads the vibe loud and clear. He channels his inner power, sparks flaring along his arms. The flames build, spreading outward, then explode in a burst.
His hand curls into a claw, the charred skin glowing red-hot, like a molten iron talon, blazing and sharp.
You wanna stare? I'll gouge your damn eyes out!
His claw strikes Jason's face, two fingers darting like a viper's tongue, aiming for the eye slits in the mask.
Taking the brutal hit, Jason's vision goes dark. Freshly "upgraded," he's not about to take it lying down. He lunges forward, ready to tear into Barry.
But in the next instant, both of them vanish, each returning to their own world.
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