A sharp knock jolted Lucius from his planning.
He opened the door. Guard—different one from yesterday. Professional distance in his eyes.
"Contestant 27. Tournament briefing in ten minutes. Arena. Don't be late."
The door closed before Lucius could respond.
He grabbed his jacket, checked the time. 0900 hours.
Time to see what we're working with.
---
The hallway from fighter quarters curved upward—a steady incline that opened into the main entrance at the arena's peak. As Lucius stepped through, the space opened up dramatically.
The arena stretched before him like an underground colosseum torn from ancient Rome and dropped into corporate brutality. Circular seating descended in steep tiers—roughly twenty rows of metal benches bolted to concrete, each level closer to the action than the last. The seats formed roughly eighty percent of a complete circle. The remaining twenty percent—where the medical bay and fighter entrance sat—flattened out, breaking the symmetry.
At the center: the fighting ring. Circular, maybe a third the size of a football field, floor covered in sand the color of old blood. A low barrier ringed the perimeter—waist-high concrete with four corners, each housing a technological pole that hummed with dormant energy. Barrier generators. Keep the fighters contained, the audience safe.
Directly above the ring hung a massive display screen—the kind used in professional stadiums. Currently dark, but Lucius could see the projector arrays built into the ceiling structure.
The fighter entrance sat at ground level on the arena's flat edge—a wide tunnel mouth that disappeared into darkness. Above it, elevated and protected by reinforced glass, sat the commentator booth. Two figures moved inside, setting up equipment.
From where Lucius stood at the main entrance, the path split left and right—two curved corridors following the arena's upper rim. Both eventually connected to singular hallways that led toward the Entertainment District. Stairs descended at intervals, providing access to lower seating sections.
Not many people yet. A handful of fighters scattered through the seats—some sitting alone, others in small clusters. Guards stationed at strategic points, rifles held ready. The commentators in their booth, testing microphones.
Lucius stayed at the top level, leaning against the railing. Better vantage point. See everyone, assess threats, note behaviors.
He scanned the gathered fighters. Thirty-two total, if the rumors were accurate. Most looked like exactly what they were—desperate people who'd taken a bad deal for a chance at money. A few carried themselves differently. Military bearing. Professional killers. The dangerous ones.
His eyes caught movement in the commentator booth. One of them—big Black guy, presence that filled the space even through glass—was gesturing animatically. The other, calmer, Asian features and analytical posture, was adjusting equipment with methodical precision.
The big guy tapped his microphone. Feedback screeched through the arena.
Everyone flinched.
"Testing, testing—yeah, we're live!" The voice boomed from speakers mounted throughout the arena. Enthusiasm barely contained, the kind of energy that belonged to someone who loved his job a little too much. "Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the most anticipated event of the year!"
Jamal "The Voice" Johnson. Lucius recognized the voice from old footage.
"This year," Jamal continued, grin audible in his tone, "we've got something special for you. Not just our usual sixteen-man tournament—oh no. This year we're doubling the competition and doubling the entertainment!"
The other commentator leaned into his microphone. Voice smoother, more controlled. "That's right, Jamal. We have thirty-two challengers here, ready to risk it all in the most epic underground tournament in ages. With prize money of thirty-two million newwon and a guaranteed position as an enforcer, you can be damn sure these fighters are motivated as hell and will stop at nothing."
Haurang "The Analyst" Brown.
Thirty-two million newwon. Lucius did the math. About twenty-four million USD. Substantial, but Tank's sixty percent cut would hurt. Still—seven point two million for himself if he won.
Except he wasn't here for the money.
"Thirty-two fighters!" Jamal's voice climbed higher. "Two fights a day! For fifteen days straight, starting the day after tomorrow!"
Fifteen days. Lucius's jaw tightened. Fifteen days damn near guaranteed he'd miss contact with Amber. The auction date could drop any time, and he'd be locked down here with no way to know.
I have to get in contact with her before then. But how?
"And this year," Jamal continued, "we are not holding back! It's gonna be legendary!"
The massive screen above the ring flickered to life. The tournament bracket appeared—a tree of violence, names filling each slot. Numbers one through twenty-eight in standard white text. Twenty-nine through thirty-two in gold—executive contestants, representing organizations looking to partner with the Big Boys.
Haurang began explaining the structure: "Standard elimination format. Thirty-two fighters enter, one leaves victorious. Round one consists of sixteen fights over eight days—two matches per day, one at thirteen hundred hours, one at nineteen hundred hours."
"Round two," Jamal picked up, "narrows us down to sixteen fighters, eight fights over four days! Then round three—eight fighters, four fights over two days! Round four brings us to the semifinals—four fighters, two fights in one day!"
"And finally," Haurang concluded, "the championship match. One winner. Thirty-two million newwon and a guaranteed position with the Big Boys."
"Now let's talk rules!" Jamal's enthusiasm somehow increased. "Inside that barrier, it's just you and your opponent. No weapons allowed—this is about raw ability and skill, people! Your powers, your training, your will to win. That's it!"
"Fights continue until knockout, submission, or death," Haurang added, clinical and matter-of-fact. "No time limits. No disqualifications for brutality. Medical bay is on standby, and all fighters will undergo brief medical examination and pat-down before entering the arena to ensure compliance with the no-weapons rule."
Lucius filed that away. No weapons meant pure ability showcase. Good—meant he could rely on hand-to-hand and tactical thinking.
Jamal was running through the first-round matchups now: "William Walker versus Xu Leo Kim! Chen Xiao versus Liu Yan! Alexandra Clark versus Luc Shadow! Idris A. Hamza versus Wu Dan! Viper versus Monster! Jacob Blade Wilson versus Iron Clad Wang! Zhou Xun versus Friday! Tact versus King!"
Lucius scanned the bracket methodically. His eyes caught certain names.
Adam Mavrick—matched against Lee Son Yu in round one. Field Commander for the Big Boys. Three-time tournament champion. That alone made him the biggest threat.
Plague—matched against Oliver Scot. Sentinel rank, North Korean. The way other fighters physically recoiled when his name appeared on screen told Lucius enough. Dangerous and feared.
William Walker—number one seed. Former NB Olympic sprinter. Speed-based fighter.
Monster—matched against Viper. The name alone suggested problems.
The executive contestants—numbers 29 through 32—were wildcards. Organizations trying to prove themselves to the Big Boys.
Lucius marked the fights worth watching in his mind: Walker's fight, Plague's fight, Adam's fight, Monster's fight. The rest he'd assess as they happened.
His own opponent was listed as Tact. Unknown variable. He'd learn more when they faced each other.
The briefing continued. Haurang explained logistics—meal schedules, training area access, the limited freedom between matches. Jamal added colorful commentary about the "blood, sweat, and glory" they were about to witness.
Lucius absorbed it all mechanically. The tournament itself was secondary. The Big Boys don't really need new members —this was entertainment for the executives. Bloodsport to keep them amused. If they happened to find someone with useful potential, so be it. But that wasn't the point.
The point was spectacle. Violence. Watching desperate people tear each other apart for scraps.
Made sense. These people didn't need recruitment tools. They had plenty of muscle. This was about power—showing it, enjoying it, reminding everyone who controlled the underground.
Which meant the real operation—the trafficking, the kid he was looking for—would be elsewhere. Deeper. Away from the show.
When Jamal finally wrapped up with an enthusiastic "Let's get ready to rumble!" that echoed through the arena, fighters began dispersing. Some headed back to quarters, others toward the training area. A few lingered, studying the bracket.
Lucius checked his internal clock. 1045 hours. Two days until fights began.
His stomach growled.
Mess hall. Food and observation.
---
The mess hall occupied a large rectangular space off the main fighter corridor—industrial cafeteria style with metal tables bolted to the floor, fluorescent lights that hummed too loud, and the smell of food that had been kept warm too long.
Nearly empty. Maybe six fighters scattered across the tables, eating in silence or quiet conversation. Guards at each corner, rifles held in ready positions. The usual paranoid security.
The serving line ran along the left wall—metal counters with steam trays, all operated by mess staff in stained white uniforms. At the center of it all stood a woman who could only be described as a force of nature.
Big Mama.
Easily six feet tall, built like she'd spent her life lifting industrial equipment. Dark skin, graying hair pulled back in a tight bun, arms thick with muscle and loose with age. She wore a food-stained apron over her uniform and wielded a serving spoon like a weapon. Her eyes tracked every fighter who approached her line—assessing, judging, deciding if they were worth feeding.
The other staff deferred to her automatically. She was the queen of this domain, and everyone knew it.
Lucius grabbed a tray, joined the line.
When he reached the counter, Big Mama's eyes locked onto him. She paused, spoon halfway to a tray. Her expression shifted—surprise, then something almost maternal.
"Well, well." Her voice carried the weight of a thousand cigarettes and twice as many disappointments. "Who's this handsome young fella? Ain't you a little bit young to be taking part in this kind of event?"
Lucius offered a slight smile. "Well, I ain't too young to know how important making bread is."
Big Mama laughed—a sound like thunder rolling through mountains. "Smart mouth on you. I like that." She loaded his plate with steak, actually gave him a decent cut. "You take care of yourself down there, baby. These folks don't play nice."
"Wasn't planning on playing nice myself."
Another laugh. She added extra greens to his plate, waved him toward the drinks. "Get on, now. And come back if you need seconds."
Lucius grabbed water—staying hydrated was crucial, and he didn't trust anything else—and scanned the room for seating.
The six fighters present sat at separate tables. Territorial behavior, keeping distance, assessing each other with sideways glances.
Lucius headed for an empty table in the corner. Good sightlines to entrances, back to the wall, away from potential conflicts.
He sat, positioned his tray, and began eating with methodical efficiency.
The steak was overcooked and underseasoned—exactly what he'd expected. The greens were limp. The water tasted like it had been filtered through industrial piping.
Still better than some of the shit he'd eaten during his jungle survival.
He chewed slowly, eyes tracking movement. The other fighters looked like mid-tier at best. None of the real threats were here—they probably had access to better accommodations in the Entertainment District.
Movement in his peripheral vision. Someone approaching.
Lucius didn't look up, just kept eating. Let them make the first move.
"Hey there."
Male voice. Friendly, but with an edge of concern. Older—maybe late thirties, early forties.
Lucius glanced up. The man was tall, lean, looked like he'd lived hard and gotten back up every time life knocked him down. Weathered face, kind eyes despite everything.
The man gestured to Lucius with his tray, expression concerned. "Listen, kid—and I don't mean any offense by this—but you look pretty young to be in a place like this. These fights, they're not games. People die here." He paused, studying Lucius more carefully. "You sure you know what you're getting into?"
Lucius set down his fork, met the man's eyes with that flat, assessing stare. "I'm older than I look."
"Maybe so, but—" The man shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. "Look, I don't know your situation. Maybe you need the money bad, maybe you got people counting on you. But this tournament, it eats people alive. And someone your age..." He trailed off, shook his head. "Just seems wrong, is all."
"Appreciate the concern." Lucius's tone remained neutral. "But I can handle myself."
The man studied him for a long moment, then seemed to accept it. He gestured to the empty seat across from Lucius. "Mind if I sit? Figure if you're gonna be stubborn about it, might as well not eat alone."
Lucius shrugged. By all means.
The man sat with visible relief, set down his tray. Extended his hand across the table. "Name's Odd."
Lucius gripped his hand—firm shake, calluses in the right places for manual labor. "King."
Odd's eyebrows rose slightly. "King? That's quite a name."
"Wasn't my idea."
They ate in silence for a moment. Odd poked at his food with obvious distrust. "You'd think with how high the prize money is, the food here would actually be edible."
"Shit tastes like I'm the one who cooked it," Lucius agreed. "But man's gotta eat."
Odd laughed—genuine, warm. "Ain't that the truth." He took a bite, grimaced. "So what's your story, King? What brings someone like you to a place like this?"
"Money." Lucius kept it simple. "Where there's money to be made, I'm there making it."
"Fair enough." Odd nodded slowly. "Can't judge a man for trying to survive."
They ate in comfortable silence. Odd seemed genuinely relaxed—unusual for this environment. Most fighters were wound tight, paranoia keeping them alert.
After a few minutes, Odd spoke again. "You got family? People waiting for you after this?"
"Not the kind you're thinking of." Lucius deflected smoothly. "What about you?"
Odd's expression shifted—something complex crossing his features. Pain, determination, hope all mixed together. But he didn't elaborate, just took another bite.
"I got people I'm fighting for," he said finally. "That's enough to keep me going."
Lucius studied him briefly, then returned to his food. There was a story there, but it wasn't his business.
They continued eating. Odd occasionally made observations about the tournament, the facility, casual conversation that came natural to him.
"Place feels like a prison that someone tried to make look professional," Odd said, glancing around. "All this security for a tournament. Guess they're worried about riots."
"Or escapes," Lucius offered.
"Yeah." Odd's expression darkened slightly. "Or that."
They finished their meals. Odd stood, collected his tray. "Well, King, it's been real. Maybe we'll face each other in the ring, maybe not. Either way, good luck out there."
"You too."
Odd walked away with that same easy confidence, nodding to Big Mama as he passed the serving line.
Lucius sat alone again, processing the encounter.
Guy's too nice for this place. Probably won't last long unless he's got more to him than he's showing.
But he was fighting for something—people he cared about. That kind of motivation could be dangerous.
Lucius finished his water, stood, and headed for the door.
---
The training area sat adjacent to the mess hall—large open space filled with equipment that had seen better days. Heavy bags, weight racks, sparring mats, a few treadmills that looked like they'd been salvaged from a gym that went out of business in 2050.
A handful of fighters worked out—shadowboxing, lifting, running drills. All watched each other with sideways glances, assessing competition, looking for weaknesses.
Lucius paused at the entrance, leaned against the doorframe. Didn't enter, just observed.
Decent form on most of them. Nothing spectacular. Mid-tier at best.
He memorized faces, noted fighting styles in broad strokes, then moved on.
After a few minutes, he pushed off the doorframe and headed back to his room.
---
The door locked behind him with a heavy click.
Lucius sat on the bed, stared at the ceiling. Cameras would be watching—standard security for a facility like this.
So he just lay there, mind working through variables.
Fifteen days. Two fights per day. Thirty-two fighters.
The kid was here somewhere. Green Gate intel said a young NovaBreed was being held in the underground, likely in the Entertainment District or deeper in the trafficking tunnels.
Finding him would require access. Access required either winning fights and earning privileges, or finding gaps in security.
And he still needed to contact Amber about the auction date.
Lucius closed his eyes, ran through possible scenarios.
Two days until the tournament began.
Time to start working the angles.
---
TO BE CONTINUED