The afternoon session began at 3 PM sharp.
An hour had passed since Iron Clad Wang's fight. About an hour since the revelation that Monster had been a fifteen-year-old girl. An hour since the arena had been scrubbed clean of blood and tragedy, reset to pristine condition as if nothing had happened.
The crowd filtered in with renewed energy. Some still looked subdued from the previous match, but most had moved on. That was the nature of this place—violence as entertainment, tragedy as intermission.
Lucius sat in his usual spot in the fighter section, arms crossed, expression neutral. Around him, other fighters talked, speculated, placed side bets on the upcoming match.
He ignored them. His mind was working, cataloging, processing.
Mike Ross had left immediately after Wang's fight. Hadn't stayed for the aftermath. Hadn't shown any concern. Just walked out like he'd watched a mildly disappointing show.
The memory of that casual dismissal remained vivid in Lucius's mind.
But that was for later. Right now, he had his own match to focus on.
---
"WELCOME BACK, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jamal's voice exploded through the speakers. "Hope everyone enjoyed their break because we've got a BANGER coming up! Round Two, Fight FOUR!"
The crowd roared its approval.
"In the red corner!" Haurang's professional voice cut through. "Standing at five feet ten inches—the fighter who dismantled Tact in his first appearance—KING!"
The red entrance opened.
Lucius stood and walked toward the arena floor with measured steps. No theatrics. No showboating. Just calm, controlled movement.
He wore a black long-sleeve athletic shirt and dark combat pants. His left arm was wrapped in bandages from forearm to wrist—visible to anyone paying attention.
The crowd's reaction was mixed. Some cheered, remembering his dominant performance. Others remained quiet, uncertain what to make of him.
Lucius reached his starting position and stopped, hands at his sides, expression neutral.
Then his zone activated silently—that roughly one-hundred-foot oval spreading outward, more vertical than horizontal. Within it, he could sense every water molecule, map every living body.
He swept his awareness through the arena. The crowd. The guards. Medical personnel.
The public executive section.
And then, carefully, he extended his sense to the hidden observation area behind it. The secret booth where the highest-level executives watched from concealment.
His hydro-sense touched the area, felt multiple bodies present.
But one was missing. That familiar presence—the one who'd been there at previous fights, watching with particular interest—was absent.
Why?
Lucius filed that away and refocused as the opposite entrance opened.
"And in the blue corner!" Jamal's voice took on an excited edge. "Standing at six feet two inches—FRIDAY!"
Friday emerged with swagger. Tall—six-two—lean but solid build. Short black hair, small beard, distinctive greenish eyes. Simple black tank top and combat trousers showing arms covered in old burn scars. On his left cheek, a prominent scar ran from below his eye to his jawline.
Asian features. Confident grin.
The crowd gave enthusiastic noise.
Friday reached his position and crossed his arms, not bothering with a guard stance. Just standing there. Waiting.
The Jumbotron displayed both fighters:
Left panel: KING. 5'10". 157 LBS. PREVIOUS MATCH: VICTORY VS TACT.
Right panel: FRIDAY. 6'2". 185 LBS. PREVIOUS MATCH: VICTORY VS CHEN XIAO.
Lucius studied Friday's stance. Pyrokinesis and explosive blood—he'd overheard fighters talking during the break.
He hadn't watched Friday's Round 1 match. A miscalculation.
Well. He'd figure it out.
"Fighters ready!" Haurang called.
Lucius shifted into a ready stance. Friday didn't move.
"BEGIN!"
Lucius closed distance fast, fist cocked back for an opening strike—
Three feet away, he stopped.
His fist hung in the air. Something in Friday's posture. The confidence. The complete lack of defense.
Trap.
Lucius lowered his fist and backed away two steps.
The crowd murmured in confusion.
Friday's grin widened. "Smart. Guess you're not as dumb as you look."
Lucius didn't respond. He started walking forward again. Slowly. Deliberately.
Friday watched, still not moving. "What, you scared now?"
Lucius stopped directly in front of him.
Friday looked down—four inches taller. "This is gonna be easier than I—"
SLAP!
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
Lucius's right hand caught Friday across the face with a perfect, disrespectful open-palm slap.
Not a punch. A slap.
The crowd exploded. Some laughed. Others gasped.
Friday's head turned back slowly, cheek bright red. The grin vanished, replaced by shock then fury.
Lucius stepped back, examining his hand. Then looked at Friday with that same neutral expression.
"You were saying?"
Friday's face twisted with rage. His hands clenched. His body trembled.
"You... you fucking..."
Lucius turned his back and walked away a few steps. Then stopped, glanced back over his shoulder.
"Come on then."
Friday spat on the sand. "You got some balls, kid. I'll give you that."
Lucius turned fully, head tilted. "Now that I've got a closer look at your face..." His eyes focused on the scar. "Aren't you that arsonist who got his ass handed to him by that dumbass of a hero and got utterly humiliated?"
The arena went silent.
Friday's face went red. That scar was clearly sensitive.
"I'm gonna fucking KILL YOU!"
He raised his left hand and drove his right hand through his own wrist.
Blood sprayed as he tore the hand completely off. He held the severed appendage, blood flowing. Small flames flickered along the blood trails.
He hurled it at Lucius like a spear.
Lucius's arm came up to deflect—
Mid-deflection, he saw the blood sparking. Building.
He twisted, changing deflection to dodge, throwing himself aside.
BOOM!
The hand exploded mid-air. The shockwave caught Lucius, sending him flying. He rolled with momentum, came up in a crouch.
Then he heard it—blowtorch sounds, five times.
Five flame rods arced toward him.
He moved on pure instinct.
First rod hit where he'd been. Exploded.
Second rod. Dodge. Roll.
Third rod. Side-step.
Fourth rod came at an angle. He slid beneath it, heat washing over him—
Mid-slide, his brain caught up. 'I have a pretty good id—'
Friday crashed down mid-air, holding another severed arm like a hammer.
Lucius's eyes widened fractionally. He shifted his slide, came up on Friday's right side as the man landed.
BOOM!
The hammer-blow cratered the sand.
Friday spun and hurled the arm.
Lucius dove but the explosion was close. Force caught him, sent him flying sideways.
Friday charged, grin back. "Where's all that TALK now, kid?!"
Lucius looked up, noticing Friday's left hand—almost fully regenerated already. Flesh knitting at visible speed.
'Of course he can heal. Oh boy.'
Friday closed distance and launched a devastating punch at Lucius's stomach, catching him clean.
BOOM!
The impact slammed Lucius into the ground. Before he could recover, Friday was on top, raining punches.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Laughing maniacally with each hit.
He came in for another—
Lucius's hand shot up, caught Friday's wrist, legs wrapping around the arm in a scissors hold, hyperextending it.
Friday grunted. His free left hand drove into his trapped right arm like a spear, stabbing through his own flesh.
Blood sprayed across Lucius's face. He saw it sparking.
Lucius released and threw himself back.
BOOM!
Both flew in opposite directions.
Lucius came up, locked onto Friday's position. The explosions damaged Friday too, but he healed. And the flames didn't affect him—fireproof.
Friday got up laughing, his mangled arm already healing. "Where did all your spunk go, kid?"
Friday charged again.
Friday came in throwing a left hook.
Lucius weaved and countered with a straight—
Friday immediately cut off the hand he'd thrown the punch with, severing it at the wrist, and backed away.
The hand exploded.
Lucius saw it coming, jumped, balled up while backflipping. The force sent him flying but controlled. He landed safely.
There Friday was again, mid-air, another severed arm with fingers straight like a spear, trying to stab Lucius.
Lucius dodged, came in with a low kick to Friday's face—
Friday blew up his hand, catching both of them in the blast.
The explosion sent Lucius tumbling. Friday got up as smoke cleared, badly damaged, missing parts, but healing. Walking toward Lucius.
"If all you're gonna do is dodge like a little bitch, this is gonna be real disappointing!"
Lucius did one of those quick martial arts get-ups from the floor.
'Seems like this guy doesn't give a shit about getting damaged. But now I have a good understanding of his abilities.'
'Time to make things interesting.'
Friday tried to remove another arm.
Lucius exploded forward with blinding speed.
A devastating roundhouse kick caught Friday before he could react, nearly dropping him.
The next thing Friday knew was an uppercut to his already-healing jaw.
CRACK!
The blow shattered bone. Friday's jaw fractured, blood spraying from his mouth. His head tilted down toward Lucius.
Lucius backed away before the blood could explode.
BOOM!
Out of the explosion, a spear of fire targeted Lucius's head.
His foot came up, kicked it upward. The spear shot to the top barrier and dissipated.
Friday charged, fingers extended, three more flame rods flying ahead.
Lucius deflected the first two, hitting them away. The third one he jumped up, caught mid-air, and kicked back toward Friday.
It distracted Friday just enough. He lost track of Lucius.
'Where is he?'
Friday looked around, not seeing King anywhere.
He felt a palm on his left shoulder.
Friday's eyes went wide, realizing Lucius was behind him.
While gripping Friday's shoulder with his right hand, Lucius's left fist drove forward, aimed directly at Friday's spine.
CRACK!
The devastating blow compressed vertebrae, sent shockwaves through Friday's nervous system.
'That might have been too brutal,' Lucius thought. 'But he'll be fine. He can regenerate.'
In the commentary booth, Jamal leaned forward. "Hey Haurang, you notice King's left arm? All those bandages?"
Haurang nodded. "Perhaps an injury from his previous match."
"Nah, look—" Jamal pulled up Tact fight footage. "It was already there. Just couldn't see it clearly with all the dust and movement."
"Interesting. He's been quite careful protecting that arm from the flames."
In the arena, Friday felt that spine hit viscerally.
While still gripping Friday's shoulder, Lucius adjusted his grip—right hand on shoulder, left grabbing Friday's back. He lifted the six-foot-two man almost effortlessly and slammed him into the ground.
He followed with a drop kick—
BOOM!
Friday blew himself up. The force knocked Lucius back.
Lucius didn't let himself fall. He balanced and went back on offense.
Multiple flame rods came from the smoke.
Lucius charged forward, dodging and weaving. Not a single one hit him, but Friday kept spamming them, preventing Lucius from closing distance.
That's when—BUZZ!
The drop announcement.
While Lucius was still dodging Friday's attacks, the Jumbotron displayed spinning options, "Yes we got a drop" Jamal shouted.
BOW AND ARROWS
CHAINSAW
CAR
MYSTERY OPTION
The timer counted down.
Winner: MYSTERY OPTION.
A loud buzz from the Jumbotron. Below it, a compartment opened. The top section of the barrier disabled briefly.
Something dropped.
A metal ball, slightly larger than a basketball, fell toward the arena floor.
Both Lucius and Friday—who was still spamming rods—saw it falling.
Lucius changed targets immediately, speeding toward the falling ball.
'Looks like a bomb. Most likely a bomb.'
Friday saw Lucius running for it and followed. 'He's gonna use it like William Walker did with the gun!'
Lucius slid, positioning like he was going to kick the ball straight at Friday.
Friday saw it coming and dove away to avoid being hit.
But that wasn't the plan.
The instant Friday committed to his dive, Lucius switched gears. He feinted away from the ball and dashed toward Friday instead, leaving the ball to hit the floor—where a countdown timer activated.
Friday was mid-dive, completely open.
POW!
Lucius's fist drove into Friday's stomach, sending him tumbling.
Lucius didn't relent. He followed through.
Friday tried to gain his footing but took a knee to the face as he was getting up.
What followed was nothing short of a brutal beatdown.
Straight to the face. Another with his left before Friday could recover. Elbow to the face. Full rotation backward elbow to the face.
Friday tried dodging the next attack, side-stepping left—
Lucius grabbed his arm, pulled him in, and swept his legs.
Mid-fall, Lucius's fist came down toward Friday's face.
Friday rolled away— flat tumbling across the floor.
Friday tried to get up—
POW!
A kick from Lucius caught him in the face, sending him tumbling again.
Friday tried once more, his hands going to remove another limb for an explosive attack—
Lucius was faster. He caught Friday's wrist just as Friday's other hand was piercing through to sever it. Lucius yanked hard, breaking Friday's grip, and literally tore the half-severed limb completely off before flinging it away.
BOOM!
The arm exploded mid-air, far from both fighters.
From then on, it was just Lucius attacking relentlessly.
Each blow carried more force. Punch. Kick. Elbow. Knee. Targeting joints, breaking bones, tearing muscle.
Friday tried desperately to remove limbs and blow them up. Each time, Lucius would grab the limb and fling it away before the explosion could catch him. Or he'd interrupt the attempt entirely, not giving Friday the chance.
Slowly, noticeably, Friday's healing was getting weaker. Wounds that had closed in seconds now took ten, fifteen seconds. His movements were getting sluggish.
They went full circle around the arena, Friday barely able to defend. He managed only a few hits in retaliation—splashing blood and blowing it up—but Lucius would dodge, get back in close, and continue pounding him.
All the way back to where the metal ball sat, its timer counting down.
Lucius's eyes diverted briefly, noticing the timer was almost out.
Friday lunged desperately and pinned Lucius against the ball.
They were too close. Way too close. If it was a bomb—
Lucius pushed Friday off with explosive force and kicked him away, sending him tumbling to the edge of the barrier wall.
For his own safety. Because with how weak Friday's regeneration had become, a bomb at this range would likely kill him.
Lucius dove away in the opposite direction, putting maximum distance between himself and the device.
The countdown hit zero.
POP!
Glitter exploded outward in a harmless spray—pink, blue, gold—coating the sand.
Lucius stared at it, genuinely surprised for half a second. 'These fuckers got me worried there for a min—'
BOOM!
The REAL bomb, hidden beneath the glitter mechanism, detonated with devastating force.
Fire and smoke engulfed the center of the arena. The shockwave rattled the barriers, sent sand spraying everywhere.
The entire pit filled with thick black smoke. Visibility dropped to zero.
The crowd leaned forward, trying to see. Even the commentators went quiet.
BOOM!
The sound of impact echoed through the smoke.
BOOM!
Again. Somewhere in the darkness, the fight continued.
CRACK—bone breaking.
BOOM—blood exploding.
The smoke was thick, acrid, hard to breathe. But Lucius was relentless,pushing forward with devastating precision.
Lucius pressed forward. A punch to Friday's ribs—bone cracking. Friday tried to counter, cutting his palm for an explosion, but Lucius had already moved, circling, attacking from a different angle.
A kick to Friday's knee—ligaments tearing.
Friday screamed, tried to create distance, but Lucius stayed on him.
By the time the smoke began to clear, the crowd could finally see.
Lucius stood in the center, holding Friday by the head.
Just the head.
No legs. No arms. Just a torso barely attached to the neck, limbs torn off and scattered. Blood everywhere. Friday's regeneration was still trying to work—flesh slowly attempting to rebuild—but moving at a crawl now.
Friday was still conscious, still trying to move. His eyes were wild with pain and fear. His mouth worked, trying to form words, but his jaw was too damaged.
Lucius leaned in close, voice dropping to a whisper only Friday could hear.
"Give up. I could easily kill you. I'm pretty sure you've noticed by now that I didn't even use my abilities. Do you still think you stand a chance? Or do you want me to keep going until there's nothing left to regenerate?"
Friday's eyes went wide. The fight left him completely—replaced by pure terror. This person had dismantled him without even using powers.
Friday's body went limp. Complete surrender.
Lucius straightened slightly, switching his grip. He raised his right hand, formed a fist, and drove it into Friday's temple with precise force.
Not enough to kill. Just enough to shut down consciousness.
Friday's eyes rolled back. His body went slack.
Lucius released him, letting the limbless torso drop.
The arena was silent.
Then Jamal's voice exploded. "IS HE DEAD?! WAS THAT A FATALITY?!"
Medical personnel rushed in, checking vitals.
One looked up and waved. Not dead. Just unconscious.
"WINNER BY KNOCKOUT—KING!" Haurang announced.
The crowd erupted.
Lucius stood in the center, breathing slightly heavier than normal. Clothes torn and burned. Blood—Friday's blood—covering his arms and chest. Throughout the fight, he'd barely used his left hand at all, keeping it protected.
He had bruises forming. Burns on his right forearm and shoulder. But compared to Friday, he was barely touched.
He turned and walked toward the exit without acknowledging the crowd.
Medical personnel swarmed Friday's body, working to stabilize him.
Lucius went through post-battle protocol. Medical examination—burns treated and bandaged, confirmation nothing was broken.
The staff noted his bandaged left arm, asked if he wanted it checked. He declined.
By the time he was cleared, it was approaching 6 PM.
---
MEANWHILE - Several Hours Earlier
A figure moved through the ventilation shaft with practiced silence—muscular but not bulky, athletic build, moving with the kind of controlled aggression that came from years of street fighting.
Sho Macgregor had rough light blue hair and dark gray eyes that constantly scanned his surroundings. He wore all black—tactical pants, compression shirt, gloves. His arms were covered in old scars, and though his shirt covered it, the tattoo on his back read X/57—a reminder of the lab he'd escaped from years ago.
He moved like someone who'd spent half his life running from trouble and the other half causing it.
Below him, through the ventilation grating, he could see the exterminator's office—cluttered, smelling of industrial pesticides. The exterminator was currently in the bathroom down the hall.
Sho had maybe two minutes.
He carefully removed the grating, lowered himself down silently, and crossed to the uniform hanging on the coat rack.
His fingers worked fast—checking the collar for the clothing tag. There. A standard manufacturer's tag sewn into the fabric.
Sho pulled out a replacement tag from his pocket—identical in appearance but containing encoded information about the auction date. The data was woven into the fabric itself using specialized thread that would pass any scan as normal clothing material.
Small knife. Cut the original tag. Replace with new one. Specialized adhesive to seal it.
Twenty seconds. Done.
Back in the ventilation shaft, grating replaced, by the time the bathroom door opened down the hall.
Sho grinned as he crawled back through the shaft. 'Too easy.'
Then he sneezed from all the dust.
"Someone must be thinking about me," he muttered.
Amber's voice crackled in his earpiece, dry and unimpressed. "There's no way in hell anyone's thinking about you right now, Sho."
"You're thinking about me."
"Only because I'm forced to monitor this mission."
Sho reached the exit point and dropped down into an alleyway, pulling off his gear. "Alright, mission complete. Tag's been replaced. When the exterminator goes back to the underground, the info goes straight through security with him."
"Good. Now get back here before you do something stupid."
"Actually..." Sho's grin widened as he started walking toward the residential section. "Now that that's done, if you'll excuse me, I have to go infiltrate King's room. He always got some cool stuff in there."
There was a pause on the line. "Didn't you read the last part of the message?"
"Yeah, but he'll never find out. Not this time."
"Sho—"
"I'm way more careful now! He won't even know I was there."
Another pause. Then Amber's voice came back, and he could hear the barely suppressed amusement. "You remember what the PS said, right? 'Tell Sho if I find out he went into my room while I'm gone, he's gonna be drinking toilet water for a week.'"
Sho's grin faltered slightly. "He's bluffing."
"He did it before."
"That was ONE time—"
"You drank toilet water for an entire week, Sho. Twenty-one separate drinks. He waited until you'd finished every single one before telling you what you'd been drinking. Then he showed you video evidence and chemical analysis proving it was literally toilet water—filtered and treated, but still fundamentally toilet water."
Sho stopped walking, his face going pale. He could still remember it. The casual way Lucius had waited. The methodical documentation. The psychological warfare that had been absolutely perfect.
He was too scared to drink water for days after.
"I'm not going in his room," Sho said firmly.
"Good choice."
"I learned my lesson."
"Clearly."
"You think he's got something worse planned if I do it again?"
"Knowing him? Absolutely."
Sho shuddered. Whatever Lucius would come up with next would probably be even more psychologically devastating than toilet water. The man was creative when it came to making his point.
"Yeah, I'm good. I'll just... stay out of there."
"Smart."
---
PRESENT - 6:17 PM
Lucius walked through the corridor, his route carefully calculated. Not suspicious. Not obviously directed. Just a fighter taking a different path after his medical examination.
He'd identified the optimal location—a lower maintenance corridor connecting the medical wing to residential areas. Low traffic. No cameras in this transitional zone due to construction work. Morrison's patrol route took him through here around 6:15 PM.
Lucius rounded the corner and spotted Morrison about thirty feet ahead, walking his route with that guilt-heavy posture.
Lucius adjusted his path slightly—naturally intersecting.
Morrison noticed him and straightened, hand moving toward his radio out of habit.
They met in the middle.
"This area's restricted to fighters," Morrison said professionally but not aggressively. His hand stayed near his radio but didn't activate it. "You need to head back through the main corridor. Medical wing exit is back that way."
Lucius stopped, looking around as if just realizing where he was. "Right. My mistake. Corridors all look the same after a while."
He started to turn, then paused, noticing Morrison's posture. The exhaustion.
"Long shift?" Lucius asked casually.
Morrison blinked, clearly surprised someone had asked. "...Yeah. You could say that."
Lucius nodded slowly, expression neutral but not hostile. "Rough place to work."
He didn't elaborate. Just let the statement hang—an observation, an acknowledgment.
Morrison's guard dropped fractionally. His shoulders relaxed slightly. "...Yeah. It is."
A moment of quiet. Not awkward. Just human.
Then Lucius nodded once. "Thanks for the redirect."
"Just doing my job," Morrison replied, but there was less automatic professionalism now. More genuine response.
Lucius turned and walked back the way he'd come, pace unhurried.
Morrison watched him go for a moment, then continued his patrol, something about the interaction sitting in his mind.
Just a brief encounter. A fighter who got lost and a guard who redirected him.
But Morrison would remember it.
Lucius walked back through the main corridor toward residential areas, expression unchanged.
First contact: successful.
Morrison was approachable. Uncomfortable with his environment. Responsive to basic human decency.
Foundation laid.
Lucius reached his quarters, entered, closed the door.
He sat on the edge of his bed, allowing himself a moment to process.
Wang's fight. The dead girl. Mike Ross's dismissal. His own fight against Friday. The Morrison encounter. That familiar presence's continued absence from the hidden observation area.
Pieces moving. Information gathering. Plans progressing.
Tomorrow would bring new opportunities. Round 3 would begin soon.
And somewhere in this facility, in the executive residential areas, was a trafficked boy who was critical to something larger.
Lucius lay back, staring at the ceiling, mind already running scenarios for tomorrow.
---
TO BE CONTINUED