After the hidden quest, Kane barely remembered making it home.
He had a vague memory of the front door, the thin hallway, the shape of the sofa in the dark—then nothing. His body simply gave out. He collapsed on the mattress and sank straight through into sleep, no dreams, no thoughts, just black.
When he finally opened his eyes again, sunlight was already leaking through the blinds in bright strips. The room was hot. Dust floated in the light like tiny planets.
His HUD flickered awake.
Status
Rank: D
Strength: 8
Vitality: 10 (HP 100)
Intelligence: 8 (EP 80)
Agility: 7
Sense: 7
Unassigned Points: 10
Kane rubbed his chin, still half-lying on the mattress, studying the numbers as if they were a puzzle he could punch his way through.
"Two into strength," he murmured. "If I hit, I want them to stay down."
The Strength bar climbed.
"Two into vitality," he added. "Can't let my HP vanish off one bad combo."
Vitality ticked upward.
"Three for agility." He flexed his fingers, imagining Yohan slipping past his attacks. "Got to move faster than the other guy."
Agility rose in response. Three points remained. He hesitated, tapping his thigh as he thought.
"Last three into intelligence," he decided at last. "More energy means more skills, more options. I am not winning every fight with fists alone."
The display shimmered and settled.
Updated Status
Rank: D
Strength: 10
Vitality: 12 (HP 120)
Intelligence: 11 (EP 110)
Agility: 10
Sense: 7
Skills: Dash Lv.2, Cannon Blast, Counter
Equipment: Anti-Virus Module Lv.1
A slow grin crept across his face. "That's better. Big stage ready."
The next two days were a blur of repetition and pain.
He ran the cracked streets until his lungs burned and his legs shook. He dropped for push-ups on the apartment floor until his arms refused to lift his body. He shadowboxed in the alley behind the building, fists cutting through empty air as if it were an opponent's guard, sweat dripping from his jaw to the dirt.
The chip helped his body recover faster, but it did not spare him the strain. Every night he crawled into bed aching. Every morning he pushed himself back up again.
He visualized the fights as he moved—Lander's grapples, Yohan's overwhelming speed, the ferals' wild strength. He tried to see the gaps, the half-second windows where a new move or skill could turn the tide.
By the second night, the exhaustion felt clean instead of crushing. His body hummed with a sharper edge, like steel that had finally seen a grindstone.
On the morning of the meetup, he woke with a knot already sitting in his chest.
It was not the usual anxiety before a fight. It felt quieter than that. He lay there for a minute, staring at the ceiling, trying to name it.
He finally forced himself up and shuffled to the bathroom.
His reflection met him in the spotted mirror: same dark hair, same tired eyes, healing bruises almost gone. He raised his hand and touched the back of his neck where the chip sat buried. The skin there felt no different, but knowing what was beneath it made the room feel smaller.
He turned on the shower.
Water thundered into the tub, cold at first, then warming. He stepped in and let it run over him in a steady stream. The sound filled the space—but beneath it, everything else was silent.
No pipes creaking. No neighbor shouting through thin walls. No cars honking outside. Not even the faint whine of the old fan in his room.
Just the shower.
Kane frowned slightly, rinsing soap from his hair. The silence pressed at his ears in a way that made his skin itch. Like the world was holding its breath.
When he finally stepped out, towel around his waist, that weight stayed with him. It lodged behind his ribs, a sense of something coming that he could not quite see.
Downstairs, the kitchen light gave off a gentle yellow glow. A small hologram note pulsed beside the fridge, letters scribbled in familiar handwriting.
Warm up the leftovers for breakfast.
Take care of Yelena.
– Mom
Kane's mouth tugged into a tired smile. She might be gone before dawn to her shift, but she never left without leaving something. A note. A leftover meal. A reminder that someone was still trying.
Footsteps thumped softly on the stairs. Yelena appeared, hair pointing in every direction, eyes half closed.
"Morning," she yawned.
"Morning, disaster," he said, ruffling her hair as she stumbled to a chair.
He reheated the food, set a plate in front of her, poured milk into a chipped glass. They ate together at the wobbly table, trading small pieces of normalcy—teachers she liked, kids that annoyed her, the neighbor who always burned his dinner.
For a short stretch of time, it felt like the city outside had paused. Just a brother, a sister, cheap food, and the comfort of routine.
When breakfast was done, Yelena insisted on washing the dishes, standing on her toes to reach the sink. Kane waited by the door, watching the way her face scrunched in concentration as she tried not to drop the plates.
Then it was backpack on, laces double-knotted, and they were out the door.
He walked her to school like always. She skipped ahead, humming, hopping over cracks in the sidewalk. Her laughter bounced off the walls of the narrow street and for a moment covered that strange quiet he had felt in the shower.
At the school gate she turned and hugged him. "You will be here later?"
"Of course," he said. "Try not to fight everyone in class."
"I only fight bullies," she replied, sticking her tongue out before running inside.
He watched her go, waited until she disappeared into the crowd, then turned away.
The uneasy feeling slid right back in. The streets seemed too still again. The air felt thick. Something was waiting, and it was not the tournament he had been preparing himself for.
The meeting room was the same as last time—peeling paint, low ceiling, a few chairs scattered around like an afterthought. The six of them were already there when Kane walked in: Sarah, Kaya, Yohan, and the two rookies whose names he still did not fully know.
The mood had changed.
Last time there had been nerves, bravado, the tension of people about to step into a ring. Now there was a tighter, heavier silence. No one talked about strategies or bragged about their last win. They just waited, each lost in their own thoughts.
Kane leaned against the wall, arms folded, and watched them. Kaya's jaw worked as if she was grinding her teeth. Sarah's eyes were half-lidded but alert, tracking every movement. Yohan stood like a blade stuck in the floor—still, straight, sharp.
Minutes crawled by. A full hour felt like it was trying to suffocate the room.
Then the door creaked. Everyone's head turned.
It was not Sean.
Five men in dark military uniforms marched in, boots thudding in perfect rhythm. Rifles rested easily in their hands, safety off. Their presence changed the air.
At their front walked a man with a polished smile and eyes that never smiled at all. Kane recognized him from the arena office: Welbeck.
"Good afternoon, stars of the show," Welbeck said, spreading his arms as if he were greeting old friends. "I am afraid there has been a change in plans."
No one moved.
Kane straightened. "Where is Sean?"
Welbeck's smirk widened. "Oh, do not worry. He is exactly where he wants to be—on the side getting paid."
He took a step forward. The soldiers behind him adjusted their grips on their weapons.
"You are not going to the big stage today," Welbeck went on. "You are going to federal custody."
The words hit like a slap.
Kaya shoved off the wall. "You kidding me?"
Sarah's gaze hardened to ice.
Kane felt his stomach twist. "So it was a set-up from the start?"
Welbeck gave a lazy shrug. "Not quite. You really were scheduled for bigger arenas. You really did have a chance at proper contracts. But some of us"—he tapped his own chest lightly—"decided there was more money to be made delivering you to the government instead."
He let that sink in, then added, almost casually, "Sean included."
Something cold spread through Kane's chest. The man who had pulled him into this world, who had pushed him, praised him, told him about the big stage—had already sold him off.
Around the room, shoulders tensed. Yohan's face barely changed, but the air around him did.
Welbeck lifted one hand. "Alright, gentlemen," he said to the troops. "Do your job. Arrest them."
The rifles came up in unison.
What followed was not an orderly arrest.
The first shot ripped splinters from the wall, the sound like thunder trapped in a box. Someone shouted. Plaster rained down as bullets chewed through the cheap construction. The room erupted into frantic motion.
Kaya moved first. She bellowed something wordless and drove her shoulder through the nearest section of wall. It cracked and gave way, opening a jagged path. She dove through the dust. Sarah darted after her, feet barely touching the floor, soldiers lunging in pursuit.
Kane dropped low as another burst shredded the air above his head. His HUD pulsed and a memory of the feral's cannon burned across his nerves. He thrust out his hand.
"Cannon Blast!"
Energy surged from his palm in a condensed shockwave. It slammed into an incoming bullet midair, scattering the shot into a spray of sparks. The recoil numbed his arm, but the soldier firing flinched, throwing his aim off for a critical second.
Kane was on him in that heartbeat. His fist crunched into the man's jaw, knocking him sideways into the wall. The rifle spun away.
He ran.
More shots chased him as he ducked and weaved through the dust, every step a gamble. These were not tournament brawlers—they were trained soldiers with real ammo and orders to bring down targets, not entertain a crowd.
On the other side of the compound, Yohan had already punched his way through a different wall, emerging into the dim light of the cage arena. Metal mesh loomed around him, the echo of past screams still clinging to the empty seats.
He had barely taken two steps when Welbeck stepped in after him, coat now unbuttoned, pistol drawn.
"You are not slipping away that easily," Welbeck said. The smirk was gone. His eyes were flat now. "You cost us a lot of carefully arranged bets, you know."
He fired.
Yohan blurred, reappearing to the left in a streak barely visible to the human eye. The bullet tore past where his chest had been. In the same breath, his sword flashed free. Steel whispered across fabric and reinforced plates.
The front of Welbeck's bulletproof vest split open and fell to the ground in two neat pieces.
Welbeck looked down at it, then laughed. "Well now. That was expensive."
He shrugged out of the ruined gear, letting it hit the floor.
"Thank you," he said lightly. "I hate feeling restricted."
He tossed the pistol aside. A wave of liquid metal shimmered up his arms, coating his fists and forearms in dark nanometal that locked into place like armored gauntlets. Faint lines along the surface pulsed with energy.
"But I do not think I will need guns for this part."
His stance shifted—heels braced, weight centered, hands raised like twin hammers.
He charged.
The ground cracked under his first step.
Across the compound, chaos spread in every direction.
Kane caught glimpses between ducking from bullets and searching for an exit—one of the rookies trading blows with a soldier near the stairs, Sarah vaulting a railing to avoid a burst of fire, Kaya dragging someone by the collar through a gap in the wall.
None of them were fighting for prize money now. There were no cameras, no screaming crowd.
This was not a tournament.
This was survival.