Weeks later, Waxwell found himself in the underground tournament. The arena was a cage of metal and noise, filled with spectators who thrived on violence. Every fight was a test: speed, reflex, stamina, and mind.
Waxwell's first opponent was a mountain of muscle, swinging heavy fists. He ducked, rolled, countered—each movement measured, precise. Pain flared in his ribs, sweat stung his eyes, but he adapted, learning the rhythm of his foe.
Match after match, Waxwell faced opponents stronger, faster, and more ruthless than anyone he had fought before. Every strike left him bruised, every dodge a lesson. By the final round, his body screamed, yet his mind was razor-sharp.
He won. Barely. Bloodied, exhausted, but victorious, Waxwell stepped from the ring. His name, whispered in awe and fear, began to ripple through the underground. But he knew the victories were just the beginning. Attention in this city was a double-edged sword—glory came with enemies.