The rankings went public at midnight.
Screens lit up across Iron City corridors, training floors, eating halls, even the quiet lifts that never stopped long enough to rest. Names didn't appear. Symbols did. Marks, colors, movement arrows. Performance reduced to shape and placement.
Marcus found his symbol faster than he wanted to.
Mid-tier.
Climbing.
Flagged.
People noticed.
The air changed in shared spaces. Conversations cut off when he entered. Some stared too long. Others avoided his eyes entirely. Rankings didn't just measure ability they rewrote social gravity.
A man with broad shoulders and old fight scars sat across from Marcus at the nutrition counter. Ranked high. Confident posture.
"You don't belong where they put you," the man said casually.
Marcus took a bite, chewed, swallowed. "Then they should move me."
The man smiled thinly. "They will."
The next match came quicker than expected.
This one was public.
A sport arena wide floor, bright lights, real crowd. Noise poured down like heat. This wasn't training. This was entertainment, refined and packaged.
The announcer's voice boomed, smooth and controlled. "Ranking challenge. Advancement on display."
Marcus's opponent was fast. Lighter. Crowd favorite. Built for movement and applause. Every strike he threw carried flourish instead of weight.
The crowd loved it.
Marcus didn't.
He absorbed. Closed distance. Grounded the fight. No wasted motion. When he ended it, the silence hit harder than the applause ever could.
The opponent didn't stand back up.
Medical teams swarmed in seconds.
The screen updated.
RANK ADJUSTMENT: +7
ENGAGEMENT SCORE: HIGH
AUDIENCE RESPONSE: MIXED
Mixed meant uncomfortable.
Back in the corridors, whispers followed.
"He fights wrong."
"He doesn't play to the crowd."
"He's dangerous."
That night, his room didn't dim.
A message appeared instead.
PERFORMANCE TREND: ASCENDING
PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE: UNSTABLE
RECOMMENDED RESPONSE: PROVOCATION
Marcus lay back, staring at the ceiling.
They weren't ranking him to reward him.
They were ranking him to decide how to use him.
Somewhere in Iron City, his brother had reached this point too.
The question wasn't how high Marcus could climb.
It was who he'd have to go through to get there.
The crowd dispersed quickly after the match, leaving Marcus standing in the center of the arena, chest heaving, bruised, but steady. The smell of sweat and antiseptic clung to the floor like a permanent stain. Screens flickered, replaying every moment in slow motion, highlighting his technique, his mistakes, even the smallest reaction in his eyes.
The broad-shouldered man from earlier reappeared, hands resting lightly on the rail above him. "You've caught their attention," he said, voice low. "Not everyone survives that."
Marcus wiped the blood from his lip. "Survive what? Attention?"
The man chuckled. "Iron City measures everything. Skill, endurance, obedience… unpredictability. And you? You're a problem. Not just to the rankings they're just numbers. You're a problem to the system."
Marcus's stomach tightened. The words weren't a threat. They were a fact. He had seen it in the underground, in the observation arena. Every move, every reaction, every success and failure was logged, cataloged, and judged. And now the city had marked him as an anomaly.
He left the arena quickly, moving past the spectators, their murmurs following him like a shadow. Everyone had noticed the way he fought, the way he didn't play to the crowd, the way he didn't bend. That would make enemies. Or allies. Maybe both.
In his room, Marcus sat on the mattress, letting his bruised body relax against the thin fabric. His hands trembled slightly from exertion and adrenaline. He didn't reach for food. He didn't need it yet. His mind replayed the fight not the blows, not the pain but the patterns. Every flinch, every hesitation, every overextension of the opponent. Iron City wasn't just testing him physically. It was testing how he processed, adapted, and survived under scrutiny.
Then, a new notification appeared on the wall. Not a full screen this time, just a single line glowing red:
TARGET ACQUIRED: OBSERVATION INTENSIFIED.
NEXT TRIAL: SOON.
Marcus's jaw tightened. The city wasn't slowing down. It never did. Every fight, every training, every movement was preparing him for something bigger. Something he didn't yet understand.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling once more, letting the bruises and fatigue settle into his bones. Somewhere deep inside, he felt the shift. This wasn't about surviving the matches. This wasn't even about rankings or audience response. This was about becoming something else. Something forged by the city, shaped by rules he didn't yet know.
And yet, the thought of his brother kept him grounded. Somewhere in Iron City, Caleb had faced the same trials. Somewhere, he had adapted, survived, and perhaps even thrived. Marcus didn't know if he would find him alive or if he would find him changed.
But one thing was certain: if Iron City wanted to break him, it would have to try.
Marcus clenched his fists, blood drying along his knuckles. He wasn't just climbing the rankings anymore. He was learning the rules. And he intended to use them.