The Mud Pit wasn't a place. It was a smell.
It smelled like rust, adrenal glands, and bad decisions. Located in a decommissioned ventilation shaft three levels below the barracks, it was the only place in Sector 4 where the Overseers didn't look. Not because they couldn't find it, but because they profited from it. A tired slave is a rebellious slave. A broke, addicted slave who owes money to the local gang? That is a compliant slave.
I limped down the rusted ladder, my right arm tucked into my tunic like a broken wing. Jaren and Lyra followed, their faces pale in the flickering red light of the dying moss-lamps.
"This is a bad idea," Jaren whispered for the tenth time. "Kael, we have three nutrient bars between us. If we lose them, we starve. Actually starve."
"We aren't betting the bars," I said, stepping off the ladder into the ankle-deep sludge that gave the Pit its name. "We're betting the boots."
Lyra stopped dead. She looked down at her boots. They were standard-issue mining treads, but she had reinforced the soles with scavenged rubber. In the mines, good boots were worth more than gold. They were the difference between a blister and gangrene.
"You are not betting my boots," she hissed, her hand going to the shiv she kept hidden in her belt.
"I'm betting my boots," I corrected, sitting on a crate to unlace them. "And yours. And Jaren's."
"What?" Jaren squeaked.
"Investment capital," I explained, tossing my boots into a pile. My socks were threadbare, and the cold mud seeped in instantly. It was disgusting. "Trust me. I know the card. I know the winner. Tonight is the night of the underdog."
I stood up in my socks, wincing as a sharp rock dug into my heel.
System Notification:
[Environmental Hazard Detected: Floor is gross. Infection risk: Moderate. Dignity level: Critical Low.]
"Shut up," I muttered.
The Pit was packed. Hundreds of slaves crowded around a circular cage made of rusted chain-link. Inside, the ground was stained dark with old blood. The roar of the crowd was deafening, a primal release of all the rage they couldn't vent at the guards.
I pushed through the crowd, ignoring the elbows and the curses. I needed to get to the bookie.
The bookie was a Tier 3 Volatile named Grix. He had a mutation that made his skin excrete a slippery, oil-like substance. He was gross, he was mean, and he sat on a throne made of old mining tires.
"Fresh meat!" Grix grinned, his teeth filed into points. "You lost, Dim? Or are you looking to sell a kidney?"
"I'm looking to place a bet," I said, slamming three pairs of boots onto the table.
Grix looked at the boots. He looked at me. He laughed, a wet, gurgling sound.
"Three pairs of treads," Grix mused, picking up Lyra's boots with two oily fingers. "Decent condition. Reinforced soles. I'll give you ten Chits for the lot."
Ten Chits was an insult. It was enough for two days of food.
"Twenty," I countered. "And I'm putting it all on the main event."
Grix raised an eyebrow, or where an eyebrow would be if he had hair. " The Main Event? You want to bet on The Butcher?"
"No," I said, pointing at the chalkboard where the odds were scrawled. "I want to bet on Tiny."
The crowd around the table went silent. Then they burst into laughter.
"Tiny?" Grix wheezed, wiping oil from his lip. "Kid, Tiny is meat. He's a Tier 4 Static going up against a Tier 3 Plasma-Lumen. The Butcher burns through steel. Tiny is just... big. The odds are twenty to one against him."
"Exactly," I said, my voice steady despite the fact that I was shivering in my socks. "Twenty to one. That means when I win, I own this table."
Lyra grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. "Kael, are you insane? Tiny dies in this fight. Everyone knows it."
I looked at her. In the original timeline, Tiny didn't die. He slipped on a patch of oil, flailed wildly, and accidentally knocked The Butcher into an exposed live wire on the cage wall. It was the biggest upset in Sector history. I had lost a week's rations betting on The Butcher that night.
Tonight, I was correcting that mistake.
"Trust me," I whispered. "Tiny is clumsy. And clumsiness is a superpower if you aim it right."
I turned back to Grix. "All in on Tiny."
Grix shrugged. "Your funeral, Dim. Ticket number 409. No refunds when he gets toasted."
He handed me a scrap of plastic. I held it like it was the winning lottery ticket, which, technically, it was.
We moved to the edge of the cage. The bell rang.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, SLAVES AND MEAT-SACKS!" the announcer bellowed. "IN THE RED CORNER, THE REIGNING CHAMPION... THE BUTCHER!"
A man stepped into the cage. He was terrifying. His skin glowed with a violet light, and his hands were wreathed in crackling plasma. He screamed, and the air smelled of ozone.
"AND IN THE BLUE CORNER... TINY!"
Tiny shuffled out. He was huge, nearly seven feet tall, but he looked like a gentle giant who had wandered into the wrong room. He held a rusted pipe like a security blanket.
"Fight!"
The Butcher charged immediately, throwing a ball of plasma. Tiny yelped and ducked, the plasma singing his hair.
"See?" Jaren moaned, covering his eyes. "He's going to die. We're going to die. I liked my boots."
I watched closely. I was waiting for the moment. In my memory, it happened at the two-minute mark. The Butcher would lunge, Tiny would slip, and physics would do the rest.
One minute passed. Tiny was getting battered. His skin was scorched, and he was bleeding from a cut above his eye.
One minute, thirty seconds. The Butcher was toying with him, burning small holes in Tiny's tunic.
One minute, fifty seconds. Here it comes.
The Butcher roared and charged for the killing blow, his fist glowing white-hot. Tiny stepped back.
He stepped back... perfectly.
He didn't slip.
My eyes widened.
In the old timeline, there was a puddle of oil right there. But in this timeline... maybe Grix cleaned the cage? Maybe the humidity was different?
Butterfly effect.
Tiny found his footing. He braced himself. He was going to try to block the plasma punch. He was going to die.
"No," I whispered.
If Tiny blocked, his arms would melt. He would lose. I would lose the boots. I would starve.
"Do something!" Lyra hissed.
I looked at the cage. I looked at the floor.
My Seismic Sense felt the vibrations of the crowd. I felt the heavy, thudding footsteps of The Butcher charging.
I couldn't use the Golden Void. Too flashy. Too many witnesses.
I had to use Kinetia.
But I was weak. My arm was in a sling. I couldn't throw a rock hard enough to matter.
I looked at the cage wall. Specifically, at one of the rusted support poles holding the chain-link up. It was vibrating from the crowd's stomping.
System Notification:
[Target: Structural Support Beam. Stress Level: 85%. Kinetic Input required for failure: Minimal.]
If I kicked the bottom of the pole right now, the vibration would travel up, rattle the cage, and maybe, just maybe, shake the ground enough to make Tiny stumble.
It was a long shot. A trick shot.
I dropped to one knee, pretending to tie a shoelace that didn't exist.
"Cover me," I muttered to Jaren.
Jaren stepped in front of me, blocking the view of the guards.
I focused. I channeled every ounce of kinetic energy left in my legs. I ignored the screaming protest of my muscles.
The Butcher was three steps away. Two.
NOW.
I slammed my heel into the base of the metal pole.
Thrum.
A pulse of kinetic force shot up the metal. It wasn't an explosion; it was a frequency. The pole vibrated violently. The chain-link attached to it snapped taut, then rippled.
The ripple traveled down the fence and shook the ground inside the cage right under Tiny's left foot.
Tiny, who was bracing for impact, felt the ground jerk.
He slipped.
His arms flailed. He fell backward, his massive leg shooting out in a panic.
It was ugly. It was clumsy. It was perfect.
Tiny's flailing foot caught The Butcher right in the crotch.
The entire crowd groaned in sympathy.
The Butcher's eyes bulged. The plasma in his hands sputtered and died. He doubled over, gasping for air, his momentum carrying him forward.
He tripped over Tiny's other leg.
He flew face-first into the cage wall. Specifically, into the exposed fuse box that powered the overhead lights.
ZZZT-POP.
Sparks showered the arena. The Butcher convulsed once, twitched, and then slumped to the mud, unconscious and smoking gently.
Tiny lay on his back, blinking up at the ceiling, looking completely confused.
Silence.
Then, the announcer, sounding stunned: "Uh... Winner? TINY!"
The crowd erupted. Half in anger, half in shock.
I slumped against the wall, sweat pouring down my face. My leg throbbed where I had kicked the pole.
"He won," Jaren whispered, staring at the cage. "He actually won. By... kicking him in the junk."
"A win is a win," I wheezed, standing up. "Go get the boots, Jaren. And the Chits."
Jaren ran to the bookie.
I watched Grix counting out the money. He looked furious. He looked like he wanted to murder someone. Specifically, the person who bet twenty to one on the idiot giant.
Grix handed Jaren a heavy bag of Chits and our boots. But as Jaren turned to leave, Grix's eyes scanned the crowd.
He locked onto me.
He saw the sweat. He saw the limp. And he saw the way I was looking at the support pole.
Grix wasn't a genius, but he was a survivor. He knew that lucky breaks usually had help.
He signaled to two of his enforcers. Massive, slab-faced thugs with spiked knuckles. He pointed at me.
"Run," I said to Lyra.
"What?"
"Take the money. Take Jaren. Run to the barracks. Hide the Chits in the loose brick behind my bunk."
"What about you?" Lyra asked, seeing the thugs pushing through the crowd.
"I'm going to create a diversion," I said, grabbing a half-empty bottle of grain alcohol from a passing drunk. "Go!"
Lyra hesitated, then grabbed Jaren and vanished into the throng.
I stood there, barefoot in the mud, holding a bottle of rotgut, facing two guys who looked like they ate rocks for breakfast. My shoulder was dislocated (again? No, just angry). My leg was bruised. I had no weapon.
System Notification:
[Combat Scenario: Unwinnable. User is severely under-leveled.]
[Suggestion: Run like a little bitch.]
"Working on it," I muttered.
The first thug reached me. He swung a fist like a ham.
I didn't block. I threw the alcohol in his face.
He screamed, clawing at his eyes.
I didn't fight the second one. I turned and vaulted over the railing, dropping into the dark, sewage-filled drainage tunnel below the Pit.
It was a ten-foot drop into filth.
I hit the water hard. It smelled like death.
"Gross," I sputtered, wading through the sludge as the thugs yelled from above.
I had the money. I had the boots. And I had pissed off the local mafia.
New Game Plus was going great. Just great.