Chapter 2 — Probability Does Not Bleed.
Anton washed the blood off his hands in a public sink that hadn't worked properly in years.
The water came out in weak spurts, rust-tinted and cold. It carried diluted red into the drain and took its time doing so. The city never rushed to clean up anything it didn't acknowledge.
The man from the alley was gone.
Either he'd woken up and crawled away, or someone else had dragged him out of sight. Both outcomes meant the same thing: no witnesses, no closure. Anton preferred it that way.
The system, unfortunately, did not.
[Post-Combat Analysis Initiated]
[Damage Dealt: Minimal]
[Opponent Status: Unverified]
[Outcome Confidence: Low]
Anton shut the tap.
"Minimal," he repeated softly.
His ribs still ached where the first blow had landed. Not broken. Not cracked. Just sore enough to remind him that luck had limits. He rolled his shoulder once, feeling the lag between intention and movement.
Too late, he thought. Always a fraction late.
The system chimed again, as if offended.
[Combat Technique Archive: Empty]
[Recommendation: Basic Form Acquisition]
Anton started walking.
The street outside the underpass was louder—traffic, voices, the hum of cheap neon struggling against the rain. Screens flashed advertisements for supplements, academies, combat simulations. Every promise came with fine print no one read until it was too late.
He passed a billboard showing a smiling cadet mid-strike, frozen in perfect posture.
JOIN THE ACADEMY. MASTER THE SYSTEM.
Anton snorted.
He'd seen masters. They didn't look like that.
The system tried again.
[User Status: Unregistered]
[Eligibility Pathways Detected: Academic | Military | Arena]
Arena.
That word lingered.
Anton slowed, eyes tracking the glow of a distant dome rising above the district rooftops. The Battle Arena Complex never slept. Someone was always losing inside it. Someone was always winning just enough to matter.
Probability lived there.
And probability loved an audience.
[Simulation Preview Available]
Anton ignored it.
He cut through a side street instead, boots splashing shallow puddles. His reflection fractured across broken glass and wet asphalt—too thin, too calm, eyes already drifting inward.
The punch from the alley replayed in his head.
Not the hit.
The gap.
The moment between commitment and consequence.
That was where things broke.
Anton stopped under a flickering streetlight and raised his hand. He closed his fingers slowly, imagining resistance that wasn't there yet.
"No technique," he murmured.
The system disagreed.
[Force Delay Phenomenon: Detected]
[Classification: Pending]
[Replication Probability: 4%]
Four percent.
Anton smiled faintly.
That was better than twenty-three.
A group of people passed nearby, laughing too loudly, eyes bright with borrowed confidence. Arena spectators, judging by the wrist bands and excited chatter.
"Did you see the odds flip?" one of them said. "He was done. Everyone thought so."
"Yeah," another replied. "System almost called it wrong."
Almost.
Anton waited until they were gone.
Above him, the city layered itself endlessly—academies training future elites, military zones sealed behind clearance walls, ruins buried beneath newer concrete. Old palaces, forgotten labs, sealed sectors no system tutorial mentioned.
Civilizations didn't disappear.
They accumulated.
The system pulsed again, quieter this time.
[Long-Term Observation Initiated]
Anton looked up at the rain.
"Try to keep up," he said.
Somewhere far below the city's official maps, something adjusted.
Not probability.
Not fate.
Infrastructure.
And for the first time since it had activated, the system did not interrupt.