The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, vibrating through the worn soles of Shane's boots as he stood alone in the center of the octagon. The air, thick with sweat, anticipation, and the faint, coppery scent of adrenaline, felt charged. He forced himself to breathe slowly, deep into his diaphragm, a technique Bjorn had drilled into him relentlessly over the last three days. His system screen, visible only to him, shimmered with tactical data, but Shane kept his focus external, mirroring the stoic calm he knew Veritas Alpha expected.
Across the way, Jack Paul had managed his theatrics, that manic energy that played so well to the cheap seats. He bounced on the balls of his feet, a picture of forced enthusiasm, before meeting Krell at the edge of the steps. Then, the stumble. It wasn't a convincing fake; it was a dead drop, Krell collapsing as if his bones had dissolved. A collective groan rippled through the audience, followed by the immediate shift to boos when Paul announced his second would take his place. Shane saw Olaf's expression harden, the faint annoyance Bjorn had sensed earlier deepening into visible displeasure at the amateurish stalling.
Bjorn—sharp, impeccably dressed even ringside, and radiating an aura of quiet, accountant-like competence—gave Shane a measured nod, an almost imperceptible confirmation that the setup was proceeding as planned, however messy Krell and Paul's entrance had been. Shane returned the nod, a surge of confidence momentarily overriding the nerves. He had the system, he had the training, and most importantly, he thought wryly, AN had accidentally cleared the path for Odin's favor by eliminating El Toro. The sacrifice of the bull had precipitated the *Holmgang*.
The referee ushered Paul—now thoroughly agitated by the crowd's disdain—out of the enclosed fighting area. Krell, an engine of poorly directed malice and borrowed celestial power, lumbered toward Shane. Krell was built like a brick wall, wide and dense, radiating a thick, smothering field of Apex Negativa's influence—a raw, chaotic hum that Shane's system instantly flagged.
The fight began not with a signal, but simply when the two men faced each other, no timed rounds, no bells, only the primal agreement of combat: incapacitation, concession, or the drawing of blood.
Krell came out swinging, relying purely on brute force amplified by AN's stolen energy. His punches were heavy, crude arcs meant to shatter bone. Shane danced back, his new *Super Speed* skill a muted whisper rather than the full blast he'd used against the gang members. He couldn't afford to utilize his full power; every eye in this arena, especially Olaf's, was watching, and he couldn't afford a tell that would expose supernatural intervention.
His *Foresight*, though still offering only glimpses, showed him the lines of Krell's attacks an instant before they launched. Shane countered using the basics, parries and blocks taught by Bjorn, weaving in the precise angles programmed into his system's martial arts database. It was a controlled demonstration of competence, not omnipotence.
For what felt like an eternity, it was a brutal exchange of near misses and bone-jarring blocks. Krell connected once, a glancing blow off Shane's side ribs that sent a shockwave through him, but he stayed upright, the system metrics barely dipping into the yellow range thanks to his base constitution. The crowd fed on the violence, the bloodlust overriding any sense of fairness or structure; in a way, this chaotic energy was precisely what AN cultivated.
Shane waited. He needed the opening that wouldn't look like magic. He needed Krell to commit everything to one final, reckless blow.
It came after what Shane judged to be twenty minutes. Krell roared, throwing his entire weight into a right haymaker aimed right at Shane's jaw—a guaranteed knockout if it landed. This was the line Shane had been waiting for.
Shane dropped his stance fractionally, making Krell believe the punch was about to connect squarely. He channeled the energy reserved for *Super Speed*, not for evasive maneuvering, but for precise repositioning. The punch whistled through the air where his head had been a millisecond before.
Shane didn't retreat; he vanished forward. He was behind Krell before the brawler's momentum could even begin to halt. His hands shot out, locking Krell's massive forearm with his own, forming the agonizing hybrid choke—the cobra clutch maneuver he'd seen in game replays. Shane applied immediate, focused pressure, leveraging the newly upgraded *Super Strength*.
Krell's face purpled, the borrowed power unable to assist against a lock that controlled his entire upper body structure. He thrashed, the raw energy flickering as his consciousness struggled against the physical restriction. Shane held fast, squeezing tighter, unwilling to let go until the condition was met.
The referee, who had wisely kept his distance, finally stepped in as Krell's struggle weakened into a heavy shudder. He didn't tap; he simply went limp, unconscious.
The declaration echoed through the arena: Shane Albright was the winner.
The sound that erupted was deafening, but through the haze, Shane saw the reactions clearly. Jack Paul looked physically ill, his eyes wide with terror. Olaf, however, offered a genuine, albeit rare, smile. Bjorn's lips curved upwards almost imperceptibly—relief and confirmation blending into one.
Shane released Krell's unmoving form and stepped back, his enhanced senses picking up other subtle shifts. He glanced toward the entrance where Krell and Paul had entered.
Olaf walked over, wiping blood from a superficial cut on his own forearm—perhaps a sacrificial gesture Shane hadn't noted earlier—and clapped Shane hard on the shoulder. "Good fight, Roofer. You fight with honor. We talk tomorrow about the final papers."
Bjorn moved in smoothly, gripping Shane's arm lightly as they walked toward the exit tunnel designed for the fighters. "We need to monitor Olaf closely, Shane. AN will not accept this loss lightly. Krell was merely a tool."
As Shane and Bjorn navigated the exit hallway, they saw Jack Paul physically dragging the unconscious Krell toward a side door meant for staff. Paul was clearly panicked, looking over his shoulder repeatedly as if afraid the walls themselves would judge him.
They didn't notice the brief, searing flash of light near the shadowed utility closet as AN, furious at the failure, bypassed the need for Thorne's direct oversight. Krell's borrowed power abruptly reversed, sucked back by his master. AN's voice, internal and vast, boomed only in Jack Paul's head: *"You did your part. Your promised reward is forfeit. Death is postponed; I require a better vessel."*
Krell's body dissolved into a fine, black dust before Paul, gasping, could even move fully into the closet. AN, the entity of structured chaos, smoothly imprinted his celestial essence into the less resilient nervous system of the influencer. Jack Paul staggered, no longer the jittery pawn, but now something far more informed, far more dangerous.
Back near the main exit, Bjorn guided Shane away from the service corridors. "We must keep Olaf close until he is secured. AN may try to reclaim him immediately now that the ritual has succeeded beyond expectation."
Shane nodded grimly. He'd seen the shift in Krell's energy signature change just before he blacked out; it hadn't dissipated, it had *moved*.
"I'll copy someone," Shane stated, already moving his attention over the crowd filtering out. "Not you or Olaf, far too risky. Someone on the periphery of his crew. Someone low-level enough that the transfer won't cause a disruption."
He scanned the faces, the system running rapid identification checks against the energy signatures it had cataloged from the meeting three days prior. He landed on a face near the Albright contingency—a younger man, clearly happy but not central to Olaf's immediate entourage, one of the local fighters who had come to cheer them on.
"There," Shane muttered. He made eye contact, held the gaze just long enough to initiate the transfer parameters, and felt the familiar, internal tug as the *Copy* skill initiated, due in part to the intense exertion of the Holmgang. The copy would last two hours, and it came with the current cooldown reduction penalty. He'd have to report back to Gary and Bjorn once the duration was up, relaying any intel gathered.
They met the rest of the crew—Gary, who was maintaining a clean, sober presence; Amanda, who kept shooting warm but cautious glances at Gary; and the two document processors, who were already lamenting the paperwork overload.
"We need to stay close," Shane told the group, keeping his tone even for the benefit of his newly copied shadow. "Bjorn and I will secure Olaf's immediate area. Gary, you and Amanda stay with the staff. Keep a low profile tonight. If anything looks out of place, text me immediately, and Gary, use the emergency line to reach Bjorn first. No direct contact with me unless it's an absolute last resort."
Bjorn gave a slight inclination of his head toward Gary. "Keep your sobriety strong, Gary. This is exactly the kind of pressure point they will exploit."
As they dispersed, Shane, walking slightly ahead with Bjorn, felt a strange sense of accomplishment and foreboding. He had won the fight, but the real battle had only just been postponed.
Moments later, Shane slipped away into the crowd, activating the brief, shared awareness his copy provided. He saw through the eyes of the young local fighter: boring, celebratory murmurs about the fight, a shared six-pack bought from a kiosk, and then, the slow, oblivious walk toward a local bar—far from Olaf's training center. It was observational data only, but it confirmed no immediate pursuit or distress signal from Olaf's immediate circle.
Shane deactivated the copy as he rejoined Bjorn, the downloaded awareness fading but the residual memory implanting itself neatly into the data stream his system
Back inside, Olaf was thinking. He stared at the ornate wooden desk, his gaze distant. Shane Albright—the seemingly simple mortal—had fought with the ferocity of a true Norse champion, utterly devoid of AN's signature malignancy. And Bjorn. Even without a direct scan, Olaf felt the structured, ancient power clinging to the accountant, a resonance that spoke of the old ways.
*Vacation,* Olaf thought, His hibernation was clearly over. He had suppressed his celestial existence for eons. Apex Negativa had been sending more and more operatives to infiltrate his inner circle lately. Veritas Alpha was here, actively working the mortal plane, and Shane Albright was somehow tied to the celestial plane and trying to activate the mechanism of his potential awakening, an event that he knew he could no longer suppress.
He looked up. The familiar, sleazy silhouette of his trainer, Jack Paul, walk back into the outer office. The energy signature shift was instantaneous and profound. The nervous presence he had exuded was gone, the fake injury gone and In its place pulsed a cold, calculated authority, a recognizable, yet profoundly *wrong* resonance that Olaf had only sensed in fragments during his deepest meditations. It was AN, newly armored.
Shane, walking with Bjorn toward the secure vehicle they'd rented, registered the change simultaneously. His system screamed an immediate, localized alarm: two massive celestial signatures converging, one familiar and malevolent (AN in the imposter), the other, the faint ember attached to Olaf, now flickering with a renewed, strange intensity.
The air grew impossibly heavy, stifling the ambient noise of the city outside. The decision point had arrived, not three days hence, but now. Who would win the inevitable, immediate confrontation that was about to erupt between the newly manifested form of Apex Negativa and the awakened Raven God?