The bell rang, a jarring sound that cut through the muffled roar of the crowd in the vast arena. Jason Bowen, a mountain of muscle focused entirely on ground control, didn't hear it so much as feel the sudden cessation of pressure as the referee separated them. The first round had been a grinding, frustrating war of attrition for Hugo, who was built for explosive striking, not wrestling against a dedicated machine like Bowen. Hugo had spent nearly a full minute pinned flat on his back, Jason's weight a suffocating blanket, while the referee waited patiently.
As Bowen backed toward his corner, one of his cornermen slapped the cage twice.
"That's your fight!" the man shouted. "Make him carry you again!"
Another voice from Bowen's side followed immediately.
"He doesn't want that pressure! Drown him!"
Hugo scrambled up, spitting blood onto the canvas as he retreated toward his corner. The scent of disinfectant and antiseptic, mixed with adrenaline and sweat, hit him hard. He expected only the familiar face of his cutman and perhaps the generic assistant trainer Olaf had assigned. Instead, Silas stood there, looking surprisingly composed despite the immediate chaos of the first round's end. The usual cutman was making quick work of the swelling around Hugo's eye, but Hugo's first thought was for Marie.
Hugo blinked hard as if making sure he was seeing correctly.
"Silas? What—"
"Silas? What—" Hugo started, his voice thick.
Silas simply pointed across the ring with a quick, almost imperceptible nod toward the front row. Hugo followed the direction of his gaze. There, looking entirely out of place and yet perfectly settled, sat Jessalyn—Freya—next to Olaf, who radiated an almost serene confidence. Next to them sat Marie, waving with what looked like genuine affection, and beside her, Marie's friend, Penelope. A wave of immediate, profound relief washed over Hugo. That tension—the gnawing worry that Marie wouldn't come, that she wouldn't be safe—vanished, replaced by the sharp focus of a trained fighter.
Marie cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted something he couldn't fully hear through the arena noise, but the smile on her face said enough.
Penelope leaned in toward her and said something with obvious excitement, then gave Hugo an enthusiastic thumbs-up that almost made him laugh.
Silas leaned in close, his voice low and steady over the noise of the cornermen wiping sweat from Hugo's face. "Striking, pal. Quit wrestling with this guy or he will just lay on you until the bell. He's too heavy for you when he gets position."
Hugo nodded once, breathing through his mouth while the cutman worked.
"Yeah," he muttered. "I felt every pound of him."
Silas tapped Hugo's temple lightly, a silent reminder of the hours spent drilling against Bowen's specific brand of suffocating grappling. He quickly went over the technical adjustments they had drilled in training—the angle of the knee strike when Bowen dipped his head, the use of the oblique kick to keep distance, and most crucially, the slight, almost pathetic way Bowen twisted his lead foot when he committed to a hard level change.
"Watch that ugly little twist in his lead foot," Silas said, keeping his tone even. "He thinks he hides it, but he doesn't. Once you see it, the shot is coming."
Hugo swallowed and nodded again.
"The knee?"
"The knee if it's there," Silas said. "The oblique if it isn't. But stop meeting him where he wants to live. Make him work to even touch you."
The cutman dabbed at Hugo's eyebrow and held up a finger.
"Look at me."
Hugo did.
"You can breathe?"
"Yes."
"You can see?"
"Yes."
"Good. Then stop looking like someone stole your truck."
That got the faintest grin out of Hugo.
The cornermen stepped back, wiping their hands clean. The bright lights of the octagon seemed to focus exclusively on the two men waiting in the center. Hugo finally felt calm, centered. The worry for Marie was gone, transferred to the knowledge that she was safe, watching. The bell rang, signaling the start of round two.
Jason Bowen, energized by his dominant first round victory on the scorecards, came out stalking, head low, looking to maintain pressure and close the distance. He wanted to drag Hugo into the grappling trenches again. Hugo backed up tentatively, using footwork to give himself room, feinting just enough to keep Bowen guessing. Bowen closed the distance, dipping slightly lower than a boxer would, setting up for the shot.
From ringside, Olaf leaned forward slightly.
"There," he murmured.
Freya's eyes tracked Bowen's hips.
"He's too eager now," she said quietly.
But this time, Hugo saw the tell—the faint roll onto the toe of Bowen's front foot—a micro-expression in his stance just before the explosion of movement. Hugo didn't retreat; he stopped moving back entirely. As Bowen shot forward, Hugo brought his lead knee up, aiming not at the head, as he usually would when striking, but lower, targeting the solar plexus and the upper abdomen to disrupt the powerful explosive drive of the takedown. The knee cracked square into Bowen's middle with a sickening thud.
The crowd made a collective sound somewhere between a gasp and a groan.
Bowen's corner erupted.
"Keep driving!"
"Don't stop!"
Bowen gasped, the wind momentarily punched from his lungs, and his forward momentum turned into a wild stumble. He broke his clinch, collapsing forward instead of driving through. Hugo didn't pause. This was the opening. He chased, throwing a quick, looping overhand right that Bowen barely managed to weave away from, absorbing most of the power on his shoulder. Bowen was reeling, his focus shattered by the unexpected hard shot. Hugo pressed the advantage, looking for the fight-ending sequence.
"Now!" Silas shouted from the corner.
"Stay on him!" another of Hugo's coaches barked.
But Bowen was a veteran of the grind. Instinct took over the pain. Seeing Hugo charging in for a finish, Bowen instinctively shot a desperate, clumsy takedown, wrapping his arms around Hugo's waist and pulling him down into another clinch, trying only to buy precious seconds to recover. Hugo tried to use his elbows, aiming for the exposed temple and the jawline, but Bowen tucked his head in tight, absorbing the glancing blows like a sponge. The elbows hit hard enough to sting, but not clean enough to stop the man. Hugo managed to back off just before the drive of the takedown could fully settle him onto the mat again. He established distance one more time, breathing hard, the adrenaline still pumping from the near-take down.
Bowen's face had changed now. The confidence from the first round was still there, but it had been interrupted by caution.
He knew Hugo had found something.
That back and forth—Hugo landing effective, hard strikes on the outside, and Bowen constantly closing the gap, smothering, clinching, buying time—continued for the remainder of the round. Hugo controlled the striking exchanges, winning the clean shots when he dictated where the fight stayed. He had certainly won the round, perhaps even dominated the second half, but it was a razor-thin victory on the cards. He had survived the grappling and punished the aggression.
As the horn sounded, Hugo backed toward his corner with a more measured look in his eyes.
Silas pointed at him the moment he sat.
"That," Silas said, "is your fight."
Hugo nodded, breathing hard.
"He's still there."
"Yeah," Silas replied. "But now he knows you are too."
The two subsequent rounds saw a tactical split. Bowen managed to drag Hugo down once in the third, smothering him until the bell, while the fourth was a back-and-forth slugfest where Hugo landed significantly cleaner heavy shots, though Bowen landed a solid hip toss halfway through the frame that ended with Hugo on his back briefly before reversing to guard.
In the fourth, the audience had become fully invested.
Every clean Hugo punch got a roar.
Every Bowen takedown attempt got a wave of tension.
By the time the horn ended the round, even the neutral spectators were standing.
Entering the final interval, both men were showing visible damage—swollen eyes, split lips, and the deep exhaustion of fifteen minutes under the lights. Silas appeared at the cage door for the final time, leaning in as the referee ensured the cutmen were clear.
He looked at Hugo for a long second before speaking, letting the silence sharpen the moment.
"Hugo," Silas murmured, his voice firm, all semblance of joking gone now that the stakes were raised. "Marie sends her regards, and a threat. She says you better win or she will never forgive you."
Despite everything, Hugo barked out a laugh that ended in a wince.
"That sounds like her."
Silas paused, letting the tension hang for a beat before softening his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. "But for real, she said knock this guy out. Look, man, remember what we practiced over and over? When Bowen shoots—he has a tell. It's the footwork. You need to bring your knee up hard as you push his head down. This guy's neck is like a tree trunk. A regular knee won't finish him. You need to win this round decisively if you can't finish him right now. Do not let him get you down again."
Hugo wiped sweat from his mouth and nodded.
"If he shoots, I knee him."
"If he shoots lazy, yes," Silas said. "If he shoots clean, angle first. Don't get stubborn."
One of the cornermen added, "You're faster, Hugo. Make him pay for all that weight."
The cornermen retreated, leaving Hugo alone with the blinding lights and the massive bulk of Jason Bowen. The expectation hanging in the air, confirmed by the internal scoring that was now running in Silas's head, was grim: Hugo was likely down on the scorecards, something like 37 to 38 (following 8-10, 10-9, 9-10, 10-9 margins). Silas had it 2-2 but the 10-8 in the first might give him a split. He needed a finish, or at the very least, a round so decidedly dominant that it negated the low score in the first.
Silas stepped back from the cage and muttered to himself, "So no pressure at all."
Marie, leaning forward in her seat, saw his face and asked quietly, "Is he losing?"
Silas didn't look at her.
"He needs a big fifth."
Penelope's eyes widened.
"How big?"
Silas finally looked over.
"Big enough that nobody gets cute with the scorecards."
The bell rang for the fifth and final round. Both men came out moving cautiously, the weariness palpable in their slow, measured steps around the perimeter of the cage. They were exhausted, but the need for survival sharpened their senses.
Hugo stepped in first, initiating contact with a tentative exchange of leather. He tried to establish the distance game Silas preached. He fired off sharp, low leg kicks, snapping his right foot precisely into the meaty part of Bowen's left calf, then the right. This was the tactic Silas had devised after watching film—chip away at the base, make the powerhouse hesitate before committing to his explosive shots.
"Good," Silas murmured.
"Again," Olaf said quietly from ringside.
For the first three minutes, the strategy worked brilliantly. Bowen began to rush his takedown attempts, the leg kicks burning away his stability. His tell, the exact foot placement Silas had pinpointed, became telegraphic. Hugo saw it perfectly positioned halfway through the round—Bowen shifted his weight, the slight twist of the rear foot signaling the drive was coming.
Hugo met the attempt not with a defensive sprawl, but with perfect counter-offense. As Bowen shot in, Hugo drove his right knee upward like a piston, aiming for the center mass, but this time with his full weight and accumulated momentum behind it. The knee connected with the solid structure of Jason Bowen's nose and teeth.
The impact shuddered through the arena. A wet, sickening crunch was audible even over the din of the crowd. Blood sprayed from Bowen's face—nose, mouth, perhaps splintered teeth—painting a gruesome arc across the canvas. Bowen went down hard, driven by the force of the blow more than the strike itself.
The crowd exploded to its feet.
Silas shouted something unintelligible.
Marie clapped both hands over her mouth.
Hugo hesitated for a critical second. He thought the fight was over. He'd seen enough knockouts in training to know that kind of impact usually ended it instantly. Relief flooded him. He watched Bowen tumble.
But Jason Bowen was not unconscious. Instead, he was stunned, staggering on hands and knees, covering up instinctively as the fog cleared in his mind. Hugo snapped back to reality, the hesitation costing him the clean finish. He dove in, abandoning technique for brute aggression, aiming hammer fists down toward Bowen's exposed head. Bowen, reacting purely on survival instinct, managed to interlock his arms over his skull, turning his body to absorb the glancing blows.
"Finish!" someone screamed from deep in the crowd.
Hugo scrambled to take top position, looking to ground and pound once Bowen was fully compromised. But Bowen, using 30 vital seconds to simply survive the onslaught, managed to cover, stall, and finally, with excruciating slowness, claw his way back to his feet as the clock ticked down below ten seconds.
As Bowen stumbled upright, desperate to survive the round, Hugo, seeing his chance for a definitive round-winner, threw a massive, looping haymaker intended to separate Bowen from consciousness. The blow connected brutally against the side of Bowen's head. Bowen slumped instantly, crashing back to the canvas.
Before Hugo could even dive in, before the referee could rush forward to intervene, the bell signaling the end of the fight rang, echoing across the venue. The referee shoved Hugo away, getting between the fighters just as Bowen hit the mat, signaling the end of the action.
Hugo staggered backward, furious at the timing and too exhausted to voice it.
The referee pointed him toward his corner.
"Back!"
Both men, broken and exhausted, staggered to their respective corners to await the decision.
Silas, watching the judges intently from his position near the cage, noticed something deeply concerning. Two of the judges were already scribbling final scores, their focus intense. But the third judge, seated slightly apart near the commission official, was not reviewing the action. He was staring fixedly at his phone, his face pale, his hands visibly shaking.
Silas's expression hardened.
"That's not fight nerves," he muttered.
He activated his system—a low-level check, just to see if the man had crossed paths with anyone they flagged before. AN's celestial signature wasn't obvious, but there was a distinct, weak anchor tied to the man, a clear sign of leverage or influence. Apex Negativa has a hold. Silas immediately messaged Olaf through the comms system.
Olaf, who had been enjoying the intensity of the fight from ringside, felt the sharp ping. He frowned but maintained his composure, giving a slight nod to Jessalyn. He calmly excused himself from Freya's side and strode toward the commission area where the judges sat.
Jessalyn watched him go.
"That look again," she said quietly.
Freya didn't need anyone to explain it. Something had shifted.
He approached the nervous judge. Olaf's physical presence alone was enough to make the man flinch. He noted the first four rounds were scored seemingly predictably, showing the standard reading of the fight. But the judge's scorecard for the fifth round was blank.
Olaf cut straight to the point, his voice low but carrying the unmistakable resonance of authority. "Does someone have something on you? Blackmail? If so, tell me, and I can help."
The judge looked up, terrified, caught between the brute force of the man in front of him and the unseen pressure on his phone. "They have my family," he whispered, voice cracking. "I just received a text. They want me to make sure Hugo loses."
Olaf's imposing features tightened. "Where is your family?"
"They were in the stands. Someone has them; they are texting me from my wife's phone. They are not in their seats."
The man's lower lip trembled as he held out the phone with both hands.
"Please," he whispered. "Please."
Olaf took a deep, measured breath, projecting an aura of absolute control. "Give me five minutes. Fill out your card correctly, as the fight was won, and hand it in. I will delay the announcement of the winner until we find your family. But you have to trust me."
The judge, utterly broken and seeing no other recourse against the unknown threat, reluctantly nodded. Something in Olaf's assurance, perhaps the sheer force of his conviction, settled his panic momentarily.
He reached for his pen with a shaking hand.
Olaf wasted no second. He turned, moving with surprising speed for a man his size, and immediately signaled Freya (Jessalyn) and messaged Shane's team, demanding they get to ringside immediately. Back in the waiting area, Shane, already burdened by the weight of his Norn mother's recent communications, felt the frantic summons and responded instantly, quietly alerting Oscar, Ben, Cory, and Mike to stand ready. Gary and Amanda stayed put, watching the non-combatant group, while Veritas Alpha kept a quiet, focused watch over Harry and Erin who were safely sequestered.
Mike looked over at Shane as the alert landed.
"We got a problem?"
Shane's face hardened.
"Yes."
That was all he said, but it was enough.
Freya approached Olaf as he reached the edge of the ring apron. The crowd noise was a low hum of anticipation.
"What is it?" she asked urgently.
Olaf grimaced, pulling his cell phone from his shorts pocket. He quickly pulled up the text thread, focusing on the evidence of the threat, and showed the group the photo the blackmailer had sent—a picture of the judge's wife and two children, clearly taken from their seats in the stands, now clearly empty.
Freya's expression went cold.
Ben, ever the technician, zeroed in on the background details. "Ringside! Where were they seated?" the judge pointed weakly toward the section near the announcer's table. Ben quickly relayed the information to Cory, who had his recording equipment running and was still capturing the atmosphere.
Cory leaned in over Ben's shoulder.
"Hold there," he said. "Back it up three seconds."
Ben did.
"There," Cory said. "That one in the dark cap. He glances at the camera."
While Olaf took the microphone, his massive frame blocking the view of the judges, and began loudly stalling the proceedings—talking about the excitement of evening —Freya subtly focused her immense foresight power. She reached out with her own sight, trying to glimpse the immediate future, trying to sense the emotional resonance of the captors.
Then, Ben yelled loud enough to cut through the stalling. "I got it! I have the snatch! Just before the round ended, look at ringside footage, section C-4!" He directed Cory's attention to a specific video feed on his tablet.
Cory viewed the moment. Three agitators, dressed in the generic dark security clothing Olaf's contractors sometimes wore, were clearly seen grabbing the family, pulling them out of their seats and hustling them toward a side exit. They now had faces, clothing, and a direction.
Ben felt a grim little surge of satisfaction.
"Thank you, obsessive camera coverage," he muttered.
Shane didn't waste time analyzing. He saw the details in the information Ben presented and the surge of rage that hit him—the memory of Emma at Saul's house, the fear for Harry, the calculated cruelty of it all. He took off at a dead sprint, not using Super Speed, as he was still locked out from the previous exhaustion and skill deployment, but running with the raw, desperate power of a man who has everything to lose.
Mike watched him go and muttered, "That look again."
Oscar didn't ask what he meant.
He knew.
At that moment, his upgraded foresight flared again, no longer a general sense but a clear, focused vision: the thugs and the family—the wife and two children, around nine and twelve—crammed into a dark, cramped space; likely a utility closet or maintenance access point. He could see two of the captors, but the third was obscured. Shane quickly messaged his team: Check small utility closets or dark, unoccupied offices near the exits.
Ben's reply came back first.
Searching footage.
Cory's followed.
Moving to service corridor.
His anger boiled over. This wasn't about a fight; this was about calculated terrorizing. His system screamed: Quest - Save innocent people. Save the judge's family - reward 1 skill reset - using this reset bypasses all cooldowns on skills. He swiped the notification away with disgust; personal rewards mattered nothing while the judge's family was held at knife-point.
A second, more precise vision flashed: Thug Number Three, standing alone in a dimly lit tunnel, looking back towards the octagon, likely waiting for confirmation or the signal to move the others.
Shane sprinted toward the nearest tunnel entrance, realizing instantly the angle was wrong; he was heading to the maintenance access, but the vision showed the escape route leading toward the main service areas. He pivoted, screaming in frustration as he forced his body to cover distance faster than logic allowed, closing the gap toward the correct access point.
He slammed one hand against the wall to turn the corner harder.
Boots skidded.
He kept going.
He saw Thug Three, leaning against a wall, fiddling with a radio. Shane's rage blinded him, but his implanted knowledge—the mimicry of martial arts and the instinct for weakness—took over. He knew he couldn't just eliminate this man immediately. He needed information, a final point of reference.
Thug Three looked up too late.
"Hey—"
Shane slammed into Thug Three's back, locking a modified choke that resembled the aggressive, old-school wrestling move he'd seen in training videos. He squeezed, dumping his full leverage into the hold until the man gasped, then instantly activated the Copy skill.
The rush of memories was violent but immediate—the payoff for stealing the identity of a thug empowered by AN's shadow influence. He saw the location of the family—a small, dusty storage unit a few hundred yards beneath the main concourse. He felt the man's intent, the instructions from Thorne, the assurance that Thorne was the contact. Shane didn't hesitate. He snapped the thug's neck with a precise, horrifying torque.
The body dropped heavy.
Shane stood over it for half a heartbeat, breathing hard.
Then moved.
He immediately hit the Transform command, the agony of rapidly rearranging tissue and bone suppressed by pure adrenaline. He pulled the thug's heavy, dark jacket over his athletic frame, mirroring the aggressive posture he'd just absorbed from the memories.
"I have them," he projected over the system comms, his voice now a slightly rougher echo of the thug he'd just killed. "I'll secure them and report back."
Ben, hearing the voice through the system, whispered, "That trick is still horrifying."
No one disagreed.
He sprinted down the service corridors until he found the specified storage room, several hundred yards from the ring area. Keeping the aggressive stance, he knocked the specific, coded set of raps he'd learned: three dull, one sharp, and two quick taps.
There was movement inside.
A bolt slid.
The door slid open a crack. Shane slid into the room, his eyes instantly adjusting to the gloom. Inside, two thugs were present. One, the leader, was standing near the youngest child, a nine-year-old boy, holding a makeshift blade—a sharpened piece of scrap metal—to his neck. The judge's wife and older daughter were bound and gagged in the corner.
The boy's eyes were huge.
The mother was trying not to cry loud enough to make things worse.
"Did the judge do it?" the leader snarled, gesturing with the knife toward the cell phone that lay on a nearby crate.
Shane, channeling the rage of every past trauma he'd survived, the lie an agonizing weight in his throat, nodded grimly. "Yes."
The leader, emboldened by the perceived success of their operation, stepped forward. "So Hugo lost, right man? Speak up!"
Shane forced the word out, letting the lie burn. "Yes."
He needed the final piece—the identity of the man who sent these disposable operatives. "When do we get paid?" Shane asked, his voice guttural, the transformation holding steady.
The other thug, clearly nervous, interrupted, "As soon as we get rid of these three and get out of here. Thorne will meet us at his office near downtown."
Shane pushed, feigning doubt. "Do you trust this guy? Does he even have the money? I don't know him."
The leader sneered, clearly the man in charge of this team. "Thorne won't screw us. He is legit. Just don't make him mad. I saw him mad at the meeting when he sent us here. He hit the leader of the lobos so hard it killed him."
That was the confirmation. Thorne, not some nameless contact. Shane straightened, adopting a casual posture, and extended his hand for a handshake, a gesture of agreement. The thug leader, confused by the sudden change in the presumed subordinate, hesitated for a fatal fraction of a second.
The second thug frowned.
"What are you—"
Shane moved faster than a thought. He slammed his fingers straight into the thug leader's Adam's apple. The man convulsed, clawing at his throat, the air escaping in a choked, wet hiss. The knife clattered from his hand.
The second thug, mouth agape in shock at his leader's sudden collapse, didn't even register the movement of Shane's other hand. Shane caught the falling knife and, using that same surge of controlled violence, sank the blade deep into the center of the stunned thug's skull. As the man convulsed, Shane finished it, snapping the leader's neck as the last gasps of air fled his lungs.
The room went still except for the muffled sounds of the family.
Leaving the bodies by the storage crates, Shane moved toward the family. He hit the Transform command again, the feeling equally repulsive as the first time, morphing back into his own form, sweat instantly drenching his clothes. He quickly moved to the family, ripping the tape from mouths and the bindings from their wrists and ankles.
The judge's wife gasped the second the tape came free.
"Oh God—"
"You're okay," Shane said quickly. "You're okay. We're getting you out."
The daughter burst into tears the moment her hands were free.
The little boy just clung to his mother.
The moment he pulled the hood off the judge's wife, a huge flash of light flooded the small room as Freya, Olaf, Ben, Cory, and the now-arrived Silas burst through the access door. Ben's camera, still running, caught the entire sequence—the crying family, the immediate aftermath of the violence, and Shane, exhausted, drenched, standing over the scene.
Silas looked at Shane, then at the bodies, then back at Shane.
"I'm not even going to ask," he muttered.
The judge's wife sobbed, clutching her children. Freya (Jessalyn) immediately moved to console the traumatized family, her expression radiating an ancient, maternal empathy. Seconds later, the judge himself barreled into the room, engulfed his family, unable to stop thanking Olaf and Shane.
"My God—thank you—thank you—"
He couldn't seem to stop saying it.
His wife clutched him back so tightly it looked painful.
Jessalyn gently ushered the family toward the exit, whispering words of comfort, knowing the men needed to handle the cleanup. Olaf, regaining his furious composure, made a quick call to his internal security team, confirming the location of the subdued agitators and the new, unwanted casualties he needed dealt with.
"Get a team down here," Olaf said into the phone. "Quietly. Now."
Shane walked over to Olaf, leaning heavily on his own exhaustion, the adrenaline crash setting in hard. "Olaf, after this, we all need to talk. I have a lot of new information to discuss, and frankly, I need to know exactly what I am."
Olaf nodded, placing a heavy, reassuring hand on Shane's back, looking him squarely in the eye. "You surprise me constantly, Roofer. I am very glad you are on my side."
Silas, still catching his breath, gave a tired little laugh.
"Yeah," he said. "Same."
⸻
"If you enjoyed Shane's journey, please drop a Power Stone! It helps the Common Sense Party grow!"