Chapter 1: canvas of betrayal
The first thing Ray Ashford heard before he died… was the crowd chanting his name.
"RAY! RAY! RAY!"
Neo-London Arena trembled under fifty thousand screaming throats. Steel beams vibrated overhead. Giant holographic screens projected his bruised face across the world—Lowtown slums, Uptown towers, betting lounges in Dubai Sector, underground dens in Lagos Grid.
Blood dripped from his chin onto the white canvas.
White.
Funny how the canvas always started white.
Across from him stood Fighter #42 — Marcus Hale.
His best friend.
Or at least… he had been.
Marcus' gloves were red. Not from design.
From Ray.
"Stay down," Marcus whispered through swollen lips. "Just stay down."
Ray blinked through blood. His right eye was half-shut. Two ribs cracked. Left wrist barely functioning.
Stay down?
In the previous three rounds, Marcus had fought like a man possessed. No hesitation. No mercy. Every punch carried intent to end.
Ray tasted copper.
The announcer's voice boomed:
"FINAL ROUND! ONE MAN WALKS TO UPTOWN!"
The rich leaned forward in their velvet seats. Uptown elites sipping crystal wine. Betting algorithms spiking in real time.
This was it.
The first tournament in years where someone might actually win.
And Ray was seconds from claiming it.
He saw it then — something strange.
Marcus' corner.
Not cheering.
Watching.
A tall silhouette stood behind them. Calm. Hands behind his back.
Austin Green.
The Host.
The former champion.
The man who built this death carnival.
Austin's eyes met Ray's across the arena.
And he smiled.
Something cold crawled up Ray's spine.
The bell rang.
Marcus rushed him.
Too aggressive.
Wrong foot placement.
Wrong angle.
Ray had trained with him for years. He knew Marcus' rhythm like a heartbeat.
This wasn't his rhythm.
Ray slipped left. Countered with a liver shot.
Marcus flinched — late.
Too late.
Ray's brain screamed:
He's off.
A right hook crashed into Ray's temple.
Stars exploded.
Canvas tilted.
He dropped to one knee.
The crowd roared.
"GET UP!" someone screamed.
Marcus' breathing sounded wrong.
Fast. Erratic.
Ray forced himself up at eight.
His vision doubled.
And then he saw it.
Marcus' eyes.
They weren't cruel.
They were terrified.
"Forgive me," Marcus mouthed.
Forgive you?
Ray tried to step back.
His legs failed.
Marcus' final punch came like a train.
Right cross.
Clean.
Perfect.
Impact shattered something deep inside his skull.
Ray hit the canvas hard.
The world went silent.
Count began.
One…
Two…
Three…
His thoughts slowed.
This is it.
He had trusted Marcus. Shared training. Shared dreams. Shared hunger.
And Marcus had taken Uptown over him.
The count reached ten.
The bell rang.
The arena exploded.
Marcus Hale — Champion.
Ray's body lay motionless.
The last thing he saw was Austin Green clapping slowly.
Smiling.
Darkness swallowed him.
Cold air hit his lungs.
Ray gasped violently.
He bolted upright.
Breathing hard.
Alive.
The smell was wrong.
No blood.
No arena.
Just cheap locker room disinfectant.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead.
His chest rose and fell rapidly.
He looked at his hands.
Unbroken.
Unscarred.
Young.
The mirror in front of him reflected a 23-year-old man.
No final-fight damage.
No championship scars.
Just rookie nerves.
The digital clock on the wall read:
APRIL 17, 2050
ROOKIE QUALIFIER NIGHT
Ray's stomach dropped.
No.
No.
This was—
This was his first professional fight.
Before the tournament.
Before Marcus' betrayal.
Before Kim left.
Before everything collapsed.
His breath steadied slowly.
"I'm dead…" he muttered.
A translucent blue screen flickered in front of him.
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZING… ]
Ray froze.
"…You've got to be kidding me."
[ REINCARNATION CONFIRMED ]
[ MEMORY RETENTION: ACTIVE ]
[ GROWTH SYSTEM ONLINE ]
He stared.
"Of course there's a system," he muttered dryly. "Because dying once wasn't dramatic enough."
Stats appeared:
Strength: 12
Speed: 13
Reflex: 14
Endurance: 11
Fight IQ: 16
Precision: 15
Pain Tolerance: 10
Recovery Speed: 9
Low.
Rookie level.
He leaned back in his chair.
He remembered everything.
Every fight.
Every punch.
Every mistake.
Marcus' face when he whispered forgive me.
Ray's jaw tightened.
"So you planned it from the beginning," he muttered.
Knock knock.
Locker room door opened.
Marcus Hale stepped in.
Younger.
Healthier.
Smiling.
"Hey! You ready?" Marcus grinned. "We're finally here, Ray. Lowtown to Uptown one day, yeah?"
Ray stared at him.
Same voice.
Same face.
Same man who stood over his corpse.
His chest tightened — but his expression stayed neutral.
Cold.
Controlled.
Marcus walked closer.
"After tonight we celebrate. Drinks on me."
Ray stood slowly.
Studied him.
There was no guilt in Marcus' eyes.
No darkness.
Just ambition.
Had he imagined it?
No.
He remembered the whisper.
Forgive me.
Ray grabbed his gloves.
"Don't wait for me after," he said flatly.
Marcus blinked. "What?"
"I don't celebrate with people I'll have to beat later."
Marcus laughed. "That's the spirit."
Ray walked past him.
Didn't smile.
Didn't look back.
Neo-London Arena — Rookie Division.
Not yet the Death Tournament.
But the same steel colosseum.
Same roaring Lowtown crowd.
Same hungry cameras.
Ray stepped into the ring.
Across from him stood mountain lee (#1 on future roster).
In Ray's previous life, lee had knocked him down twice in this match.
Ray remembered every second.
The bell rang.
Lee rushed aggressively.
Predictable.
Ray sidestepped.
Countered.
Perfect timing.
Lee blinked in surprise.
Ray's internal voice whispered:
You always drop your right shoulder before committing.
Left hook to jaw.
CRACK.
Tooth flew.
Crowd gasped.
Lee staggered.
Ray moved efficiently.
No wasted motion.
Three-punch combination.
Body. Head. Liver.
Lee folded.
Ray stepped back.
Let him rise.
Because the system was watching.
Lee charged blindly.
Ray slipped.
Uppercut.
Bone met bone.
Lee collapsed face-first.
Unconscious.
Silence.
Then eruption.
Knockout.
First round.
Ray looked at his gloves.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Just clarity.
[ FIGHT WON ]
[ PERFORMANCE RATING: A+ ]
[ +5 Stat Points Earned ]
Ray smirked slightly.
"Okay," he muttered. "Now we're talking."
In the VIP section above, Austin Green watched the rookie fight.
His expression unreadable.
Beside him, a staff member said, "That kid's promising."
Austin leaned forward slightly.
"Monitor him."
Below, Marcus stared at Ray with admiration.
"Guess I'll have to catch up," Marcus laughed.
Ray stepped down from the ring.
Cold eyes.
Different this time.
He wouldn't trust.
He wouldn't hesitate.
He wouldn't lose.
But as he walked toward the tunnel, something flickered in his memory.
Marcus' terrified eyes.
Forgive me.
And above that memory—
Austin Green smiling.
Ray's jaw tightened.
"Doesn't matter," he whispered.
"Anyone in my way… falls."
The cameras zoomed in on him.
Lowtown cheered.
Uptown bettors recalculated.
And in the shadows of the arena, Austin Green's slow clap echoed faintly.
The game had restarted.
And this time—
Ray remembered everything.