The venue was a beast of steel and shadow—a circular arena caged in chain-link and iron, lit by spotlights that burned like interrogation lamps. The audience sat in ascending tiers, all masked, faces hidden behind porcelain, leather, and chrome. Anonymity was currency here. Identity, a liability.
The air tasted of sweat, blood, and anticipation.
Kairon stood in the entrance tunnel, watching the final preparations. Workers dragged fresh sand across bloodstains from earlier matches. Bookies shouted odds to masked gamblers. The cage door hung open like a mouth waiting to be fed.
The announcer—a broad-shouldered man in an expensive suit that looked wrong in this place—stepped into the ring's center. His voice boomed through speakers mounted in the rafters.
"Welcome, you beautiful, bloodthirsty bastards, to the Underground Tournament!"
The crowd roared. Not polite applause—something rawer, hungrier.
"For the next five nights, you'll witness the finest, the deadliest, the most unhinged fighters Keystone City has to offer!" He spread his arms wide, drinking in the energy. "Thirty-two warriors entered this tournament. By dawn, only sixteen will remain standing!"
Another roar. Kairon felt it in his chest, a physical thing.
"The rules are simple!" The announcer's grin was predatory. "One-on-one combat. Winners advance. Losers..." He shrugged. "Well, let's just say the house has excellent insurance."
Scattered laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Masks and costumes are allowed—we respect your need for mystery and dramatic flair. But no hidden tech, no unfair advantages. What you bring is what you've got." He pulled a wicked-looking knife from his jacket, letting light catch the blade. "One weapon per fighter. Cold steel only—no firearms, no modern bullshit. This is about skill, not trigger fingers."
He pointed to a fighter in the far corner, where electricity crackled between their fingers. "Powers? Hell yes, powers are allowed. Meta-humans, magic users, whatever freak shit you've got running through your veins—bring it. Makes the show more interesting."
The crowd's energy spiked.
"Armor must be light. You want protection? Fine. You want to waddle in here like a tank? Find another tournament." He gestured to the private rooms lining the arena's perimeter. "Each fighter waits alone until their match. No watching other fights. No coaching. No interference. You step into this cage, you're on your own."
The announcer's expression darkened, his voice dropping to something almost reverent.
"Victory comes by knockout or surrender. Officially, kills end the match." His grin returned, sharper. "Unofficially? Nobody stops them if they happen. Death is part of the game here. Expected. Encouraged. You sign up for this tournament, you accept you might not walk out. Clear?"
Silence answered him. The kind of silence that came from people who'd already made peace with mortality.
"Excellent." His grin widened. "Then let's begin!"
The crowd exploded as the first two fighters were called. Kairon turned away, following the attendant's gesture toward a narrow corridor that led to the waiting rooms.
The arena's roar faded behind him, replaced by the echo of his boots on concrete.
[Sage: Well. That was theatrical. 'Beautiful, bloodthirsty bastards?' Really?]
"It's honest, at least," Kairon murmured. "No pretense here."
[Sage: True. Though I notice he didn't mention prize money. Curious.]
"Doesn't matter. I'm not here for money."
[Sage: Right. You're here to 'become something more.' Very poetic. Also possibly suicidal, but I've stopped trying to talk you out of things.]
The attendant stopped at a plain metal door marked with a spray-painted "7." He opened it without ceremony and stepped aside.
Kairon entered. The door closed behind him with a heavy click.
***
The room was brutally functional—concrete walls, a single bench, a mirror with a crack running through it like a scar. No windows. No decorations. Just the muffled sounds of violence bleeding through the walls.
Match one had already started. Kairon could hear it—the crowd's roar rising and falling like a tide, punctuated by impacts that shook dust from the ceiling.
He sat on the bench, perfectly still, breathing steady.
[Sage: Match one. Estimating duration based on crowd intensity... they're still going. This one's lasting.]
"Not our concern."
[Sage: Cold. I like it.]
The sounds continued—a sustained battle, not a quick demolition. The crowd's energy remained high, suggesting technical skill or evenly matched opponents. Finally, after what felt like fifteen minutes, a massive impact rattled the walls. The crowd's roar peaked, shifted into something uglier—not celebration, acknowledgment. Someone had gone down hard.
Match one concluded. The announcer's voice boomed through the walls, muffled but triumphant. A winner was declared. The crowd's energy reset, hungry for the next offering.
Kairon closed his eyes, centering himself. Madara's combat instincts whispered tactics. Iruma's analytical mind cataloged variables. His own Amazonian blood hummed beneath his skin, eager for release.
Five days of preparation. It all came down to this.
[Sage: Want to review your status before stepping into the meat grinder?]
"Show me."
A translucent interface materialized:
***
STATUS
Rank: High Genin+ (Combat Ready)
Physical Attributes:
- Strength: 68 (Chakra Enhanced: 86 | Enhancement Magic: 136)
- Speed:73 (Chakra Enhanced: 92 | Enhancement Magic: 146)
- Stamina:63 (Chakra Enhanced: 88 | Enhancement Magic: 126)
- Perception:78 (Sharingan Active: 98)
Energy Systems:
- Chakra: 580/580 | Recovery: 6.5/min
- Mana: 530/530 | Recovery: 5.5/min
Combat Skills:
- Taijutsu:29% | Kenjutsu: 26%
- Chakra Control: Advanced+ (Wall-walking: 95%, Water-walking: 71%)
- Alchemy: Intermediate+ | Magic: Intermediate+
Active Abilities:
- Sharingan: Single Tomoe (Enhanced perception, movement prediction, combat application improved)
- Enhancement Magic: Doubles all physical stats | Duration: 5 minutes | Stamina drain: 2x | Cooldown: 10 minutes
- Amazonian Heritage:Partially Awakened (Enhanced healing, increased strength, emerging combat instincts)
- Shadow Clone Jutsu: Maximum 2 clones
- Academy Three: Transformation, Clone, Substitution
- Fire Release: Great Fireball (Miniature, improved stability)
- Wind Release: Gale Palm (Enhanced control, projectile deflection)
Equipment:
- Combat Suit: ANBU-style, black, enhanced impact absorption, maximum flexibility
- Kitsune Mask: White porcelain with red accents (tournament identity)
- Enhanced Sword: Molecularly reinforced, obsidian-sharp edge, integrated neurotoxin reservoir (activatable)
- Utility Items:Upgraded kunai (x15), shuriken (x25), smoke bombs (x10), wire traps (x8)
System Currency: ¥7,650,000 | System Points: 0
Tournament Intelligence: 17 documented fighters (partial intel), 15 unknowns (high threat potential)
Status: Ready.
***
Kairon studied the numbers with clinical detachment. Five days compressed into measurable progress. His taijutsu and kenjutsu had improved—not dramatically, but enough to matter. Chakra control was approaching mastery in wall-walking. Water-walking still needed work.
But the real gains were tactical.
[Sage: Enhancement Magic is your ace. Five minutes of overwhelming physical superiority. Use it wrong, and you'll burn out before finishing the fight. Use it right, and most opponents won't know what hit them.]
"Timing is everything."
[Sage: Precisely. Also, your sword modifications are borderline cheating. The neurotoxin won't kill, but it'll compromise motor control and weaken muscles. One solid cut, and your opponent's body starts betraying them. Just remember—if they figure out the blade is poisoned, they'll adjust. Save it for critical moments.]
"Understood."
[Sage: And the intelligence you gathered?]
Kairon's golden eyes gleamed behind his closed lids. Five days of careful observation. Bars frequented by fighters. Smaller fight pits where preliminary rounds ran. Subtle genjutsu on drunk veterans who liked to brag about their opponents.
He'd identified seventeen fighters with documented abilities—some with obvious weaknesses, others legitimately dangerous. Fifteen remained complete unknowns. Those were the ones that worried him most.
"Enough to avoid complacency," he said. "Not enough to feel safe."
[Sage: Good answer. You're high genin with exceptional physical stats and past-life tactical knowledge. That makes you dangerous. But thirty-one other fighters are here for the same reason you are. Some will be stronger. Some will have abilities you can't predict. Some will just get lucky.]
"Then I'll make my own luck."
[Sage: Very protagonist of you.]
Match two began and ended in what sounded like a brutal exchange—shorter than the first, but the crowd's roar suggested intensity. Ten minutes, maybe twelve. Someone had earned their victory the hard way.
Match three stretched longer. Kairon tracked it through sound alone—the ebb and flow of crowd energy, extended exchanges suggesting technical skill. Seventeen minutes before the final bell. The crowd's appreciation was genuine this time.
Kairon opened his eyes, checking the cracked mirror. His reflection stared back—sharp features, vanta-black hair, golden eyes that glowed faintly in the dim light. His mother's eyes. Aella's legacy.
He wondered, briefly, what she would think of this. An underground tournament, death matches for anonymous crowds, violence as currency.
Then he dismissed the thought. She'd been a warrior. She'd understand.
Match six began.
Kairon stood, stretching. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his fingers, felt the phantom weight of his sword even though it was stored in his inventory. His ANBU suit moved like a second skin—reinforced but flexible, designed for the kind of combat where a single restricted movement could mean death.
The kitsune mask sat on the bench beside him, white porcelain gleaming.
Match six escalated. The crowd's energy spiked—something exciting was happening. Kairon heard impacts that rattled the walls, roars that suggested powers being unleashed.
[Sage: This one's lasting. Evenly matched, or both fighters are tanking damage and refusing to quit.]
"Smart money's on the second option."
[Sage: Agreed. These tournaments don't attract quitters.]
The battle continued—sustained, brutal, punctuated by moments that made the walls shake. Fourteen minutes. Eighteen. Twenty. The crowd was loving it.
Finally, a massive impact. Bigger than anything before. The entire room shook, dust raining from the ceiling. The crowd's roar became something primal.
Then silence.
Kairon tilted his head, listening.
The announcer's voice boomed, muffled through concrete but unmistakable in its triumphant energy. A winner declared. The crowd erupted—genuine appreciation this time, not just bloodlust.
[Sage: Match six concluded. Twenty-three minutes. Based on crowd reaction, that was a hell of a fight. Whoever won earned their advance.]
Footsteps in the corridor outside. Getting closer.
Kairon picked up the kitsune mask, turning it in his hands. White porcelain, red accents, a slight grin frozen in its features. Anonymous. Memorable. Perfect.
He slipped it on. The world narrowed to the view through the eye slots, everything taking on a predatory focus.
The door opened.
A masked attendant stood in the threshold, expression hidden behind a plain black mask. "Your turn, Raze. Match number seven."
Kairon stood, summoning his sword from inventory in a shimmer of light. The blade materialized in his hand—perfectly balanced, edge gleaming, the neurotoxin reservoir a weight against his palm he could activate with a thought.
He walked past the attendant into the corridor.
The crowd's roar hit him like a physical force, muffled by concrete but growing louder with each step. The tunnel sloped upward, harsh lights casting stark shadows. Ahead, the arena waited—spotlights, steel cage, hundreds of masked faces hungry for violence.
[Sage: Five days of preparation. Equipment upgraded. Skills refined. Intelligence gathered. You're as ready as you're going to be.]
"More than ready."
[Sage: That's either confidence or delusion. We'll find out which in about thirty seconds.]
Kairon's lips curved behind the mask. "Looking forward to it."
He stepped from shadow into light.
***
The roar was deafening.
Spotlights tracked him as he emerged from the tunnel, the kitsune mask catching the light, his movements deliberate and assured. The crowd pressed against the rails, a sea of masks and reaching hands, their voices blending into a wordless howl of anticipation.
Kairon walked to the center of the cage, boots silent on blood-stained canvas. He stopped, perfectly still, absorbing the moment. The weight of hundreds of eyes. The electric tension in the air. The promise of violence about to be fulfilled.
This was what he'd come for.
The announcer stepped forward, microphone in hand, grin splitting his face.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Match number seven!" He gestured to Kairon with theatrical flair. "In this corner, a newcomer to our illustrious stage—the mysterious, the enigmatic, the kitsune-masked warrior who demolished our preliminaries in eight seconds flat—RAZE!"
The crowd's reaction split—half erupting in curiosity-fueled cheers, half remaining skeptical, waiting to see if the preliminary performance was luck or skill.
Kairon didn't acknowledge them. Just stood, breathing steady, mind clear.
The announcer let the moment breathe, building tension like a conductor holding a note. Then he turned to the opposite entrance, spotlight swinging to illuminate a closed door.
"And his opponent..."
The crowd leaned forward as one.
"...a man who needs no introduction. Sixteen matches in the underground circuit. Sixteen victories. Zero defeats. A fighter whose defense is legendary, whose power is unstoppable, whose very presence makes lesser men reconsider their life choices—"
The door began to open.
"—the living fortress, the indomitable wall, the champion you love to watch demolish opponents—IRONHIDE!"
The figure that stepped into the light made the crowd explode.
He was massive—not just tall but broad, built like violence given physical form. Seven and a half feet of scarred muscle and barely contained aggression. But it was his skin that made him legendary.
As Ironhide entered the cage, his transformation began.
His flesh rippled, color draining from tan to silver-gray. The change spread from his core outward—chest, arms, legs, face—until every inch of exposed skin gleamed metallic under the spotlights. Even his hair shifted, taking on the sheen of burnished steel. His nails became small blades. His eyes flashed an eerie, cold blue—glowing for a heartbeat before settling into an icy, predatory stare.
The scars remained. Deep gouges across his arms, a slash along his ribs, a puncture near his collarbone. Each one a testament to the rare attacks that had managed to pierce his defense and the fighters who'd tried and failed to finish what they started.
The crowd chanted his name like a prayer. "IRONHIDE! IRONHIDE! IRONHIDE!"
He raised both fists, and the metallic sheen caught the light, turning him into something more statue than man. The crowd's energy peaked, shaking the arena's foundation.
[Sage: Well. That's unfortunate.]
"Analysis," Kairon murmured, studying his opponent through the Sharingan's lens.
[Sage: Organic metal transformation—ferrous-based. Defense will be exceptional, possibly near-impenetrable. Movement speed reduced but compensated by raw power. Strength significantly above yours, even enhanced. One solid hit could end you.]
"Weaknesses?"
[Sage: Weaknesses: joints are less protected—wrists, elbows, knees, neck. Flexibility compromised, so expect straight-line attacks. Maintaining metal form likely drains energy—long fight might force him back to flesh.]
"Good."
[Sage: 'Good,' he says, facing a seven-foot metal giant. Your optimism is inspiring or suicidal.]
The announcer stepped between them, voice booming. "Fighters! You know the rules! One weapon, no hidden tech, powers allowed, victory by knockout or surrender!" He looked at each of them in turn. "Ready?"
Ironhide cracked his neck, the sound like steel grinding against steel. His cold blue eyes locked onto Kairon with the focus of someone who'd never lost and didn't plan to start now.
Kairon simply nodded, hand resting on his sword's hilt.
The announcer backed toward the cage door, letting the tension coil like a spring. The crowd held its breath, hundreds of masked faces waiting for the violence to begin.
The arena fell silent—a perfect, crystalline moment of anticipation.
Then the announcer's voice exploded through the speakers.
"Three..."
The world narrowed. Kairon's breathing slowed. His Sharingan activated, crimson and black bleeding into the gold of his irises, the single tomoe beginning its slow rotation.
"Two..."
Ironhide shifted his stance, metallic muscles coiling, preparing to charge. His eyes never left Kairon's masked face.
"One..."
Kairon's fingers tightened on his sword's hilt. Enhancement magic hummed just beneath his skin, ready to activate. The neurotoxin reservoir pulsed against his palm, waiting for his command.
[Sage: Here we go. Try not to die in the first ten seconds. It would be embarrassing after all this buildup.]
The bell rang—a single, clear note that cut through the silence like a blade.
"FIGHT!"
Ironhide exploded forward, metallic feet cracking the canvas, fist cocked back like a wrecking ball preparing to swing.
Kairon's Sharingan tracked the movement, predicting trajectory, calculating angles.
The crowd roared.
The storm had arrived.
[END CHAPTER 3]