The underground corridor narrowed as Albert and Harriet walked, stone walls sweating moisture, lanterns humming with a dull, electrical buzz.
Every step downward felt heavier, like the city above was slowly sealing shut behind them.
Voices murmured through the cracks of wall. Cheers, arguments, laughter sharp with greed.
"The noise gets worse every round," Harriet muttered, hands in her coat pockets.
"Means more money. More idiots."
Albert said nothing. His focus was steady, almost distant. Semi-final. The word was screamed louder in the crowd.
Piere Lal's final expression still lingered somewhere in the back of his mind.
A man who knew when the table had turned against him. Although, he lost by himself.
They passed the final iron gate.
The arena opened like a wound beneath the city.
Rows upon rows of spectators filled the circular pit, faces half-lit by hanging lamps and floating screens.
Smoke curled upward, thick with incense, sweat and old blood scrubbed poorly from stone.
Bets were shouted, chips clattered, papers exchanged hands faster than thoughts. Everyone here believed luck was a weapon.
The stage sat at the center—wide, reinforced stone etched with faded symbols from tournaments long past.
Wounds told stories of bones broken and wills crushed.
The announcer's voice boomed suddenly, amplified, theatrical,
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—WELCOME TO THE SEMI-FINAL ROUND!"
The crowd roared back, a living thing.
Albert stood at the edge, coat still on, gaze locked forward.
"And now—our next match! Is between, ALBERT NEWTON!"
Noise exploded. Some cheers. More whispers. A name which everyone remembered through the previous matches.
Harriet leaned closer. "Underground's favorite mistake-maker." he murmured. "Congrats."
Albert exhaled once.
The Announcer continued the opponent's name,
"VERSUS—OLFASTEN!"
The opposite gate creaked open.
A man stepped out calmly. Very short hair. Sack-like robes tied loosely at the waist, bare feet touching stone without hesitation.
His posture was straight, serene eyes lowered, hands folded as if this were a temple, not a gambling pit.
"A MONK WARRIOR OF THE EASTERN ORDER!"
The crowd reacted differently this time. Uneasy but curious.
Olfasten lifted his head slowly. His eyes were clear and sharp as a predator.
Albert adjusted his coat down in Harriet's hand.
Albert stepped forward until only a decameter separated him from the monk. The noise dulled distant, as if the crowd itself leaned in.
Olfasten raised his head fully now. His face was empty of anything recognizably human. And yet, there was excitement there.
Albert met his gaze without blinking.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Albert reached up, removed his hat, and held it out behind him without looking.
Harriet took it automatically.
"Don't lose it, I ain't giving away my wallet." Albert said.
Harriet smirked. "Win fast. I don't like waiting."
He turned and slipped into the audience, vanishing into the layered seats and flickering lights. Albert rolled his shoulders once, slow and deliberate then stepped onto the stage.
Olfasten was already there on the stage.
Bare feet on stone. Sack cloth brushed against his ankles.
Hands relaxed at his sides, fingers scarred and disciplined. His lips curved not for a smile, but his eyes gleamed with restrained delight.
The announcer cleared his throat, letting the tension stretch just long enough.
"Alright." he said warmly, almost fondly, "let's relax for a second, yeah? This is the semi-final. Means nobody here is lucky. Everybody here earned their scars."
A ripple of laughter and cheers followed.
He gestured broadly. "Now let's unravel the rules. Not laws. Rules. Break them too hard, and the house breaks you back."
The lights dimmed slightly, focusing on the stage.
"Condition One." the announcer continued, pacing. "No instant kills. However, you can do hurt, cripple or terrify your opponent. But you don't end a life in a blink. This is a gamble, not an battle to the death."
A murmur of approval.
"Condition Two." he said, pointing upward. "Supernatural abilities are limited by strain. Elemental use is permitted—fire, ice, shock, force, whatever gods you borrowed from but no continuous casting longer than five seconds. Cooldown applies. Overuse means breaking rules and backlash is very real."
He tapped his temple. "Your body remembers what your mind forgets."
Albert flexed his fingers. A faint tremor of pressure rippled the air around his knuckles, then faded.
Olfasten's eyes followed it with interest.
"Condition Three." the announcer said, voice lowering. "No external tool or hidden talismans are allowed. What you brought into the ring is what you are."
A few monks in the crowd hissed. Olfasten did not react.
"Condition Four." he added, smiling crookedly, "The stage is neutral unlike other matches. The environment can be affected but not destroyed."
The stone beneath Albert's boots felt suddenly alive.
"And finally." the announcer said, spreading his hands, "victory is declared by surrender, incapacitation or unanimous judge call. Pride alone doesn't count."
Albert took one step closer.
Olfasten mimicked him.
They stopped inches apart.
Albert's shadow cut across the monk's chest. Olfasten's breath was steady. Joyful in a way that didn't need expression.
The announcer's voice softened. "Gentlemen.… take your stances."
They stood so close their breaths crossed.
Olfasten spoke first, voice low, gently,
"You are loud inside, my misbegotten maggot." he said. "I am not talking about wrath. In hunger. You gamble because emptiness terrifies you."
Albert's lips twitched. "Funny, I am not like others, I have a certain reason for being here, like you. You monks usually charge for fortune-telling."
"I am not telling your future." Olfasten replied. His eyes were clear. "I am observing your craving. Victory is only the shape you give it."
Albert leaned in a fraction. "Craving keeps people alive down here."
"No." Olfasten said softly. "Craving keeps people moving. Living requires acceptance. You have not accepted anything yet."
Albert chuckled under his breath. "Acceptance sounds like quitting with better branding."
Olfasten's gaze didn't waver. "Quitting implies resistance. I let go. You better go and cling to those non-living things."
Albert tilted his head, voice dropping. "You shaved your head, wrapped yourself in rags, crawled into a pit full of degenerates and you want to lecture me about letting go?"
An exhale escaped Olfasten. Appreciation. "You think I am here to win." he said. "I am here to witness myself under pressure. To see which illusion survives."
Albert's smile sharpened. "That's cute. Really cute. When I knock you flat, you can witness the floor too."
Olfasten nodded, as if agreeing with a weather report. "Fear is a teacher." he said. "But it only teaches what the student is ready to learn."
Albert's eyes hardened. "I never missed a class though." A expressionless smirk flew over his face.
He stepped closer still, forehead nearly touching Olfasten's. "Tell me." he whispered venomously and calm, "when I break your ribs and the crowd laughs—does enlightenment help you feel the heaven?"
For the first time, something stirred behind Olfasten's eyes.
" Meaning comes and goes regardless." he answered. "Suffering is optional. You will suffer more watching me stand than striking me down."
Albert scoffed. "You monks really love hearing yourselves talk."
"Because words are safer than fists." Olfasten said. "You dress cruelty as strategy. Rage as motivation. You want me angry because anger makes me small."
Albert's voice turned colder. "No. I want you sloppy."
Olfasten smiled.... barely. "Then you misunderstand me."
Albert straightened, cracking his neck once. "You know," he said, louder now, just enough for the front rows to catch fragments, "I have beaten saints, liars and men who thought pain was holy. They all barked the same as you."
Olfasten's hands came together lightly, not in prayer. Balance. "Screams are honest."
he replied. "Silence is harder to believe on."
Somewhere in the audience, Harriet leaned forward without realizing it.
The announcer's voice hovered at the edge of the moment but did not cut in.
The Clash Began