(Magnara, 1464 A.S.)
Location: Ring III — Grindgate Pit
They gave the locker his own name before they gave him his own room.
RAGE scratched into the metal door. Not neat. Not pretty. Deep.
The room itself was barely bigger than a storage closet—two cracked benches, a warped mirror bolted crooked to the wall, a single aura-lamp humming above like it was thinking about dying. The brick sweated. The floor had a dark ring where other men's blood had dried and never really left.
Michael Rage sat on the bench, elbows on his knees, bare back curved, bandage roll hanging loose from his fingers.
Somebody had pinned a sheet of paper over the old fight listings on the inside of the door. Cheap ink, smudged, but readable:
TONIGHT — "THE STRONGEST MAN ALIVE" vs ANYONE STUPID ENOUGH
He stared at it until the words blurred.
Strongest man alive.
He knew it wasn't true. Somewhere out there was a man who could drop continents of aura on you with a lazy blink—Master, the one the Association whispered about like a ghost story. Rage didn't know his name yet, just the shape of the fear.
But in Magnara? In this ring? In this filthy little slice of the Steel Flame Republic?
No one had found a body that hit harder than his.
The crowd decided that was enough.
He tugged the bandage around his left wrist. Pull. Wrap. Knot. The same ritual every night; it felt more like counting down than getting ready.
A murmur rolled through the walls—dull and distant, like the whole building was breathing. The pit above them was already full. You could tell the difference between a normal night and a "name night" just by how the stone vibrated.
Tonight, it shook.
The door clanged once.
"Rage," a voice called from the other side. "You're on deck."
He didn't answer right away. He watched his own reflection in the warped mirror. Dark skin slick with a thin sheen of sweat. Shoulders too broad for the room. Back muscles standing out like braided cable. His hair was pulled back messily; it didn't matter. Nobody in Grindgate looked at Rage's face if they could help it. They looked at what he did to other people.
The door creaked open without waiting for him.
Boss Hadrin filled the frame—broad, ugly, a steel hook where two fingers used to be, mulsum on his breath, and old burn scars crawling up his neck.
He gave the bandage roll a glance and snorted. "Those wraps aren't saving your hands from what you are, kid."
Rage flexed his fingers, feeling the bones shift under scar tissue. "They keep the skin off the floor," he said.
Hadrin's mouth twitched. "They're chanting already. Put a name on half the bets: 'Strongest Man Alive' vs the whole damn row."
"Sounds crowded," Rage said.
"That's the point." Hadrin leaned his shoulder against the jamb, hook tapping the door idly. "You've been knocking people out too fast. Gate's getting... curious. They want to see where you actually stop."
"The Gate doesn't care if I stop," Rage said. "They care if the money keeps walking back."
"Tonight those are the same thing," Hadrin said. "We throw five in there with you. All at once. Different corners. Whoever's still breathing at the end gets a cut. Some of 'em are mad enough to try you just for the name. One of 'em thinks he can crush anything he can wrap his fingers around. Keeps bragging, says he's gonna fold your neck like cheap tin."
Rage's jaw flexed once.
Hadrin watched his eyes for the first flicker of that heat that made lamps flicker and weak men step back.
"Don't get excited," Hadrin warned. "This place ain't rated for one of your episodes. You crack the pit, I'm docking you for bricks."
Rage wrapped his right wrist. Pull. Wrap. Knot.
"Someone whose hands can crush anything," he said. "What's his name?"
Hadrin's lip curled. "Calls himself Grip. Whole faded name is Darro something, but the pit only cares that he can squeeze a man's arm and pop bone through skin. Special Martial flow in his hands. Seen him crumple a brick like bread. He's been begging for you. Swears he'll turn you into paste in front of everybody."
Rage stood.
The aura-lamp above them dimmed for a heartbeat, then steadied.
He rolled his shoulders, vertebrae clicking, every muscle carving deeper under his skin.
"I'll take care of his hands," Rage said.
Hadrin grinned, mean and small. "Knew you'd say that. Walk when they call. Don't break the walls. Don't kill anyone unless you have to."
"Define 'have to,'" Rage said.
Hadrin's hook tapped twice on the door. "If they try you with anything you don't like."
He shut the door behind him.
The walls shook again.
They were chanting his title now. Messy, overlapping, half-slurred—but it was there.
"Strong-est! Strong-est! Strong-est!"
Rage tied off the last wrap, flexed his fingers, listened.
He could hear metal on metal. Chains. Boots on scrap rails. The announcer's high, raw voice rides the noise. The gut-deep hum of a hundred people betting on whether he was human or something else.
Nineteen.
His mother was in a room not much bigger than this, two rings over, breathing like her lungs were full of sand.
Strongest man alive.
He let out one slow breath, feeling the tightness inside his chest sit there like a coal.
"Alright," he murmured. "Let's see who wants it tonight."
The walk up to the pit was a narrow tunnel of bad chalk marks and old handprints.
Rage stepped out into the Grindgate light and the sound hit him like a physical thing—shouts, jeers, the rattle of coins, the crackle of aura-lamps pushed past their comfort.
The pit was a round wound cut into stone. Packed grit floor. Walls black with old soot and burned aura. Scraps of metal welded into rails where people leaned, hanging over like they wanted to fall in.
No guild coats. No Association sashes. Just dockhands, factory rats, Rustline ink, Iron Streets bruisers. Kids hanging from the rail by their fingers, eyes huge. No law down here except whoever was standing at the end.
Tonight, they were already pushing closer, standing on crates and broken stone just to see him better.
The announcer, a skinny man with a ruined nose and a voice that could cut through a forge, stood on his crate, arms flung wide.
"Grindgaters!" he howled. "Tonight the pit gives you what only Magnara can—your very own disaster dressed like a man!"
The crowd roared ugly.
"You've seen his work!" the announcer went on. "You've seen him break walls, you've seen blades give up, you've seen men forget what their legs are for just from looking at him! Cinder Row's bastard son, the Iron Streets' worst idea, the strongest man alive—Micheal RAAAAAGE!"
The sound slammed down from the stands—screams, whistles, curses, his name chopped into raw syllables.
Rage walked down the stone steps barefoot, each step digging a shallow mark in the grit.
He didn't raise his hands. He didn't look around like he needed their noise.
He just walked to the center and stopped.
Opposite him, gates opened in the wall, one after another.
The first man out was small and sharp—Rustline Riko, knives already in his hands, scars like ink-lines at the corners of his eyes. He didn't look at anyone but Rage.
The second was Jin-Jin, the alley kicker, all coiled legs and cocky grin, hair tied back tight, feet bare and taped.
Third was a broad-shouldered dock brute with rope burns on his forearms and a busted nose that had never been set right.
Fourth and fifth were big—the kind of big you get from shoving freight and fighting for every meal. They didn't bother with fancy names. People called them by what they looked like: Tower and Ox.
Last, walking slower, was Grip.
He didn't look like much at first.
Shorter than Rage. Stocky. Hands wrapped in black cloth from knuckle to mid-forearm. Faded burn marks along his fingers. His eyes were small, mean, and set in a thick face. He rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands as he walked, like he was warming them up.
He stepped out where everyone could see him, spread his fingers, and closed his fist around nothing.
A chunk of stone at his feet popped—crushed inward as if an invisible hand had squeezed it. Grit sprayed.
The pit howled.
"Crush it, Grip!"
"Break the 'strongest man alive'!"
Grip grinned, teeth stained from cheap drink. He lifted one of the black-wrapped hands, wiggled the fingers.
"You see that?" he shouted, turning slowly so the rail could see his profile, his profile, his power. "That's not muscle. That's Martial. Grip Path. Anything I get my hands on? Bone, metal, aura, doesn't matter—I close, it breaks. Ask the last idiot who thought he was blessed."
He jerked his chin at Rage.
"I grab your neck, 'Strongest Man Alive,' you won't even have time to be surprised."
Rage looked at him like he was trying to remember if they'd met outside.
The announcer laughed, high and bright. "Six brave souls tonight think names are just noise! Six men who think they can carve 'strongest' off our boy's back and wear it home!"
He hopped down off the crate.
"No rules but the pit," he yelled. "You tap, nobody cares. You fall, nobody helps you. You die, that's between you and whatever waits. Last one standing... gets to find out if Rage really is as bored as he looks!"
Nervous laughter. A few hysterical cheers.
Rage rolled his neck.
He could feel it—eyes, bets, fear, hunger. The coal in his chest warmed.
The announcer raised his hand high.
"Three..."
The pit leaned in.
"Two..."
Dust lifted, hanging midair.
"One—FIGHT!"
They all moved.
Not together. Not as a team. Just six different hungers lunging at the same meal.
Riko flashed in low, knives a blur at knee height.
Jin-Jin hopped sideways, skipping steps, then snapped into a spinning kick toward Rage's temple.
The dock brute dropped his shoulder and charged like a ram, aiming to wrap Rage's waist and carry him backwards into the wall.
Tower came in behind him, fists already chambered, every ounce of weight behind his first swing.
Ox hung back half a step, eyes tracking, looking for somewhere to drive a hook where no one could see his fist.
Grip didn't rush.
He walked, measuring. Watching what the others did to him. Waiting for an opening for his hand.
Rage didn't move.
Feet planted. Hands loose at his sides. Eyes half-lidded.
Riko's blades hit first—one slicing at the Achilles, the other at the side of Rage's knee.
Steel screeched.
Edges peeled back, skidding off skin that might as well have been forged plate.
Jin-Jin's heel crashed into Rage's jaw a heartbeat later—clean, full extension, all his alley-learned power behind it.
Rage's head turned a few degrees.
He turned it back.
Jin-Jin landed and stumbled, pain blooming up his shin.
The dock brute smashed into Rage's ribs. It felt like running into a column. His arms barely closed before his shoulder went numb. Tower's fist slammed into Rage's side, knuckles cracking on something that didn't give.
Ox's hook caught Rage in the back of the head.
Rage's hair moved.
That was it.
They recoiled, swearing, shaking their hands, clutching their joints.
Grip smiled wider.
"Keep softening him up," he called. "Man's not steel. He just thinks he is. That's the dangerous part."
Rage looked down at Riko, still crouched, hunched over the ruined knives.
He shifted his weight and stepped.
It wasn't fast.
He just walked through them.
His leg brushed Jin-Jin and the kid's balance shattered—he sat down hard, scrambling to get back up. The dock brute's hands slid off his waist; Rage's elbow twitched and the man's nose exploded sideways. Tower's next punch thudded into Rage's shoulder. Rage didn't even turn; his forearm moved, clipping Tower in the jaw, and the big man's eyes rolled.
Ox never even got his perfect angle. Rage's heel came down on his foot as he stepped, grinding bone and floor together. Ox howled and dropped.
Riko tried one last slash with bare steel, aiming at the back of Rage's knee in panic.
Rage's calf flexed.
The blade snapped.
He didn't look back.
He walked through the mess until it was just him and Grip, with the others scattered behind him, groaning, clutching limbs, spitting blood and curses.
The crowd hadn't found a rhythm yet. The noise was chopped—half cheers, half questions.
Grip stretched his neck.
Up close, the Martial flow in his hands was clearer. Aura clung to his wrapped fingers like tight metal bands, humming each time he flexed.
He lifted his right hand, spread the fingers, then slowly closed them around empty air.
A crack rang out behind Rage.
A chunk of the pit wall caved, stone folding inward like it had been made of old bread. Dust billowed.
The rail lost its mind.
"CRUSH IT, GRIP!"
"POP HIS HEAD!"
"SHOW HIM GRIP PATH!"
Grip chuckled, low and ugly.
"You feel that?" he asked. "That's real Muti, boy. Yours is muscle. Mine is what you use once muscle runs out."
He lifted his hand again, pointed it at Rage's face.
"You're just flesh. I close this on you, title's mine."
Rage watched his hand.
Something inside his chest shifted.
All night he'd been putting weight on the coal and calling it restraint. Letting them swing. Letting them think they were doing something.
Now, under the glare and the way Grip aimed his fingers like a weapon, something else rose.
Anger, sure. But cleaner. Colder.
A simple refusal.
Not you.
Not your hand.
The air around him dropped a degree.
Rage inhaled.
When he exhaled, it wasn't aura in the normal sense that leaked out.
It was intent.
It hit the pit like a pressure wave.
Every instinct in every body in that circle screamed don't be here.
The nearest aura-lamps dimmed, light bending inward. Dust sank. The rail creaked as wood and scrap metal complained under new weight.
The weaker men in the first row grabbed their chests without knowing why. One young kid's knees buckled; he slumped between two older fighters and hung there, half-conscious.
Jin-Jin, already on his ass, gagged, eyes bulging. Riko's fingers went numb; the broken knife handle slipped from his hand. Tower tried to push himself up and found his arms shaking too hard to lock.
Even Hadrin, watching from the tunnel mouth, blinked once and swore under his breath.
IŌ.
Not trained. Not named. But the third gate's shadow pressed down on the room.
Sovereignty without the word.
Grip froze.
His smirk died fast. His left foot slid an inch backward without his permission.
"What the—" he started.
Rage took one step forward.
That was all.
The floor cracked under his heel.
The pressure doubled.
It wasn't flashy. It didn't glow. It just was—like the whole room understood that if this man decided you were beneath his notice, you'd stay there.
Another man in the stands fainted, tipping backward into the arms of whoever was behind him. A few hard cases up top felt their hearts hit faster and forced themselves to grin so no one would see they were rattled.
Grip's fingers trembled.
He stared at his own hand as it had betrayed him.
"Close it," Rage said.
His voice wasn't loud, but everyone heard it. Like it had weight too.
Grip snarled, tried to drag the Martial through his arm, tried to tighten his fist, to grab something in Rage's chest and crush it.
His hand shook.
Nothing closed.
Pain lanced up his forearm; tendons squealed. The aura around his fingers guttered like cheap fuel in a storm.
Rage took another slow step.
Now they were close. Close enough that Grip could see the tiny blood bead dried on Rage's cheek from earlier. Close enough that he could see there was no enjoyment in his face, no strain. Just... annoyance.
"I thought you said your hand could crush anything," Rage said.
The pressure spiked, focused.
Grip's knees hit the dirt before he realized they were bending.
His bones creaked like the rail. His teeth ground together so hard his jaw screamed. His lungs forgot how to pull air without asking the weight on his back for permission.
He tried to raise his other hand.
It stayed at his side, fingers twitching.
Rage looked down at him like you looked at a dented tool on a workshop bench.
"Stand up," Rage said.
Grip couldn't.
Rage leaned in just a little.
That was enough.
The pit saw something invisible slam down on Grip's shoulders. His arms jerked, then pinned themselves tighter to his sides. Veins stood out in his neck. Blood vessels burst red in the whites of his eyes.
He made a sound—a strangled, ugly noise that wasn't a word.
Behind Rage, Jin-Jin fully passed out. Tower's head thumped back against the wall as his eyes rolled. Ox dropped back to his knees, breath sawn short.
Even Hadrin's hook hand trembled once on the rail.
"Stop, stop, stop—" somebody in the stands babbled.
Nobody moved to actually stop it.
Rage watched Grip shake.
"Ten percent," he said quietly, to himself more than anyone. "Maybe."
Then he let go.
The room remembered how to breathe in a rush.
Grip collapsed forward, face hitting the dirt, arms finally his again—but too late to catch himself. He lay there, gasping like a landed fish, fingers clawing at nothing.
Nobody else was standing.
Rage straightened. The weight in the air snapped back, whatever gate had cracked inside him swinging shut out of habit more than mercy.
Silence dropped so fast the lamps' hum sounded loud.
You could hear the drip of someone's blood hitting the floor. The creak of a crate under a shaking boot. Distant factory noise leaking in from above, like a reminder that the world outside still existed.
The announcer stared, mouth open, knuckles white on his crate.
He flinched when Rage's eyes flicked his way.
"W–winner...!" he croaked, voice breaking. He swallowed hard and tried again, louder, forcing hype into a voice that wanted to be careful. "WINNER—MICHEAL RAGE! STRONGEST MAN ALIVE!"
The pit erupted.
Not clean cheering. Not like the games in Magnara's bright arenas thirty years from now.
Screams. Laughter with a crack in it. People bellowing his name like a dare. Others clapping without looking down, eyes already sliding away, like if they caught his gaze it might be a mistake.
Fear.
Awe.
That heavy quiet hiding under the noise where everyone was thinking the same thing:
If he does that with ten percent... what happens when he's actually trying?
Rage didn't raise his hands. Didn't roar. Didn't climb the rail.
He just flexed his fingers once, feeling his wraps strain, feeling bones that still weren't sure how to be contained in a human life.
Inside, he listened to his own heartbeat.
Steady.
Too steady.
Didn't even crack me open, he thought, disappointed. Didn't make me move. Didn't make me think.
Ten percent felt generous.
He glanced at Grip—still conscious, barely, still breathing, hands trembling.
"You talk too much," Rage said under the crowd's roar. "Fix your hands."
He turned away from the six men on the floor, from the hundred more screaming above them, and climbed the pit steps back toward the humming concrete tunnel.
The title "strongest man alive" chased him up the walls, bouncing from mouth to mouth.
It felt small.
The coal in his chest stayed hot, unsatisfied.
If this is the world's best shot, he thought, stepping into the dim hallway that led back to his little locker and his mother's slow breathing two rings away, then the world's weaker than I hoped.