The path to the arena was a gauntlet of noise and nerves. Avenger followed the stream of other fighters, but his destination was a sterile side-chamber: the Pre-Combat Screening Facility.
Here, the illusion of a pure sport was enforced. Contestants were scanned for performance drugs, unapproved cybernetic augmentations, and—most critically—for the resonant signature of a WIL connection. Anyone with a WIL signature above 1000 units was disqualified. At that threshold, you were more Resonant than enhanced human, a spark too close to the kindling; awakening mid-fight was a catastrophe waiting to happen.
Two hundred fighters had applied. A steady line passed through scanners. Some walked through, cleared. Others were escorted out—their dreams ended by chemical shortcuts or forbidden steel.
"Contestant 77. Avenger."
A white Competition tester called his number,his tone bored and vaguely hostile. Avenger stepped forward and met the man's gaze with a level, empty stare. The tester's sneer faltered. He dropped the attitude and gestured to the scanner suite.
The processes were swift. No drugs. No illegal augments. Finally, the WIL resonance scan.
Avenger stood in the field as the scanner hummed. A holographic display beside the tester began to climb: 200... 450... 600... His blood went cold. That's not right.
750... 800...It ticked past his last private reading from a year ago and didn't slow. 895.
It stopped.
895 units. His past record in private was 450 units
The number hung in the air, glowing. Avenger's mind blanked. Double? In a year? That wasn't just progress; it was an anomaly. A tremor of something deeper than concern—a primal fear, a warning —shot through him. He opened his mouth to demand a re-test.
A hard shove between his shoulder blades cut the thought short.
Instinct took over. His feet rooted to the floor, absorbing the momentum to nothing. In one fluid motion, he pivoted, his right hand snapping out to catch the wrist of the person behind him. He twisted, stepped in, and his hip became a lever.
TAI OTOSHI.
He used the attacker's own forward force to launch them over his hip. The body—heavier than expected—sailed through the air and cratered into the reinforced titanium-concrete floor with a concussive BOOM that silenced the entire holding area.
Avenger followed them down, a knee pinning their chest, his hand still vise-locked on their wrist. He looked into the face of his assailant.
Viktor Chen. His primary opponent to be worry about . The Asian-European half breed brawler he'd studied for a week.
Before Avenger could speak, Chen's free hand clawed up, grabbing a fistful of his hair. Chen's right leg pistoned upward, a brutal knee aimed to crush Avenger's temple.
Avenger's left forearm shot up in a desperate block.
CRACK-THUD.
The impact wasn't flesh on flesh; it was like stopping a runaway hydraulic press. The force vibrated through Avenger's bones. He grunted, detangling Chen's grip from his hair, and with his own left hand still locked on Chen's arm, he wrenched and threw the larger man sideways, sending him skidding across the floor toward a support column.
Chen twisted in mid-air like a cat, his feet hitting the column and pushing off, landing in a crouch without a scratch. He looked up at Avenger, a cruel, excited smile splitting his face. He coiled to spring again.
They never connected.
Twin weighted nets shot from ceiling emplacements, enveloping them in conductive mesh. A searing, blue-white current jagged through the metal. Both fighters screamed, muscles locking, and dropped to their knees.
A flat, robotic voice echoed in the sudden silence. "Violation. Unsanctioned combat outside the arena. First strike issued to Contestants 77 and 103. Two subsequent strikes will result in permanent expulsion from the tournament and a lifetime ban from all sanctioned events."
The current ceased. The nets retracted. Chen gasped for air, then his sneer returned, sharper than ever. He glared at Avenger. "Fine. Have it your way, spear-chucker. I'll just kill you in the ring, you fucking NIG—"
"Warning." The AI voice interjected, colder now. "Utterance of racial epithet E-01 is prohibited under Aresia Concordat Section 7-Alpha. Penalty for violation extends beyond tournament expulsion. Historical precedent indicates a 97% probability of retaliatory lethal action against the violator and associated familial units by members of the affected demographic group. No Council protection will be offered. Is this understood?"
The color drained from Chen's face. The raw, vengeful history of the Retribution Era—the absolute, merciless response to provocation—flashed in his eyes. He shut his mouth, seething but silent.
As the last of the netting withdrew, Avenger pushed himself to his feet. He looked down at Chen, not with rage, but with a chilling, absolute certainty. His voice was low, carrying only to his opponent.
"You will not leave this tournament alive."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned his back on Chen, walked past the stunned tester, and pushed through the doors into the roaring chaos of the arena tunnel. The crowd's thunder washed over him, but all he heard was the echo of a scanner reading: 895.
And the silent, waiting promise of violence