The roar of the arena was a distant ocean. Inside Avenger's skull, a silent alarm screamed.
895.
The number flashed behind his eyes, a persistent, digital ghost. Normal annual growth for an enhanced human was 30 to 100 WIL units. Exceptional cases, 150. Over 400? That's more then doable even in the most extreme case which was 190,It was unprecedented. A biological impossibility. It meant his very soul was ramping up for something, and the thought filled him with a cold, formless dread.
He scanned the prep area frantically, searching for the solid, grounding presence of Isaac. The coach was gone. Vanished into the administrative labyrinth. The absence felt like a trapdoor opening beneath his carefully laid plans.
"This wasn't in the calculations. This was never supposed to happen," he muttered, pacing a tight, frantic path. His control, his rhythm, was fracturing.
A cluster of contestants nearby watched him. One, a bulky fighter with a sneer, elbowed his companions.
"Look at the rabid MONKEY," Contestant 45 jeered, his voice carrying. "Did the idea of fighting a superior race finally break your primitive brain? Scared to face a better civilized people outside your little savage tribe?"
Laughter rippled through his group. Avenger stopped pacing.
He didn't seem to move. There was no blur, no telltale shift of air.
There was only sound.
BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
Four consecutive, wet impacts, faster than a neural impulse. Four bodies—including the sneering one—were suddenly prone, their faces cratered into the titanium-concrete, a shocking spray of blood haloing each head.
Silence, thick and stunned, choked the room. Then, chaos. Gasps, shouts of fear, confused fighters looking around for a threat they never saw.
The flat AI voice cut through. "Contestant 77, Avenger. Second strike issued for unsanctioned combat."
Avenger didn't look at the carnage. He looked at the nearest sensor array, his voice chillingly calm. "They committed a verbal violation under Concordat 7-Beta. Check the footage. Review for racial agitation."
A pause. The AI hummed. "Analysis complete. Violation confirmed. Second strike for Contestant 77 is rescinded. Violators 45, 62, 88, and 91 are disqualified and fined."
The AI fell silent, leaving a deeper, more profound shock in its wake. The second strike? When did the first happen? The AI was instantaneous. The realization dawned on those with sharp enough eyes and minds: The second violation was the attack on the 4 contestants themselves. They had heard the effect and seen the result, but not a single one had witnessed the cause. Avenger had moved faster than their enhanced perception could track.
Fear, sharp and new, settled over many contestants. A few, however, where able to track him with intense, calculating eyes.
"Impressive," murmured a lean, sharp-eyed contestant to his two companions. They nodded silently, their gazes now locked on Avenger like hawks.
As the injured were hauled away, a deafening gong echoed through the complex. A magnified, artificially smooth voice boomed.
"WELCOME TO THE 2210 WORLD ADVANCED JUNIOR GLADIATOR CHAMPIONSHIP!"
The announcer's tone was slick with false warmth. "A slight amendment to the rules, by generous request of our new... patrons, who sought more excitement for their considerable investment."
A new prize structure flashed on every screen:
3rd Place: 10 Million Credits.
2nd Place: 100 Million Credits.
1st Place: 1 BILLION CREDITS.
TAX-FREE.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the room.
"The format is simple! First to four victories wins. Ties will be settled in a final deathmatch. Two losses eliminate you." The voice paused, letting the next words sink in like poison. "Killing is permitted. However, if a opponent surrenders and you attempt a kill, you will be executed. You may also win by knockout or submission. You have one hour to decide your participation. Do not disappoint."
The voice vanished, leaving a tsunami of panic and greed in its wake.
Isaac found him moments later, shoving through the crowd, his face a storm. "Tell me I heard wrong. Tell me this is some sick joke."
Avenger could only shake his head,his own mind reeling at the staggering sum. A billion. Level 3 could be transformed in 3 -2years faster.
"Those fucking whities," Isaac spat, using the old derogatory for Europeans. "And their spineless bootlickers( asian)! EVERY FUCKING TIME!They can't stand something pure, they have to turn it into a butcher's yard for their amusement! We're leaving. Now."
"I can't,"Avenger said, his voice low but absolute. He met Isaac's furious gaze. "That money… it's not just money. It's years. It's lives improved years sooner. I can't walk away from that."
They argued,a tense, hushed war of wills in the middle of the chaos. Finally, Avenger struck the bargain: "If I'm in real danger, you throw the towel. You pull me out. No hesitation."
Isaac stared at him,seeing the unshakeable resolve. He cursed, then nodded grimly. "Fine. But we need a new plan. The old one just got burned."
They strategized quickly,adapting their calm, point-fighting approach to a battlefield where death was now a legal tactic. "This should cover it," Isaac said finally, clapping a heavy hand on Avenger's shoulder. "Just… don't make me use that towel."
"I won't,"Avenger promised.
As Isaac walked away to file their intent to compete, the mask fell. Avenger's face went slack with a guilt he could never voice. I didn't tell him. About the 895. If he knew… he'd have knocked me out and dragged me from this place himself.
Alone in the swirling storm of preparation, Avenger knelt. He pulled out the AFRICA pendant from his shirt, clutching it in both hands. He pressed his forehead to the cool metal continent.
He pray to the gods. He prayed to the Ancestors, to the spirits of parents he never knew, to the living family in Level 3 whose future now weighed heavier than any billion-credit prize.
Let this be the right choice. Let my will be enough. Let me build tomorrow, and not become just another piece of its bloody cost.