The ring was still being repaired.
Workers tightened ropes, replaced sections of canvas, and argued loudly while six men carried Deadweight out through the tunnel like a collapsed statue.
Even unconscious, he looked heavy. One of the staff nearly slipped under the weight.
"Don't let him wake up," someone muttered. As they accidentally bonked the head of the asleep Deadweight on the tunnel wall.
The crowd booed and laughed as Deadweight disappeared.
"SHOULD'VE BET ON THE MONKEY!"
"I LOST RENT MONEY!"
Yamo stretched his arms once, breathing steady as the faint white ki outside his skin faded completely.
"That was… profitable."
Yamo turned. The man with nine eyes stood beside him, tablet in hand. Every eye was focused, calculating, amused.
"You made a mess," the man said pleasantly. "And money. Lots of money."
"How much?" Yamo asked.
One of his eyes flicked down to the tablet.
"Tier Four appearance fee," he said, sliding a chip into Yamo's palm. "One hundred dollars."
Yamo nodded.
"Your cut of the betting pool," the man continued. "One percent. Crowd went wild after Deadweight started missing."
He paused.
"That puts you at four hundred sixty-three dollars."
Yamo did the math instantly. "Five hundred sixty-three so far."
"Correct," the man said. "But you also placed a personal bet."
Yamo's eyes flicked briefly toward the betting boards.
"The one-eighty," the man continued. "Underdog odds. Four-point-five to one."
He turned the tablet so Yamo could see the payout.
"Nine hundred ninety total. Stake included."
Yamo exhaled slowly.
"So that's—"
"One thousand five hundred fifty-three dollars," the man finished. "From your first fight."
For a moment, Yamo just stood there. Not smiling. Not celebrating. Just letting the number settle.
'Thats almost half of the three thousand I saved'
Around them, the crowd was already arguing again.
"THE ODDS WERE RIGGED!"
"I TOLD YOU HE WAS TOO CALM!"
"CHECK IF THE TAIL IS REAL!"
The man with nine eyes watched the chaos with clear enjoyment. "Tier Four doesn't usually pay out like this," he said. "You're an exception."
Yamo closed his hand around the chips.
"How many wins to move to Tier Three?" he asked.
The man raised an eyebrow. "You're not done?"
"Not even close."
"Officially, three clean wins," the man said. "Unofficially… two, if the crowd keeps throwing money."
Yamo nodded. "Good."
The man tilted his head. "Good?"
"I'll take the next fight," Yamo said calmly.
A nearby runner froze. Another fighter down the corridor stopped stretching.
"Back-to-back?" the man asked. "You sure?"
Yamo returned the chips back to the nine eyed man. "All of it," he said. "Put everything on me again."
The man stared at the stack. Then he laughed.
"Hahaha. Every Rat who does that dies," he said. "Or becomes expensive."
Yamo met his gaze, unbothered. "Guess we'll find out which."
One of the nine eyes narrowed, impressed.
"Very well, Young Monkey," the man said, tapping his tablet. "Next fight is yours. Odds stay hot."
'Two more wins,' he thought. 'Then Tier Three.'
The ring finished settling with a dull metallic groan as the last bolt was tightened.
The crowd hadn't calmed down. If anything, they leaned forward harder, voices overlapping, hands already reaching for money again.
The man with nine eyes glanced at his tablet, then looked at Yamo.
"You want momentum?" he said. "Fine. Next one's not a warm-up."
Yamo met his gaze. "Tier Four?"
"Barely," the man replied. "Two fights. Two wins."
He paused just long enough for the weight of it to sink in.
"Both knockouts. Both in under a minute."
That got Yamo's full attention. 'This guy probably has a strong attack, but weak a defense'
The announcer's voice crackled back to life.
"Alright! Bets are back open! No smoke breaks, no bathroom runs—this one's coming fast!"
Lights shifted.
"In the red corner—two fights, two wins, both knockouts in under sixty seconds—give it up for PRESSURE DRUM!"
The crowd reacted instantly.
Some cheered. Some groaned. Some rushed frantically to the end of the ends of the warehouse walls.
"Oh no…"
"NOT THIS GUY! TURN DOWN THE VOLUME"
"HE ENDS IT QUICK!"
Pressure Drum stepped into the ring, shirtless, ribs visibly wider than normal. His chest expanded unnaturally as he breathed, skin vibrating faintly with every inhale.
Circular scars marked his sternum and sides, like something had ruptured outward before and healed wrong.
He slapped his chest once.
DUM.
Then again.
DUM.
The sound alone made the air tremble. The announcer leaned into it.
"Pressure Drum's mutation allows him to compress air inside his chest cavity and release it as directed sonic blasts! Short range, long range, it doesn't matter—it's devastating!"
Pressure Drum rolled his neck and grinned. "Another one already? You really are as stupid as a Monkey."
Yamo stepped into the ring and analyzed his opponent.
The announcer didn't hesitate this time.
"And in the blue corner—already making waves tonight—strong, agile, and stubborn as hell—YOUNG MONKEY!"
The crowd laughed and yelled immediately.
"OHH OOH AH AH!"
"DO A FLIP!"
"MONKEY'S BLEEDING MONEY TONIGHT!"
The betting board flickered.
Pressure Drum — 1.9 : 1
Young Monkey — 2.8 : 1
"EASY KNOCKOUT!"
"HE WON'T LAST A MINUTE!"
Yamo barely glanced at the odds.
Pressure Drum cracked his knuckles. "Hope you're faster than you look. I don't like repeat customers."
The referee stepped between them. "Rules are simple. No leaving the ring. No touching the crowd. Fight until one can't continue and killing is discouraged"
Pressure Drum smirked. "You hear that ringing yet?"
DING.
The bell rang. Pressure Drum didn't charge, instead he inhaled. His chest, lungs and cheeks expanded.
Yamo moved first, closing the distance instantly. He struck—controlled, restrained—aimed for the ribs. Yamo could feel that he broke two ribs and cracked a third one.
Pressure Drum endured it and turned his head. He exhaled and the world folded inward.
BOOOOM.
The sonic blast hit Yamo head-on. Not like a punch, but like standing inside a bell as it rang with strong winds.
Yamo flew back against the ropes and his vision warped instantly. Balance vanished. The ring tilted sideways as if gravity had lost interest. Yamo collapsed into the mat hard.
The crowd exploded.
"THAT'S IT!"
"LESS THAN A MINUTE AGAIN!"
"HE'S DONE!"
Yamo tried to stand. He couldn't. He pulled down his mask and threw up.
A piercing ring screamed inside his skull. Pain lanced through his head as something warm trickled down his neck.
Blood from his ears.
'…So that's the real output,' he thought dimly. 'I misjudged the pressure and the spread.'
Pressure Drum laughed and stepped closer, chest already expanding again.
"Told you," he said. "Nobody makes it past the first hit."
Yamo forced himself onto one knee, teeth clenched as another attack detonated.
BOOM.
Yamo was thrown to the side, hitting the ropes once more. He attempted to grasp them, but his hand found only air. His legs gave way, and his vision and balance were completely disoriented.
Yamo saw the referee shouting something, but the words dissolved into ringing. Yamo felt something tear inside his ears.
Not fully, but close. Young Monkey was losing without being able to land a second punch. The crowd was feral now.
"END IT!"
"HE'S BLEEDING!"
"MAKE IT THREE!"
Pressure Drum loomed over him, breathing harder now, sweat dripping from his whole body.
His ribs were more brittle and flexible than a regular human's, and Yamo's punch, meant for a regular human, almost killed Pressure Drum.
Pressure Drum was hesitating to attack for a third time. He's cracked ribs pierced his organs and caused severe internal bleeding.
Almost two full-powered attacks nearly killed Pressure Drum, but he knew after this fight, he'd be out of commission for any more matches for at least a couple of months.
"You're tougher than the others," he admitted. "But tough doesn't matter."
"Seven!" The referee yelled.
"Eight!" The crowd yelled together.
'Stay down, kid!' Pressure Drum thought.
But Yamo couldn't hear him or the referee. His eyes were closed. All his coenctration was focused on one thing – his sense of touch.
Yamo wiped blood from his ear with the back of his hand. He felt the ring floor with one hand and forced himself upright with the other, legs shaking but steadying.
He opened his eyes and instantly assessed the fight. 'Good, I still not out. Two knockouts in under a minute,' he thought. 'Because nobody survives the second blast.'
He looked up at Pressure Drum and smiled faintly. "Good," Yamo said hoarsely, not really hearing his own voice "Now I know why."
For the first time that night, Pressure Drum didn't smile. The announcer shouted over the chaos.
"UNBELIEVABLE! YOUNG MONKEY IS STILL MOVING!"
Yamo adjusted his stance, breath slow despite the ringing, eyes sharp. He was still dizzy, but at least he stood.
'Next blast,' he thought. 'I won't let it land clean.'
The fight wasn't over and for the first time, Pressure Drum realized this one wasn't ending in under a minute.
The ringing in Yamo's ears didn't stop.
It dulled. Flattened. Like cotton stuffed deep into his skull, but the world came back into focus.
Pressure Drum watched him carefully now, chest rising and falling faster than before.
Sweat ran down his ribs, and the vibration under his skin was no longer steady. His earlier confidence had thinned.
"You should be down," Pressure Drum said. "You should be done."
Yamo rolled his neck once, slow, deliberate. 'My mistake was treating him like a brawler,' he thought. 'He's an area weapon.'
Yamo inhaled. And then—He vanished.
Not literally. Not teleportation.
Just speed.
The air cracked where he'd been standing, pressure snapping inward as Yamo crossed the ring in a blink and was laying on the ground again. The crowd gasped as his afterimage lingered for a fraction of a second.
"What the—?!" Thr crowd was split in two. One half laughed at Young Monkey, the other half got furious.
"HAHA. IF YOU CAN'T EVEN MOVE THEN GIVE UP!"
"GET UP! GET UP!"
"HEY, LOOK! THE MONKEY SLIPPED ON A BANANA PEEL HAHAHA!"
'Shit! I'm too dizzy. I couldn't hit him at all' Yamo stood back up. Pressure Drum looked at him and stopped hesitating.
'One last blast' Pressure Drum inhaled deeply, like before his chest, lung and cheeks expanded, but this time he almost detonated himself, because he was about to cough up blood.
This time Yamo didn't understimate him. He ran left and right before Pressure Drum, trying to dodge his attack. Directly attack was to dangerous. He learned that at the start of the match.
The announcer's voice cracked with disbelief.
"YOUNG MONKEY IS MOVING TOO FAST—PRESSURE DRUM CAN'T LINE UP A SHOT!"
The betting board flickered violently.
Odds shifted.
Pressure Drum — 2.4 : 1
Young Monkey — 1.8 : 1
The crowd roared, some in excitement, others in panic.
BOOM.
The sonic blast tore forward, pulverizing empty air and slamming into the ropes hard enough to bend the steel posts.
But Yamo was nowhere to be seen. 'Shit, where is he?'
He reappeared at Pressure Drum's flank and struck—open palm, controlled ki, aimed shallow, not to break ribs but to interrupt breathing.
Pressure Drum choked. "—Ghk!"
The crowd screamed.
"HE MOVED!"
"WHERE DID HE GO?!"
"THAT WASN'T FAIR!"
Pressure Drum dropped to his knees.
"Count," Yamo said to the referee. The referee hesitated, then raised his hand.
"One…"
Yamo observed Pressure Drum, who was kneeling, coughing blood, and visibly paling, with an unwavering gaze.
If Yamo saw Pressure Drum, trying to attack him once more, then he would hit him in his kidney with nearly half his 1 ton sajyan strength.
Yamo stepped back, chest rising calmly despite the blood still trickling from his ears.
He waited.
"Three…"
The crowd screamed. Pressure Drum collapsed sideways, his body still twitching.
"Five…"
Yamo turned away.
By "eight," Pressure Drum wasn't moving.
DING.
The bell rang. For a moment, there was only noise. Then the announcer shouted, voice hoarse.
"BACK-TO-BACK UPSETS! YOUNG MONKEY TAKES HIS SECOND WIN!"
Yamo exhaled slowly, his dizziness slowly dissapearing and the ringing finally fading into something manageable.
He wiped the blood from his ear again.
'Too slow,' he thought—not of Pressure Drum, but of himself earlier.
Cameras zoomed in. Sponsors leaned forward. The crowd wasn't laughing anymore.
They were watching and for the first time that night, most people realized:
Young Monkey wasn't a Rat in Tier 4, but a young wolf cub.