[ Ironhaven Megacity, Undercity Sublevel 8 – The Hollow Arena ]
New Year's Eve Undercity Carnival
Ebon hadn't planned on entering tonight. The bounty was rising, hunters everywhere, and the Beast inside him was restless, hungry for more than shadows and practice runs. The prize crate held half a million in high-grade cores.
Enough to vanish. Maybe even enough to make Apex hurt for once.
He stood at the edge of the pit, hood pulled low, veins hidden.
The Hollow Arena used to be a transit hub, back before the Shattering. Now the dome just loomed overhead, columns cracked but still hanging on.
Tonight, the place felt alive. Breathing, almost.
Thousands packed into tiers carved out of the walls. Glow-lamps and stolen neon swung from chains, throwing wild colors over the blood-stained pit. Scrap banners flapped in the heavy air.
"NEW YEAR'S BLOOD CARNIVAL – NO RULES, NO MERCY."
The announcer — a wiry man with a voice-amplifier implant — roared over the din.
"Thirty-two fighters! One crate! Last one standing takes it all!"
Ebon just wrote down "Thorne" at sign-in. When the name flickered on the busted holo-screen, the crowd started whispering.
[ Round 1. ]
Two C-rank Physicals. Probably brothers. They had the same blue-glowing veins and the kind of grins you get when you think the money's already yours.
Ebon met them in the center.
First hook came in fast. He slipped it, jabbed short—spikes only at the last second, punching through the guard and into a shoulder. The brother dropped, howling.
The second came in from the side. Ebon rolled, catching the man's momentum, sweat slick on skin, panic flickering in his eyes. One mistake and he'd be pinned. He feinted left, struck right—spike through thigh.
The brother twisted, tried to shake him off, but caught a spiked elbow in the ribs. Air gone. Eyes wide. He folded. Ebon rolled clear, checked for anyone else. Both down in fifteen seconds. Dust hung in the air. The crowd rumbled, banners shaking. The Beast inside was already hungry for more.
[ Round 2. ]
"Stitch" Malone. B-rank regenerator. He laughed when Ebon's spiked hook split his cheek. The wound closed before the blood hit the floor. But even regeneration had its limits. Each healing taxed his energy reserves and left nerve endings tingling where flesh knit together. Multiple severe wounds could delay his recovery, leaving him vulnerable to a fast, strategic opponent.
"Gonna take more than that." Stitch lunged, spinning mid-air, trying to catch Ebon off-balance.
Ebon ducked, needles cutting into joints and tendons. Every hit made his nerves scream. The regenerator staggered, surprise flickering in his eyes. Ebon feinted low, jabbed the temple, spike just deep enough to mess with the nerves.
Stitch twisted, tried to spit fire, but Ebon was already there, striking the neck, making the healing stutter. Ebon pressed in, a blur of spikes, dodging a wild swing, hitting tendons and elbows, each strike rattling up his arms.
Stitch finally went down. The crowd got louder, shadows flickering across the dome.
After that, just more fights. Faces, fists, blood. It all blurred together.
Until he reached the Semi-finals.
[ Semi-finals. ]
Three B-ranks. One fire Elemental, two earth types. Earth walls boxed him in. Fire blasted through the cracks, heat rolling over him. Dust and grit stuck in his mouth. Ebon smashed the first wall with his shoulder, obsidian plates soaking up the heat. Every burn bit down to the bone.
Sparks flew, shards bouncing off the floor. He ducked, pivoted around the fire user, used the rebound from the second wall to drive a knee into an exposed flank.
The earth manipulator staggered.
The fire user spun, flames lashing.
Ebon's spikes met them, shattering glassy shards in the air. He leapt back, landed on the pit's edge, breath burning, plates cracked, then dove back in—spikes from elbows and knees. One earth user down, the fire user's throat caught mid-cast. The last one surrendered, hands up.
The arena shook. Chants thundered.
"THORNE! THORNE! THORNE!"
Now, the finals.
[ Finals. ]
"Iron Maw" Garrick — independent A-rank champion. Jaw of living steel, fists that crushed concrete. Three-time Carnival king. He stepped in, cracking his neck.
"Been waiting for fresh meat."
No bell. Garrick charged. Fists collided — spikes vs. steel. Shockwave cracked the pit floor. Sparks flew, dust rolled across the arena.
Garrick grinned. "Strong."
They traded hits. Punch, block, strike, counter. Every move sharp, brutal. Ebon dodged a steel fist, ribs jolting, then drove a knee spike into Garrick's side. The champ twisted, caught the spike with his forearm, and slammed Ebon into the blood-stained floor.
Ebon rolled, launching himself back up.
He feinted a left jab; Garrick lunged to meet it.
Instead, Ebon spun, elbow spikes shredding the champion's shoulder plate.
Garrick roared, swinging both fists in a crushing arc. Dust and sparks filled the air.
Ebon's vision tunneled.
Focus.
Predict.
Strike before Garrick recovered.
Garrick wasn't just powerful; he was a machine of experience. He timed a punch to intercept Ebon's leap — spike shattered against steel.
Ebon twisted midair, elbow connecting with Garrick's ribs, pain and blood mixing. Garrick grunted, swinging both fists in a crushing arc.
Ebon barely ducked, feeling the rush of wind slice past his face.
Back on his feet, spikes erupted from his forearms and knees. Garrick blocked a knee strike, then grabbed Ebon's wrist, twisting.
Pain shot up Ebon's arm. The Beast roared, its presence more than just an internal whisper. It was an ancient power, both a curse and a gift, surging through his veins with a feral urge to dominate. Diamond thorns burst from his back, punching into Garrick's arms.
The champion staggered, howling.
Ebon twisted free, mid-grapple, and drove a spiked uppercut into the steel jaw. Sparks and blood flew. Garrick's head snapped back. He barely stayed upright.
They circled.
Garrick's fists bent steel plates and cracked ribs; Ebon's spikes pierced tendon and nerve, leaving shallow trails of black shards.
Neither gave an inch.
Every strike, every dodge, every counter stretched the tension. The crowd held its breath, waiting for someone to fall.
Garrick slammed a fist into the pit floor, sending chunks flying. Ebon ducked, the vibration rattling his plates.
He lunged, spinning, forearm spikes slicing the air, cutting a path to Garrick's exposed ribs. Garrick twisted, catching the strike, then threw Ebon into the pit wall.
Concrete crumbled.
Dust choked Ebon's lungs.
He staggered. The Beast pushed him on.
Ebon feinted low, driving a knee spike into Garrick's thigh. The champion roared, swinging wildly — Ebon ducked under a steel punch, rolled behind, struck the spine with a flurry of spikes.
Garrick stumbled.
One more exchange — fists, elbows, spikes, counter-strikes — both warriors bleeding, plates cracking, veins glowing.
Garrick's steel jaw collided with Ebon's elbow, sparks flying. Ebon twisted, biting pain into his own arm as the Beast pushed him forward.
Finally, after what felt like hours of trading blows and nearly going down, Ebon let every spike he had out at once. Forearms, elbows, knees, shins, back.
He pressed, each strike perfectly timed, exploiting Garrick's faltering balance. The champion fell, collapsing with a final, echoing crash.
The arena exploded.
"THORNE! THORNE! THORNE!"
Ebon stood in the center, blood everywhere, plates cracked, veins burning. He grabbed the crate. Chest heaving. The Beast finally went quiet. Exhaustion hit, heavy as concrete.
Then the lights started flickering.
Apex had arrived.
"Shit."
Ten enforcers dropped from the upper tiers — weapons gleaming, energy humming. Carver stepped forward, a smile cutting through the panic.
"Congratulations, Mr. Thorne. But the Carnival ends tonight."
The crowd hushed. Carver gestured. Enforcers advanced.
Ebon set the crate down slowly. The Beast stirred, eager. He charged. The pit became chaos. Spikes flashed. Two enforcers fell immediately. Carver warped space — pinning Ebon mid-lunge. Others closed in. Ebon broke free once, twice — took wounds, gave worse. A spatial blade grazed his side, a baton cracked a plate.
He fought his way to the edge, bleeding, crate left behind. Finally slipped out through a side tunnel while Apex locked down the arena. The crowd just stared, silent.
By morning, the bounty was up to a hundred thousand. Dead or alive.
Ebon limped deeper into the tunnels, wounds closing slow. He found the drop Doc had promised. Just a small envelope wedged in a crack.
Inside: Mira's handwriting.
We're safe. Sublevel 5. Real beds. Real light.
Jax won't stop drawing you. Lena sleeps with the light off now. Tomas says the food's better.
Don't come looking. We're safe.
Live, Thorne.
—M
He read it twice. Relief landed like a hammer. Then guilt. Then nothing at all. He held the note to a stolen glow-lamp and watched it burn to ash. No looking back.
In the highest Spires, Carver filed his report. And in the shadows of the arena rafters, a tall figure with a faint magma glow under his cloak watched the holo-replay of the final fight. The air around him shimmered with heat. He smiled, a hint of familiarity in his eyes as he whispered to himself,
"He's more like me than he knows. Soon, the pieces will fall into place."