[ Ironhaven Megacity, Undercity Sublevel 10 – The Pit of No Return ]
[ One year after the Carnival ]
A whole year had passed since the night Ebon Thorne walked out of the Hollow Arena with nothing but wounds and a name.
Year spent wading through blood, chasing after cores, and enduring long stretches of silence.
A year of cat and mouse through the Depths, with Apex sending convoys, strike teams, and spatial traps after him, and Ebon answering with ambushes, stolen shipments, and warnings carved into tunnel walls. Neither side had managed a killing blow, but everyone in the Undercity could see which way things were going.
They called this place the Pit now.
The Pit was a massive cavern, carved out by some ancient rift breach. Its walls were blackened and scarred, the air heavy with the low, constant hum of leaking Fracture Energy. Even the registered guilds only came here when they had no other choice. Too unstable. Too many deaths.
Tonight, though, the place was his.
The tiers were packed with thousands, more than anyone could remember seeing at a fight. Scavengers from the lowest sublevels, rogues from the Mid-Crown black markets, even a few masked visitors from the Depths who must have paid a fortune in bribes just to get down here. Over the past year, word had spread far beyond Ironhaven's Undercity.
Thorne.
The King of the Depths.
The black-veined monster who left Apex convoys in ruins. He had become more than just a thorn in their side; he was a symbol of chaos, a challenge to their authority that could not be ignored.
Apex's leadership feared that his continued defiance might inspire others to rise up, unsettling the fragile order they had worked tirelessly to maintain. The threat he represented—both as a foe in battle and as an icon of rebellion—compounded their determination to see him captured.
The one with a bounty now at eight hundred thousand, dead or alive.
Ebon stood at the edge of the pit, his hood pulled low, the black veins on his arms hidden under a battered old jacket that had seen more than its share of fights.
The atmosphere was heavy with the iron scent of blood and sweat, a scent so familiar it was almost comforting.
The rough, uneven stone beneath his feet vibrated with the distant echoes of past battles, and a faint hum hummed through the soles of his boots, merging with the murmurs of the crowd that reverberated through the cavernous space.
He was twenty now.
Taller, sturdier, and a lot quieter than before.
The Beast inside him didn't hunger anymore. Some said it was a remnant from a lost age of chaos, an ancient entity once bound deep within rift fractures, now part of his blood. It ruled now, and everyone could feel it.
The announcer — a new face, voice shaking with excitement — roared over the crowd.
"Tonight! No bracket! No mercy! One crate — two million in high-grade cores!
Any fighter brave enough to challenge the King of the Depths…
THORNE!"
The crowd's roar was loud enough to shake dust from the ceiling.
Ebon stepped forward.
No entrance.
No pose.
Only the quiet sound of his boots on cracked stone broke the silence.
The arena fell silent.
He looked up at the tiers.
Thousands of eyes.
Fear.
Awe.
Worship.
He felt the shift.
They weren't here to watch a fight.
They were here to witness a coronation.
The challengers came one after another.
First, a pair of A-rank rogues — siblings with synchronized gravity manipulation.
They lasted forty seconds.
Then a fire-ice dual Elemental, once Apex, now disgraced.
Thirty seconds, give or take.
A stone-skinned tank with regeneration boosters.
Twenty seconds.
Each challenger fell faster and cleaner than the one before.
He didn't waste a single movement.
He didn't show mercy, either.
Spikes manifested only when needed — precise, lethal when he wanted, disabling when he didn't.
The crowd had stopped cheering.
Now they just chanted.
"THORNE. THORNE. THORNE."
Ol' Kess watched from her usual spot high in the tiers, cackling as she collected bets.
"That's my boy! Pay up, you fools!"
No one argued.
By the time the tenth challenger fell, the pit was empty.
The crate sat untouched in the center of the arena.
The announcer's voice cracked as he tried to speak.
"Is… is there no one left?"
Silence settled over the arena.
Then a single voice rose — Old Kess again.
"The King has spoken! Pit's closed!"
The chant started up again, even louder than before.
"KING OF THE DEPTHS! KING OF THE DEPTHS!"
Ebon walked to the crate.
He picked it up.
No one tried to stop him.
He turned to leave.
That's when the lights shut off.
Every glow-lamp, every strip of neon—gone.
Darkness swallowed the arena whole.
A moment later, cold white beams sliced down from above.
Apex had come.
Not a strike team.
This time, they'd brought an army.
Thirty elites dropped into the pit in perfect formation.
Carver stood at the front, his face set and grim, spatial distortions crackling around him like lightning.
His voice carried without amplification.
"Ebon Thorne. You've had your year.
It ends tonight."
The crowd didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Ebon set the crate down slowly.
Looked up.
Smiled.
The black veins beneath his skin began to glow, bright and unmistakable.
Full manifestation rippled across his body — forearms, elbows, knees, shins, back spikes fanning like a crown of diamond thorns.
He could feel the ancient hunger singing in his bones.
He spoke for the first time that night.
Calm.
Deadly.
"Then come take your crown."
He charged.
The pit turned into a battlefield.
Spikes shattered shields.
Obsidian spikes cracked through armor.
Bodies hit the ground.
Carver warped space — blades of compressed air, crushing voids.
Ebon adapted, moving with the flow of the fight.
He broke through their lines.
Wounded Carver again — spatial field shattered by a spiked palm strike to the chest.
Carver coughed blood, eyes glaring with real fear for the first time.
The elites hesitated.
Ebon stood in the center of the pit, bloodied but still on his feet.
Looked up at the silent crowd.
Then at Carver.
"Tell Apex...
The Depths are mine."
He picked up the crate again.
Then he walked into the tunnels, leaving the arena behind.
No one followed.
By morning, the bounty was one million.
Dead or alive.
And in the highest Spires, a magma-veined man watched the holo-feed of the fight.
He leaned forward.
The air around him shimmered with heat.
He smiled.