Dean and Jake walked through the city streets side by side.
Jake had barely taken three steps before the stares started.
"Oh damn… he's hot."
"Is he a model?"
"Why is someone like that walking with an old guy?"
Jake didn't react. Hands in his pockets. Calm. Detached.
Dean, however, clicked his tongue loudly.
"Tch. Kids these days," he muttered. "Zero taste. Absolutely zero."
Jake glanced sideways. "You sound bitter."
"I'm not bitter," Dean snapped. "I'm offended. Look at me—I'm clearly the main attraction."
Jake smirked faintly. "Sure. Definitely."
Dean scowled harder.
"Where are we going?" Jake asked as they walked side by side.
"Well," Dean said casually, hands in his pockets, "you want to be a fighter, right? Then you might as well know where fighters live."
Where fighters live…?
Jake frowned, confusion settling in.
Dean stopped in front of a dimly lit bar, its neon sign flickering like it was one breath away from dying.
"The Netherlands," Dean said solemnly.
"The place where justice meets death."
The sudden seriousness made Jake's stomach tighten.
Dean turned around.
Then immediately burst into giggles.
"I always wanted to say that—hehehe."
Jake stared at him.
"…Are you a child?"
Dean ignored him and walked toward the entrance. Jake sighed and followed.
Before they could step inside, a massive figure blocked their path.
A security guard. At least two meters tall. Arms like reinforced steel. His shadow swallowed half the doorway.
"What's your class?" the guard asked, voice deep enough to vibrate Jake's bones.
"He's a newbie fighter," Dean replied smoothly, throwing an arm around Jake's shoulder. "I'm his manager."
The guard raised a scanner.
"Bracelets."
Both of them extended their right wrists.
Beep. Beep.
A green light flashed.
The guard leaned closer to Jake, grinning.
"Enjoy your journey, kid," he said.
"I hope you don't die."
Jake swallowed.
They entered the bar.
Inside looked almost normal—wooden counters, low lights, loud chatter—but the air felt different. Heavier. Every person inside radiated pressure.
They walked straight to the bartender.
"What'll it be?" the man asked without looking up, like he'd said it ten thousand times already.
Dean slammed his palm on the counter, flashing a cocky grin.
"I'd like one freshly shaken Gate to Hell, please."
The Elevator
Cut.
The doors of a strange elevator slammed shut around them.
It didn't descend.
It dropped.
Jake felt his organs try to escape his body.
Ten minutes later—
DING.
The doors opened.
Dean immediately stumbled forward, clutching the doorway.
"I think I'm… I'm gonna be sick…"
Then he straightened up, arms wide.
"WELCOME—TO THE NETHERLANDS!!!"
Jake slowly lifted his head.
And froze.
The world below was the complete opposite of the surface.
Destroyed skyscrapers leaned like corpses. Neon lights bled across cracked streets. Slums stacked on top of slums. Fighters half-naked, bodies stained with dried blood. Bikers roared past, engines screaming like beasts.
It felt alive.
And violent.
"Amazing, right?" Dean asked, already walking forward.
Jake had no choice but to follow.
They passed an alley where five people beat a man senseless, laughing as they took turns.
A crowd cheered nearby as two fighters dueled—one shrinking in size, the other with a shark's head snapping at the air.
Jake looked ahead.
A massive arena loomed in the distance.
Ancient. Cracked. Stained.
It looked like a place that remembered every death.
"What… is that?" Jake asked quietly.
"The Underbelly," Dean replied.
"One of the many half-star arenas in the Netherlands."
He grinned.
"This is going to be fun."
The roar of the crowd reached them before they even got close.
At the entrance, a guard stepped forward.
"Tickets?"
Dean scoffed.
"Pfft. Tickets?"
He puffed out his chest.
"OF COURSE we have tickets! We're not newbies!"
Dean reached into his pocket.
His smile stiffened.
He checked the other pocket.
The smile died.
Slowly… he checked his pants.
Jake's eye twitched.
"Don't tell me," Jake said sharply.
"DON'T TELL ME YOU FORGOT THEM."
"Oh crap!" Dean yelled.
"I LEFT THEM ON THE COUCH!"
"YOU LEFT THEM?!"
"RIGHT AFTER ACTING ALL COCKY?!"
"You should show some gratitude, you dumb bastard!" Dean snapped back.
"I KNEW YOU WERE AN OLD IDIOT WITH BAD MEMORY, BUT DAMN—"
"Well, well, well…"
A voice cut through their shouting.
Both of them turned.
A man stepped out of the shadows—pink hair, countless piercings, a grin that didn't reach his eyes.
"If it isn't Dean Forger," he said.
"My favorite person in the whole world."
Jake stiffened.
He completely hid his presence…
Not many people can do that.
"Is that your new puppet?" a voice whispered into Jake's ear.
Jake's eyes widened.
The man was suddenly behind him.
Jake hadn't sensed anything.
"Back off," Dean said sharply. The humor vanished from his voice.
"Oh, come on, Deany Weany," the man laughed.
"You still treat me so cold."
He vanished.
Appeared beside the guard.
Tapped his shoulder.
"Let them in," he said casually.
"It's on the house."
Then, walking back into the darkness—
"I always cherish visits from old friends."
"Yes, boss!" the guard said instantly.
The path opened.
Jake exhaled slowly.
What kind of world did I just step into…?
Jake didn't move right away after they were let through.
His eyes lingered on the darkness where the pink-haired man had vanished.
"…Who was that?" Jake asked quietly as they walked.
Dean didn't answer immediately.
His expression—rarely serious—tightened.
"He's someone you should stay away from," Dean finally said.
"No matter what."
Jake glanced at him.
Dean exhaled through his nose.
"He goes by a nickname down here," he continued.
"The Starlord."
Jake felt a faint chill crawl up his spine.
So even monsters have legends…
They stepped into the arena stands.
The noise hit them like a physical force.
Roars. Screams. Metal clashing. The scent of blood and burned stone hung thick in the air.
Down in the pit—
Two fighters stood facing each other.
One of them wasn't fully human anymore.
A thick, armored scorpion tail curved over his back, its stinger dripping venom. His arms had transformed into massive scorpion clamps, chitinous and heavy, cracking the stone beneath his feet with every step.
The crowd howled.
Across from him stood a lean man with short silver hair. No visible mutation. No armor.
Just calm eyes.
"Air Force," Dean muttered.
"Bad matchup."
The bell rang.
The scorpion fighter lunged first.
His tail slammed down like a guillotine—
BOOM!
The arena floor shattered, dust exploding upward.
The Air Force fighter vanished from the impact point.
A split second later—
BANG!
An invisible force smashed into the scorpion man's side, sending him skidding across the ground, armor screeching.
Jake's eyes narrowed.
Compressed air… weaponized.
The scorpion roared and charged again, clamps snapping shut with crushing force. Each step cratered the arena floor.
The Air Force fighter met him head-on.
A punch.
WHOOOOM—!
A visible shockwave erupted, ripping straight through a stone pillar behind the scorpion fighter and reducing it to rubble.
The crowd went insane.
The scorpion man staggered—but didn't fall.
He swung a clamp.
Missed.
Air detonated against his jaw.
Bone cracked.
Venom sprayed as the scorpion tail lashed wildly, tearing through concrete, nearly skewering his opponent—but every strike was met with precise bursts of air, redirecting, breaking momentum, dismantling him piece by piece.
Minutes passed.
The scorpion fighter's movements slowed. Cracks spread across his chitin. His breathing turned ragged.
Finally—
He dropped to one knee.
"I—" he gasped.
"I surrender!"
The arena fell silent for a heartbeat.
Then—
The Air Force fighter walked forward.
Jake felt something twist in his chest.
It's over, he thought.
The Air Force fighter raised his fist.
The scorpion man's eyes widened.
"Wait—!"
BOOM.
A point-blank air pulse detonated.
The scorpion fighter's upper body ceased to exist.
Blood misted the air.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
Jake stood frozen.
"…He surrendered," Jake said flatly.
Dean didn't look surprised.
"Down here," Dean replied, eyes fixed on the pit,
"only the winner decides how the loser's story ends."
Jake exhaled slowly.
So this was the Netherlands.
No rules.
No mercy.
No second chances.
He looked around at the screaming crowd, the blood-soaked stone, the fighters already dragging the corpse away.
"…This place is insane," Jake muttered.
Then he frowned.
"And what kind of arena doesn't even sell popcorn?"
Dean blinked.
"…That's your takeaway?"
Jake turned and started walking.
"I'm getting some," he said.
"Watching people die without snacks feels disrespectful."
Dean stared at his back for a second—
Then burst out laughing.
"That's it," he said, following him.
"You're definitely my son."
Jake drifted away from the arena without realizing his steps had slowed.
Only when the noise faded slightly did the unease settle in.
Something was… off.
A few weeks ago, he thought, I would've puked.
The screams.
The blood.
The way the crowd had cheered when a man died even after surrendering.
Back then, he would've panicked—heart racing, mind blank, body screaming at him to run.
Yet now—
He was calm.
Unnaturally so.
He'd seen worse, sure. Monsters. Slaughter. Survival situations that pushed people past sanity.
But this wasn't just experience.
This felt like distance.
Jake stared at his hand as neon light washed over his fingers.
Is it my intelligence stat…?
He'd heard the rumors before—dismissed them as nonsense at the time.
That as intelligence rises, emotional intelligence declines.
That logic sharpens while empathy dulls.
That feelings stop coming naturally—and start needing justification.
He swallowed.
He didn't feel the need to react anymore.
Didn't see the point in expressing certain emotions.
That realization made his chest tighten.
This is dangerous.
If he went too far down that path—if he became too detached—
Would he still feel rage for his family?
Would their deaths still hurt enough to drive him forward?
Jake clenched his fist.
I can't rush intelligence anymore.
A sudden image forced its way into his thoughts—
Pink hair.
Piercings.
A smile that didn't belong on anyone human.
The Starlord.
Jake's breath hitched.
That guy…
"Hey, handsome~"
The voice cut through his thoughts like a blade.
Jake looked up.
A busty woman leaned toward him, confidence dripping from her smile, eyes shameless.
"How about you and I go out sometime?"
Jake didn't hesitate.
"I'm not interested," he said calmly. "You should go back to your boyfriend."
Her smile cracked.
"Tch—!"
Before she could respond, a massive bald man with tattoos stormed in, shoving Jake hard—
—but Jake sidestepped on instinct.
The man staggered forward instead.
The crowd gasped.
"HEY!" the bald man roared.
"ARE YOU TRYING TO ASK MY GIRLFRIEND OUT?!"
Jake met his glare, eyes flat.
"No," he replied. "Your girlfriend tried to ask me out."
The air went still.
The man's face twisted with rage.
"ARE YOU SAYING MY GIRLFRIEND IS A SLUT WHO WOULD CHEAT ON ME?!"
Jake tilted his head slightly.
"I thought it," he said. "I didn't say it."
Dead silence.
"YOU COCKY BASTARD!!"
Jake turned away.
"I'm done here."
"HEY!"
"I CHALLENGE YOU TO A DUEL!"
The shout rang out, sharp and deliberate.
People stopped.
Heads turned.
The crowd moved on instinct, forming a loose circle.
Jake didn't turn back.
"Not interested."
The bald man laughed.
"Then let's make it worth your time. If I win—you apologize to my girlfriend… and I take one of your limbs."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"I'll even give you a hundred silver," the man added. "Feeling generous."
Jake's eyes narrowed.
He's confident.
Too confident.
This wasn't bravado.
This was experience.
"This is a tough decision."
Jake spun around.
"HOW THE HELL DID YOU GET HERE?!"
Dean stood there, hands in his pockets, grinning.
"I always show up where money is."
Inside, Dean was already calculating.
Rank C.
Battle-hardened.
Ability's dangerous.
Jake would lose.
Instantly.
Any competent manager would refuse.
Which was exactly why—
"WE ACCEPT!!"
Dean yelled, flashing a thumbs-up.
"WHAT?!" Jake snapped.
"Well," Dean shrugged, "I get paid even if you lose. What kind of bad manager turns that down?"
"You bastard."
"I'm not doing this," Jake said, turning away.
The bald man chuckled darkly.
"You really are new. Your manager accepted. Walk away now—and that's you admitting defeat."
Jake stopped.
Damn you, Dean…
I know you're a crook.
I know you only care about money.
But aren't you supposed to be my father too?
Before he could take another step—
The crowd closed in completely.
There was no way out.
The bald man cracked his neck once… then twice.
"I'm going to enjoy this."
He ripped his shirt off and tossed it aside. Metal plates rippled beneath his skin as his muscles flexed—unnatural, mechanical.
Jake calmly rolled up his sleeves.
No taunts.
No bravado.
He lowered his stance, feet apart, knees loose.
A fighter's stance.
The crowd leaned in.
The bald man grinned.
Bad move, kid.
His feet transformed.
Metal tore through skin as thrusters formed beneath his soles—engines screaming to life.
BOOM.
The ground detonated.
Jake's pupils shrank.
Too fast—!
The man vanished.
Not blurred.
Gone.
A split second later—
Impact.
A punch slammed into Jake's abdomen with the force of a speeding truck.
CRACK.
Jake's body folded and launched backward, skidding across the stone floor in a shower of sparks.
The crowd roared.
Jake screeched to a stop, boots carving trenches into the ground.
He stayed standing.
Barely.
"Huh," the bald man said, genuinely surprised.
"I'm shocked you're still on your feet."
Jake coughed once.
Blood threatened his throat—but didn't come.
Beneath his shirt, shadow melted and dispersed.
A shadow breastplate… just in time.
If he'd been even a fraction slower, his organs would've liquefied.
Jake raised his head.
Shadow crawled up his arms like living smoke.
Two katanas formed in his hands—edges sharp enough to distort the air.
The bald man vanished again.
WHOOSH—WHOOSH—WHOOSH
Jake couldn't see him.
Only pressure.
Shockwaves.
The sound of air being torn apart.
Blows rained in from everywhere.
Left—blocked.
Right—too slow.
Back—pain exploded.
Jake slid, twisted, parried, countered—
—but he was losing.
Badly.
Every exchange cost him stamina.
Every hit pushed his body closer to failure.
Still, his mind stayed calm.
Angle… timing… prediction…
Jake baited.
Missed on purpose.
Countered blindly—
—and still got smashed into the ground.
The bald man hovered above him, boosters roaring.
"You're smart," he laughed.
"But your body can't keep up."
Jake pushed himself up—
DING.
A translucent notification flashed in his vision.
Speed +15
Strength +2
Stamina +4
Jake froze.
…That's different.
Compared to the goblins—
This boost was massive.
His breath steadied.
His muscles tightened.
The world…
Slowed.
So that's it.
The higher the gap… the more I grow.
Jake straightened.
Then—
He smiled.
Not cocky.
Predatory.
The bald man's grin twitched.
"Oh?" he said. " Let me fix your face"
He lunged.
Boosters screaming.
Faster than before.
Jake moved.
Not reacted.
Moved.
He stepped into the punch.
Grabbed the man's wrist.
The crowd gasped.
Jake twisted—hard.
Metal screeched.
The bald man flew overhead and slammed into the ground.
Jake was already there.
A knee to the ribs.
A kick to the jaw.
A pull, a sweep, a brutal elbow to the spine.
Meanwhile
People inside the arena started getting the gossip that an epic battle was going on outside and all began to go out to see the fight
Back
The bald man fired his boosters—
Jake used them.
He yanked the man forward and slammed his face into the floor, shadows reinforcing the impact.
CRATER.
The crowd exploded.
Jake didn't stop.
He grabbed.
Pulled.
Kicked.
Toyed.
Every movement precise. Efficient. Cruel.
The bald man tried to rise—
Jake stepped on his chest.
Shadow blades pressed against his throat.
The arena fell silent.
Dean stared.
…He got stronger.
Mid-fight.
Jake looked down at his opponent, eyes cold.
"You were right," he said calmly.
"You should have killed me when you could."
He leaned closer.
"Now.... You forever lost that chance."
The crowd erupted.
Jake glanced around.
At some point, the crowd had multiplied.
Not just passersby anymore—fighters from the arena, gamblers, managers, people who felt blood in the air. Word had spread fast. Too fast. Eyes burned into him from every direction, hungry, assessing, measuring.
Tch… annoying.
Jake turned to leave.
That was when a voice cut through the noise.
"I hate people like you."
The crowd seemed to mute around the words.
"People who attract attention."
"People who trample others just by existing."
Jake stopped.
He didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
A presence brushed past him.
Too close.
A tap landed on his shoulder—light, casual.
Jake's eyes widened a fraction.
…I didn't sense him.
A boy around his age walked past him, hands in his pockets. Blonde-and-black hair fell messily over sharp golden eyes that didn't bother looking back. He moved like the world made room for him.
And in that instant—
Jake understood.
He's faster.
The boy spoke as he passed, voice low, almost bored.
"I'll wait for the day I get to fight you."
A pause.
Then—
"Nah."
"I'll straight up kill you."
The words slid into Jake's spine like ice.
Not killing intent.
Not pressure.
Just… certainty.
The boy vanished into the crowd.
No flash.
No sound.
No ripple.
Gone.
The noise rushed back all at once, but something had changed. A handful of fighters stood frozen, eyes narrowed. A few veterans swallowed dryly.
Only those with good eyes noticed.
Jake's jaw tightened.
Behind him, Dean stared at the space where the boy had disappeared.
"…Shit."
His chest felt heavy.
That was him.
The fighter scheduled for the arena's main match.
The real attraction.
And Jake had stolen the crowd.
There's nothing worse than humiliating a monster in front of witnesses.
Dean exhaled slowly, dread creeping into his bones.
That kid… is trouble
A-rank.
Ability: Plasma.
Dean glanced at Jake's back.
"…You really don't know how to stay small, do you?"
And somewhere in the Netherlands, a predator had just chosen his prey.
The crowd slowly began to disperse, the tension thinning like smoke after a gunshot. Some people laughed nervously, others whispered Jake's name like it was something sharp on the tongue. A few fighters stared at him with new eyes—not curiosity anymore, but caution.
Jake didn't move.
His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but his mind wasn't.
That presence…
That killing intent that brushed past his spine like a blade.
An A-rank…
So this was the Netherlands.
"Tch," Dean clicked his tongue beside him, hands shoved into his pockets. "You really know how to step on landmines, kid."
Jake finally exhaled. "I didn't do anything."
"That's the problem," Dean muttered. "You did it without trying."
High above them, on a fractured balcony overlooking the underground street, a man leaned casually against a rusted railing.
Pink hair.
Too many piercings.
A smile that never quite reached his eyes.
The Starlord.
He had watched the entire fight—not the beginning, not the noise—but the moment it shifted. The exact second the balance tilted and the predator changed.
His eyes gleamed with interest.
"…He adapted mid-combat," Starlord murmured. "No hesitation. No panic. Just recalculation."
One of his subordinates, cloaked in shadow, spoke cautiously. "The bald one was C-rank. Experienced."
"And still lost control of the fight," Starlord replied, amused. "That kid didn't win because he was stronger."
He chuckled softly.
"He won because he learned faster."
Below, Jake lifted his head slightly, eyes narrowing—not toward the crowd, not toward Dean—
—but somewhere higher.
For a split second, their gazes almost met.
Almost.
Starlord's smile widened.
"Oh?" he said, straightening. "You felt that?"
The shadow beside him stiffened. "Should I—"
"No," Starlord interrupted calmly. "Not yet."
He turned away, hands sliding into his jacket pockets as he walked back into the darkness.
"Let him grow," he said lightly. "Let him struggle. Let him bleed."
A pause.
"…Kids like that are the most fun when they think they're still climbing."
Down below, Jake rubbed his thumb against his knuckle, an unexplained chill settling in his chest.
For the first time since entering the Netherlands, he understood something clearly:
He wasn't just being watched.
He was being evaluated.
And somewhere in the dark, powerful eyes had decided—
Jake Anders was worth remembering.
The bald man tried to move.
Not run—
crawl.
Slow. Pathetic. One arm dragging his twisted body across the arena floor like a dying insect. He didn't even look back, convinced that if he just didn't exist hard enough, Jake would forget him.
Jake didn't.
"…Ah."
The single sound froze the baldy mid-crawl.
Goosebumps exploded across his skin.
He turned his head inch by inch, terror stretching his face as Jake stood there, shadow pooling faintly at his feet, smiling like he'd just remembered something important.
"I didn't tell you," Jake said calmly, tilting his head, "what I get if I win."
The baldy's lips trembled. "P-Please—"
Jake stepped closer.
"You," he said, voice light, almost cheerful,
"will be my personal slave."
The word slave landed heavier than the punch earlier.
"Till you die."
Jake's smile sharpened. Not loud. Not manic.
Just… wrong.
"Starting tomorrow."
The baldy broke.
He burst into ugly, hiccupping sobs, clutching the floor. "NO—PLEASE—ANYTHING BUT THAT—"
A blue screen flickered into existence.
Opponent Defeated
XP +67
Jake blinked.
Another prompt followed.
Would you like to buy time in the Dyriad Realm?
"…Buy time?" Jake muttered internally.
Dyriad Realm. Monsters. The other world.
So XP wasn't just for stats.
It was currency.
I can't let anyone know about this.
He dismissed the screen instantly and turned—
—to see Dean on his knees, hands on his head.
"My money…" Dean whispered hoarsely. "My beautiful, innocent money…"
Jake stared. "…You bet against me?"
Dean looked up, eyes red. "You looked like you were about to die!"
Jake sighed.
Later that night.
Dean was still crying.
Not walking—wailing—as they trudged back to the apartment. Jake let him. It felt… weirdly normal.
They opened the door.
"Welcome ho—"
Miranda stood in the kitchen, apron on, wooden spoon raised. The smell of actual home-cooked food filled the room.
Dean froze.
"…Food?"
Miranda smiled. "You two were gone long. Sit."
Dean collapsed into a chair like a war survivor. Jake sat across from him, quiet, watching as plates were set down.
For a moment, everything felt unreal.
No blood.
No arena.
No screams.
Just warmth.
Dean sniffed, then glanced at Jake. "You know," he said softly, seriousness bleeding through the comedy, "you're strong now."
Jake looked up.
"But not strong enough," Dean continued. "You're still D-rank. One step above trash." He paused, then added, "No offense."
Jake didn't respond.
"The people on the high table?" Dean said. "They won't even notice you yet."
He leaned back.
"And if you really mean what you said a few episodes ago—"
Jake glanced at him.
Dean grinned briefly. "—then you need to get way stronger."
Silence followed.
Jake stared down at his palm.
Slowly…
he clenched it.
"I will avenge them," he said quietly.
The shadows around his fingers twitched.
"And I'll destroy the system in the process."
His fist tightened.
Not in rage.
In certainty.