Two weeks passed in careful routine. Marcus attended Lincoln Standard during the day, maintaining his cover as a diligent but unremarkable Null. He studied with Sarah, participated in class discussions, and appeared to be adjusting well to his powerless status. His teachers wrote positive reports. His parents relaxed, relieved their son wasn't spiraling into depression like so many other Nulls.
At night, Marcus descended into his laboratory and worked.
His monster population had grown to two hundred and thirty-seven through systematic hunting and conversion of the tunnel's rat population. He'd refined the BW-ALPHA process further, achieving an eighty-five percent success rate for artificial awakening. His awakened-tier monsters now numbered ninety-three, with abilities ranging from elemental manipulation to enhanced physical capabilities to exotic sensory powers.
He'd also created three more elite-tier monsters:
**Alpha-Four:** Converted from a guard dog he'd stolen from a junkyard. Enhanced strength and sensory abilities, with acid generation grafted through the mutagen process.
**Alpha-Five:** Built from multiple rats fused together. Possessed minor telepathic abilities—could sense thoughts within a ten-foot radius. Weak, but invaluable for intelligence gathering.
**Alpha-Six:** His most ambitious creation yet. He'd used an entire container of BW-151 crystallized Essence combined with twenty micro-monsters to create something larger. The result was a creature the size of a bear, covered in crystalline armor, capable of absorbing and redirecting energy attacks.
But tonight, he would test his creations in real combat.
Tonight was the Slaughterhouse tournament.
---
The Slaughterhouse operated in the sub-basement of an abandoned factory in the industrial district. Access was restricted, known only through word of mouth in criminal circles. The fights were illegal, brutal, and often lethal. Low to mid-tier villains and awakened criminals competed for prize money, settling scores and establishing dominance.
In his previous life's timeline, Marcus had never attended the Slaughterhouse—he'd only learned of its existence through news reports after it was raided. But he'd memorized the details: location, security measures, typical attendee power levels.
Tonight's tournament was special. A "free-for-all" format where twenty combatants would enter, only one would leave victorious. The prize was fifty thousand dollars and guaranteed entry into the Red Fang Syndicate, one of Neo-Seattle's more established villain organizations.
Marcus had no interest in the money or the syndicate. He wanted the combatants.
He approached the factory at 10:00 PM, wearing dark clothing and a simple black mask that covered the lower half of his face. His micro-monsters were distributed throughout his body, ready to deploy. Alpha-One through Alpha-Six waited in compressed form in a reinforced backpack.
The entrance was guarded by two men—both awakened, both radiating the casual violence of career criminals. One had metallic skin, the other produced a low-level force field around his body.
"Invitation," the metallic one demanded.
Marcus pulled out a card he'd stolen from a low-level villain two days ago. The man had been easy to track, easier to kill, and his micro-monsters had consumed the body entirely. The invitation was authentic, no questions asked.
The guard examined it, then nodded. "You're in. Leave your phone. No recording devices. What's in the bag?"
"Equipment," Marcus said flatly.
"We need to check—"
Marcus released five micro-monsters. They were invisible in the darkness, moving faster than human eyes could track. They crawled up the guards' legs, found exposed skin, and injected paralytic venom he'd developed specifically for this purpose.
Both guards collapsed within seconds, unable to move or speak but fully conscious. Their eyes showed terror as they realized they couldn't call for help.
"You'll recover in six hours," Marcus told them, stepping over their bodies. "Be grateful I need you alive as witnesses. Your fear will spread more effectively than your deaths."
He dragged them into the shadows and continued inside.
The factory's interior had been converted into a makeshift arena. Rows of seats surrounded a central pit approximately fifty feet in diameter, its floor stained with old blood. Perhaps two hundred people filled the space—criminals, low-tier villains, gang members, and wealthy thrill-seekers who paid for the privilege of watching humans kill each other.
Marcus found an empty seat in the upper section, away from the main crowd. Below, twenty combatants were gathering in the pit, each one radiating power. He analyzed them systematically:
**Combatant profiles identified:**
- Three with elemental manipulation (fire, ice, electricity)
- Five with physical enhancement (strength, speed, durability)
- Two with energy projection abilities
- Four with biological mutations (claws, armor, venom)
- Three with weapon manifestation powers
- Two with mental abilities (minor telepathy, fear inducement)
- One with gravitational manipulation
Most were E to D-rank in power level. A few might qualify as C-rank. All were experienced killers.
*Perfect test subjects,* Marcus thought. *Let them weaken each other, then I'll harvest what remains.*
The announcer—a woman with sound amplification abilities—stood at the pit's edge. "Welcome to tonight's main event! Twenty enter, one leaves! The rules are simple: fight until only one combatant remains standing. Killing is permitted. Surrender is accepted but rarely granted. The victor receives fifty thousand dollars and membership in the Red Fang Syndicate!"
The crowd roared approval. Money changed hands as bets were placed.
"Combatants, are you ready?"
The fighters took their positions, eyeing each other warily. Alliances would form and break within seconds once the battle began.
"BEGIN!"
The pit erupted into chaos.
The fire manipulator struck first, sending a wave of flame across the arena. Two combatants with inadequate defense burned screaming. The gravitational manipulator responded by crushing one of the fire wielder's allies into the ground, bones snapping audibly.
Marcus watched with clinical detachment, cataloging each ability's application and limitation. The fighters were crude in their technique, relying on raw power rather than strategy. They wasted energy, telegraphed attacks, left obvious openings.
*Disappointing,* Marcus analyzed. *But their abilities are useful regardless of skill.*
Within five minutes, eight combatants were dead or dying. The survivors had formed temporary alliances—two groups of six, circling each other warily.
"This is taking too long!" someone in the crowd shouted. "Kill each other already!"
As if in response, the gravitational manipulator—a man covered in gang tattoos—made his move. He increased gravity around three opponents simultaneously, driving them to their knees. His allies rushed in to finish them off.
But he'd made a mistake: overextension. A woman with energy projection abilities had held back, conserving power. She struck now, a concentrated beam punching through the gravitational manipulator's chest.
He collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. His gravitational field fluctuated wildly before dissipating entirely.
*Target acquired,* Marcus thought. *Gravitational manipulation. Rare ability. High priority for harvesting.*
The battle continued. Alliances shattered as promised. Bodies accumulated. The crowd's bloodlust grew with each death, their cheers echoing through the factory.
After twenty minutes, five combatants remained. All were wounded, exhausted, but still dangerous. They circled each other in the blood-soaked pit, waiting for someone to make the first move.
The ice manipulator attacked, flash-freezing the ground. Two fighters slipped, and he capitalized instantly, impaling one with an ice spear. The energy projector fired from range, but the armored mutant tanked the hit and closed distance, his claws tearing into her throat.
Three left.
The ice manipulator and the armored mutant faced off while the last fighter—a speedster with blade-like arms—waited for an opening.
They clashed. Ice met claws. The speedster darted in, cutting deep into the ice manipulator's leg. The ice wielder retaliated by freezing the speedster's feet to the ground. The armored mutant crushed the immobilized speedster's skull with one punch.
Two left.
The crowd was on its feet, screaming. This was what they'd paid for—the final showdown, the moment of victory.
The ice manipulator and the armored mutant circled each other, both bleeding, both exhausted. The ice wielder struck first, covering the mutant in frost. But the armored fighter pushed through, his natural durability protecting him. He grabbed the ice manipulator's throat and squeezed.
The ice wielder's eyes bulged. Frost spread across the mutant's arm, freezing tissue, but the grip didn't loosen. After ten seconds that felt eternal, the ice manipulator went limp.
The armored mutant stood alone in the pit, surrounded by corpses.
"WE HAVE A WINNER!" the announcer screamed.
The crowd erupted in celebration and anger, depending on who they'd bet on. Money exchanged hands. The victor raised his arms, roaring triumph through a mouth full of too many teeth.
Marcus stood and began moving toward the exit—not the entrance he'd used, but a service door that led to the sub-basement levels. According to the Slaughterhouse's standard procedure, dead bodies would be disposed of through the factory's old incinerator system. They'd be moved soon.
He needed to intercept them first.
---
Marcus descended into the sub-basement, his micro-monsters scouting ahead. The space was dark, cramped, filled with old machinery and industrial waste. Perfect for an ambush.
He found the incinerator room—a large chamber with a massive furnace and a service elevator that would bring the bodies down from the pit. He could hear machinery activating above. They were loading the corpses now.
Marcus released all six of his elite-tier monsters, positioning them throughout the room. Alpha-One near the elevator. Alpha-Two and Three flanking the furnace. Alpha-Four guarding the exit. Alpha-Five extending its weak telepathic senses to detect approaching minds. Alpha-Six, his largest creation, waiting in the center of the room.
The elevator descended with a grinding mechanical sound.
When the doors opened, three men wheeled out a cart stacked with bodies. They wore gas masks and industrial gloves, clearly accustomed to this grim work. They chatted casually about the tournament, laughing about the fights.
"Did you see that ice guy's face when—"
Alpha-One struck from the shadows, its claws punching through the first man's chest before he could scream. Alpha-Two and Three descended on the second, their combined strength tearing him apart. The third man tried to run, but Alpha-Four was faster, its acid dissolving his legs before he reached the door.
Marcus stepped into the light. "Thank you for delivering my materials."
The dying man's eyes widened behind his gas mask, seeing Marcus—just a teenager in dark clothing—commanding literal monsters. He tried to speak, but Alpha-Four's acid had reached his lungs.
Marcus walked to the cart and examined the bodies. Nineteen corpses, all relatively fresh. Some were too damaged for conversion, but most were intact enough. He placed his hand on the first body—the gravitational manipulator.
His power flowed through the corpse, rewriting dead tissue, forcing transformation. It was harder with dead material than living subjects, requiring more concentration and energy. But Marcus had practiced this process extensively in his laboratory.
After five minutes, the gravitational manipulator's corpse began to move. Flesh rippled. Bones cracked and reformed. What emerged was no longer human—a hulking creature covered in dark grey skin, with six arms and a grotesque head that seemed to fold space around it.
**Alpha-Seven:** Gravitational manipulation preserved and enhanced.
Marcus continued through the cart methodically. Each corpse became a monster, each monster inherited or was granted abilities through his power and the mutagen compounds he'd brought. The process took three hours, during which he worked without interruption, his elite-tier monsters standing guard.
When he finished, nineteen new creatures filled the incinerator room:
- Alpha-Seven through Eleven: Elite-tier, converted from the strongest combatants
- Beta-One through Fourteen: Commander-tier—his first creation of this rank. These were larger, more intelligent, capable of leading other monsters
The Beta-tier monsters were a breakthrough. He'd used concentrated doses of BW-151 and BW-ALPHA together, combining them with the corpses' residual Essence. The result was creatures that could think strategically, follow complex orders, and adapt to changing situations.
"Perfect," Marcus said, surveying his new army. "Beta-One, status report."
The creature—converted from the ice manipulator—spoke with a voice like grinding stone: "Fully functional. Combat capabilities at ninety-three percent. Awaiting orders."
They could speak. Another unexpected benefit of the commander-tier conversion.
"Return to compressed form, all of you. We're moving to the laboratory."
The monsters shrank obediently. Marcus collected them in multiple containers, distributing them across several bags. Nineteen new monsters, bringing his total elite-tier count to twenty-five and introducing an entirely new tier of creature.
He burned the three disposal workers' bodies in the incinerator, then activated the facility's fire suppression system to cover his tracks. By the time anyone discovered what happened here, he'd be long gone.
As Marcus climbed back through the factory, he could hear confusion and alarm spreading above. The tournament victor had apparently collapsed shortly after his victory—poison, someone claimed. The guards at the entrance were missing. Money was being disputed.
The Slaughterhouse was descending into chaos.
Marcus slipped out a side exit, completely unnoticed. Just another shadow in the industrial district.
---
By the time he reached his laboratory, dawn was approaching. Marcus spent an hour organizing his new creations, testing their capabilities, establishing the command hierarchy. The Beta-tier monsters could control the Alpha-tier, which in turn could command the basic awakened-tier and micro-monsters.
He was building more than an army. He was creating a functioning ecosystem, a civilization of monsters with him as its absolute sovereign.
His phone buzzed. Multiple messages from Sarah:
*Where were you last night? You missed our study session*
*Marcus? Are you okay?*
*If you're dead in a ditch somewhere I'm going to be really annoyed*
*Fine, ignore me then*
Marcus typed a quick response: *Sorry, got caught up in research. Made a breakthrough. Will explain later.*
The reply came instantly: *You're lucky I like you, science boy. Don't ghost me again.*
He pocketed the phone and returned to his work. The Slaughterhouse raid had been a success beyond his expectations. Nineteen new monsters, including fourteen commander-tier creatures that could lead his forces independently.
But more importantly, he'd proven he could operate in hostile territory, strike without leaving evidence, and harvest resources from under the criminal underworld's nose.
The next target on his timeline was the Essence shipment at the port. That would require more planning, more preparation. The Black Talon villain group would be attempting the same heist, and they were significantly more dangerous than the Slaughterhouse's random collection of criminals.
Marcus pulled up his notes on Black Talon:
**Black Talon Organization:**
- Leader: Void Raven (B-rank villain, shadow manipulation and flight)
- Second: Crimson Chain (C-rank, weapon manifestation - chains)
- Members: 15-20 C to E-rank villains
- Known for precision strikes and minimal civilian casualties
- Would be destroyed by the Hero Association in 2147
*Two years until they're eliminated,* Marcus noted. *But I can accelerate that timeline. If I consume Black Talon now, I inherit their resources, their intelligence network, their reputation.*
It was ambitious. Possibly too ambitious for his current power level. But Marcus had never achieved anything by being cautious.
He began planning the assault on Black Talon, calculating optimal strategies, identifying weaknesses in their typical operations. His mind worked through dozens of scenarios, eliminating impossibilities, refining probabilities.
By the time his parents called him for breakfast, Marcus had a plan. It was risky, complex, and would require perfect execution.
But if successful, he'd eliminate a major villain organization, acquire a massive amount of crystallized Essence, and establish himself as a force the underworld would fear—even if they didn't know his identity.
Marcus saved his notes and headed upstairs, transforming seamlessly back into the role of powerless teenager. His mother had made pancakes. His father was reading the morning news on his tablet.
"You're up early," Helen commented. "Another study session?"
"Couldn't sleep," Marcus said, pouring orange juice. "Too much coffee yesterday."
On his father's tablet, a news headline caught his eye:
**ILLEGAL FIGHTING RING DISCOVERED - 20 DEAD, ORGANIZERS MISSING**
"Terrible," David muttered, reading the article. "The Slaughterhouse, they're calling it. Been operating for years apparently. Hero Association is investigating."
"They find who did it?" Marcus asked casually.
"No suspects yet. Could be a rival gang, or maybe someone decided to clean house." His father shook his head. "This city gets worse every year."
Marcus ate his pancakes in silence, thinking about the nineteen monsters now sleeping in his laboratory. About Beta-One, who spoke with the ice manipulator's voice but served Marcus's will absolutely. About the crystallized Essence that would soon be his.
"By the way," his mother said, breaking his thoughts. "We're going to be working late this week. There's increased villain activity, so the Hero Association is extending patrols. Will you be okay on your own?"
"I'll be fine, Mom."
"I know you will. You're very independent." She smiled, but there was sadness in it. "Sometimes I worry you're too independent. You barely talk to us anymore."
*Because you're irrelevant to my goals,* Marcus didn't say. Instead: "I'm just focused on school. Trying to figure out my future."
"That's good. That's very mature." Helen glanced at David, who nodded encouragingly. "We want you to know, whatever you decide to do with your life, we support you."
"Thanks, Mom."
They finished breakfast in comfortable silence. His parents left for their patrol, and Marcus returned to his room. He had class in two hours, which meant he had time for a quick visit to the laboratory to check on his monsters' adaptation to their new forms.
As he prepared to leave, his phone buzzed again. This time, an unknown number:
*Marcus Vail. We know what you did at the Slaughterhouse. We know what you are. Meet us tonight at Pier 17, 11 PM, or everyone learns your secret.*
Marcus stared at the message for a long moment.
Someone knew.
Someone had discovered his power, had connected him to the Slaughterhouse massacre. The question was: who, and how much did they actually know?
He had two options: ignore the threat and eliminate whoever sent it, or attend the meeting and assess the situation.
Marcus smiled coldly.
*Let them think they have leverage,* he decided. *I'll go to this meeting. And if they're foolish enough to threaten me directly...*
He'd harvest one more set of test subjects.
Marcus typed a simple reply: *I'll be there.*
The response came immediately: Come alone. No tricks.
No tricks, Marcus agreed.
He was already planning exactly which monsters to bring.