The factory breathed with him.
Each slow inhale echoed faintly through the hollow chambers, stirring dust from cracked concrete floors. Each exhale whispered through rusted metal beams, carrying the faint scent of oil, rain, and old smoke.
Che lay still in the shadows, eyes half-open, chest rising and falling in deep, controlled breaths.
In.
Hold.
Out.
Again.
The storm outside had passed, but the city still murmured in restless sleep. Distant sirens wailed. Neon lights flickered. Somewhere far away, machinery groaned endlessly, like a tired beast refusing to rest.
Che pushed himself upright.
His muscles tightened instantly, ready, alert.
For the first time in his life, his body responded without hesitation.
No weakness.
No delay.
Just precision.
His feet touched the ground silently. His balance was flawless. He rolled his shoulders once, feeling the unfamiliar hum of power beneath his skin.
It scared him.
And thrilled him.
He inhaled slowly, steadying his racing thoughts.
"Control," he whispered.
The word anchored him.
Master Rael's voice echoed faintly in his memory.
Power without control is destruction. Control without courage is cowardice. Balance both, and you survive.
Che exhaled.
Then stepped into the faint light filtering through shattered windows.
Morning revealed the full ugliness of the outer districts.
Buildings leaned at unnatural angles, their frames twisted and scarred from countless battles. Streets were cracked wide open, filled with stagnant water and broken machinery. Smoke rose endlessly from trash fires and makeshift forges.
People moved carefully.
Quietly.
Their eyes darted constantly, watching rooftops, alleyways, shadows.
Fear ruled here.
Che blended into the crowds, hood pulled low, breathing steady and even.
Yet everything felt sharper.
He heard whispers from across the street.
He smelled oil before he saw the leaking pipe.
He sensed movement behind him long before footsteps touched the ground.
His senses were alive.
Too alive.
He had to focus not to become overwhelmed.
In.
Out.
Slow.
He followed instinct, moving deeper into the district until the streets narrowed into a maze of steel, pipes, and hanging cables. At its heart stood a colossal underground structure—half factory, half arena.
The Iron Pit.
A place where desperation met blood.
Where the powerless fought for survival.
Where underground battles entertained the brutal and the bored.
And where strength, not status, decided who lived.
Che hesitated at the entrance.
His breathing slowed.
His heart pounded harder.
Fear returned thin but persistent.
He clenched his fists.
This was his first trial.
If he could not survive here, he would never reach the ones who killed Rael.
He stepped inside.
The Iron Pit roared.
The noise slammed into him like a physical force.
Shouts.
Cheers.
Curses.
Metal crashing.
Flesh striking flesh.
The air was thick with sweat, blood, smoke, and adrenaline.
Torchlight flickered across massive stone walls, illuminating tiered seating carved directly into the underground rock. Hundreds crowded the benches, their faces hungry, wild, desperate.
At the center lay the arena a vast circular pit, its stone floor cracked and stained dark with countless battles.
Che's chest tightened.
He inhaled deeply, forcing calm.
His footsteps echoed as he approached the registration table, a scarred slab of metal guarded by a massive man with cybernetic arms and one glowing eye.
"Name?" the man growled.
Che hesitated.
Names carried weight.
Names carried history.
He swallowed.
"Cain."
The guard studied him for a long moment, mechanical fingers tapping against steel.
"First time?"
Che nodded.
The guard snorted. "Then don't die."
A metal tag clinked into Che's hand.
Number 108.
"Wait in the pit."
Che turned and descended into the fighters' chamber.
Below the arena, the air thickened.
Moisture dripped constantly from stone ceilings.
The chamber buzzed with tense energy.
Dozens of fighters prepared in silence—wrapping knuckles, stretching muscles, steadying breath.
Some bore scars. Others fresh wounds.
All carried hunger in their eyes.
Che leaned against a cold stone wall, closing his eyes.
His breathing slowed.
In.
Out.
He listened.
Heartbeats.
Footsteps.
Distant crowd roars.
His body relaxed.
Yet his muscles remained coiled, ready.
A low horn echoed through the chamber.
The first fight began.
The crowd erupted.
Che felt the vibration travel through the floor, up his legs, into his chest.
His tag buzzed.
Match 17.
That was him.
His pulse quickened.
Not fear.
Anticipation.
The arena lights flared.
Che stepped into blinding torchlight.
The roar of the crowd crashed against him like thunder.
Across the pit stood his opponent.
A giant.
Nearly seven feet tall.
Broad as a truck.
His skin was dark, covered in ritual scars. His head shaved smooth. His eyes glowed faintly red—enhanced, perhaps, by illegal cyber implants.
Steel plates reinforced his fists.
A heavy chain wrapped around his waist.
The man rolled his shoulders, muscles rippling, breathing deep and steady.
The crowd chanted his name.
"GOR! GOR! GOR!"
Che exhaled slowly.
In.
Out.
The pendant beneath his shirt warmed faintly.
The horn blared.
The fight began.
Gor charged.
The ground shook beneath his weight.
Che barely had time to move.
He twisted aside as a massive fist slammed into the stone where his head had been.
The impact cracked the floor.
Shards of rock exploded outward.
Che rolled, sprang to his feet, breathing controlled.
Gor roared and swung again.
Che ducked.
A backhand followed.
He leapt back, barely escaping the shockwave.
His heart hammered.
But his mind remained calm.
Study.
Predict.
Adapt.
Gor's movements were powerful but slow.
Brutal but linear.
Che circled, feet light, breathing even.
The giant lunged.
Che slid beneath the blow, pivoted, and struck.
His fist slammed into Gor's ribs.
The impact exploded outward.
Gor staggered.
Shock flashed across his face.
Che blinked.
He had barely used strength.
Yet the force had been devastating.
The crowd went silent for a heartbeat.
Then roared louder.
Gor snarled and rushed again, chain whipping through the air.
Che ducked and rolled, the chain slicing stone behind him.
He surged forward.
A flurry of strikes.
Each precise.
Each calculated.
Fists hammered into muscle, joints, pressure points.
Gor grunted.
Stumbled.
But refused to fall.
Rage flooded his eyes.
He slammed both fists into the ground.
The shockwave threw Che backward.
He crashed hard, breath exploding from his lungs.
Pain tore through his back.
His breathing shattered.
In.
Nothing.
Out.
Nothing.
Panic surged.
Then
Control.
He forced air back in.
Slow.
Deep.
Steady.
His vision cleared.
Gor was already charging.
Che rose.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Perfect.
Their fists collided.
The impact cracked the air.
A visible shockwave rippled outward.
The crowd gasped.
Gor's eyes widened.
Che stepped in.
Twisted.
Drove his elbow upward into the giant's jaw.
Bone cracked.
Gor collapsed.
The arena fell silent.
Then erupted.
Che stood motionless, chest rising and falling steadily.
Sweat ran down his spine.
His muscles trembled faintly.
But he was uninjured.
Unbroken.
He stared at his hands.
This power…
It was terrifying.
And intoxicating.
The crowd chanted wildly.
"CAIN! CAIN! CAIN!"
He turned and left the arena.
By nightfall, Che had fought four times.
Each opponent stronger.
Each victory harder.
His breathing grew heavier with each battle, muscles burning, stamina draining.
But his control never wavered.
In.
Out.
Focus.
The final match was announced.
His toughest yet.
The crowd roared in anticipation.
His opponent emerged slowly.
A woman.
Tall.
Lean.
Her silver hair flowed freely down her back. Her eyes burned icy blue. Electricity crackled faintly across her skin.
A Kimyo.
The pit fell silent.
Che's heart slammed violently.
A Kimyo in underground combat meant only one thing.
Illegal.
Deadly.
No mercy.
The horn sounded.
Lightning exploded.
Che barely leapt aside as a bolt shattered the floor.
He rolled, sprang up, breathing sharp.
She attacked relentlessly.
Electric arcs tore through the air.
Stone vaporized.
Che dodged, weaved, and countered, closing distance.
A punch.
Blocked.
A kick.
Deflected.
A knee.
She caught his leg, electricity surging through him.
Pain tore through his nerves.
His body convulsed.
He screamed.
But he did not fall.
He forced breath back into his lungs.
In.
Out.
Control.
He twisted violently, breaking her grip, and slammed his forehead into hers.
She staggered.
He followed.
A brutal barrage.
She collapsed.
The crowd erupted.
Che fell to one knee, gasping.
His lungs burned.
His muscles screamed.
His vision blurred.
But he had won.
Again.
As medics dragged his opponent away, a shadow moved in the stands.
A tall figure cloaked in black.
Watching.
Studying.
Calculating.
Their eyes glowed faintly gold.
Che felt a chill crawl up his spine.
Danger.
He left the arena without celebration.
Without rest.
Because instinct screamed.
He was being hunted.
That night, in the depths of the outer district, Che stood beneath broken streetlights, rain dripping softly around him.
He inhaled deeply.
Then exhaled.
"Come out," he said quietly.
The shadows shifted.
A man stepped forward.
Tall.
Lean.
Face hidden beneath a hood.
"You fought well," the stranger said.
Che's muscles tensed.
"Who are you?"
The man lifted his head.
Golden eyes gleamed.
"A messenger," he said softly. "And a warning."
Che's breathing slowed.
"From who?"
The man smiled faintly.
"From those who killed your master."
Thunder rolled.
The storm had returned.