The crowd was still reeling from the speed of it.
Arata—Number Seven—dusted himself off calmly as he stepped away from the motionless body of Mad Bull. He walked straight toward the exit, his black robe flowing behind him. From start to finish, the entire fight had lasted less than thirty seconds.
Silence rippled through the audience before a wave of stunned murmuring spread.
"Quick… ruthless… precise," one spectator muttered, eyes wide with disbelief. "Number Seven's even scarier than Mad Bull. He didn't just overpower him—he dissected him."
Another nodded slowly. "I barely saw it. Mad Bull charged, then… what? A single counter?"
"You missed it," said a more seasoned viewer. "There were three strikes. Lightning fast. One to the brow, one to the neck, one to the lower back. Surgical. Non-lethal—but brutal."
Gasps echoed across the stands. On the ground, Mad Bull lay still, his massive chest barely rising.
"Is he even alive?" someone asked, their voice tight with concern.
"He's breathing," another replied. "Number Seven doesn't kill. He just makes you wish he had."
Though the underground arena thrived on violence, killing was officially discouraged. Every time Arata stepped into the ring, someone would remind him—"Don't kill, just win." As if he needed the reminder. As if he didn't already walk a razor's edge every time he put on the robe.
Passing a cluster of security guards near the exit, Arata glanced briefly at the stretcher crew hauling Mad Bull away.
"He'll live," he said simply, his voice low under the hood.
One guard let out a shaky breath. "Man… it's like he beats them just enough to make a point. Every time."
"He's not flashy," another muttered. "He's cold. Exact. Every opponent ends up half-dead."
Arata didn't stop to respond. He was already walking out of the arena, metal case in hand—his winnings. He never lingered longer than necessary. A place like this, thick with smoke, blood, and whispered bets, was meant to be survived, not savored. One day, it might come crashing down. And when it did, he didn't want to be caught in the rubble.
But as he stepped into the city's cool night air, something shifted.
A subtle presence.
He paused.
Then without a word, he turned and walked into the nearest alley—long, narrow, cloaked in shadow. Between two tall buildings, the darkness swallowed him whole. His footsteps echoed quietly, each one deliberate, measured.
Then—
Clack. Clack.
Another set of footsteps approached from the far end of the alley. Heavy. Intentional.
A man emerged. Bearded, broad-shouldered, with two long machetes glinting in the dim light. His eyes were filled with something primal—rage, old and festering.
"It's been a long time," the man said, his voice like gravel, twisted with hate. "You know how long I've waited for this, bastard?"
The blades scraped along the concrete with a shrill screech, the sound sharp as broken glass.
Arata set the metal case down, his expression unreadable beneath the robe's shadowed hood.
"Who are you?" he asked flatly. "A sore loser? Some drunk after my prize money?"
The man snarled, twitching like a rabid animal. "You don't remember me? Good. I'll make sure you never forget me again—once I've broken every last bone in your body."
Arata didn't flinch. He simply shifted his stance, hands loose at his sides.
There was no arena this time. No referee, no crowd, no rules.
Just the chill of the alley.
And a fight waiting to begin.