The freight terminal loomed ahead as I navigated the cracked pavement and rusting containers. Rain from earlier had left puddles reflecting the dim lights strung haphazardly along the perimeter. The air smelled of damp metal and old oil—a far cry from any arena, but perfect for what I was here to do.
I kept my hood low, face mostly obscured, and carried nothing that could link me to my real identity. The tournament was structured, professional enough to need verification, but underground enough to reward skill, not reputation. I approached the side entrance where a burly man with a scanner motioned me forward.
"Stage name?" he asked, not looking up from the tablet.
"Rift," I said, letting the syllables feel natural.
"ID check," he muttered, glancing at the wristband I'd collected from the previous contact. Quick swipe of a burner phone, cross-referencing encrypted codes. Satisfied, he handed me a second wristband with the tournament's logo. "You're in. Follow the path; don't break the rules."
I stepped through a narrow corridor lined with walls of shipping crates. Fighters moved past in muted grays and blacks, hooded and masked, some stretching, others quietly psyching themselves up. I followed the signage, a mix of digital screens and hand-painted arrows, to a staging area where officials were calling names. A large digital board displayed the bracket, showing upcoming matches.
"Rift?" one of the attendants called, holding a clipboard. I stepped forward. He checked my wristband, confirmed my entry, and gestured toward a side passage. "Ring five. You're up after the previous match finishes. Step through that door when your name flashes."
I nodded, walking toward the side door. My heartbeat quickened—not from fear, but from anticipation. CE reinforcement hummed faintly, muscles tightening in readiness. Limitless lingered just below awareness, a subtle shield against surprise attacks. I could see the hexagonal mat through the narrow viewing window, Iron Fist pacing across the center, warming up and glaring at the incoming spectators.
When the previous match ended, a chime echoed across the staging area. My name flashed on the digital board. Officials stepped aside, and I followed the path into the ring. The audience of other fighters, observers, and a few shadowy figures watched quietly from the platforms. I reached the mat, flexed my fingers, and positioned myself in a neutral stance. Across from me, Iron Fist smirked, cracking his knuckles.
The bell rang.
He charged almost immediately, fists heavy and direct. My CE reinforcement activated, muscles contracting with extra control. I sidestepped a swing, letting momentum carry me around him and landing a light Blue-infused punch to his shoulder. His grin widened; he was clearly amused by my measured approach.
Each attack was a test. Iron Fist overcommitted often, letting me predict a strike, absorb it with Limitless, then counter with a pull from Blue—drawing him toward my hit instead of the other way around. Bruises began forming across my forearms, minor scrapes along my sides, but the pain was manageable. It told me exactly how to calibrate my timing.
I pushed him back with a series of controlled steps, measuring his reactions. Every heavy swing he threw, I analyzed: arc, force, rhythm. Then came a critical moment. He spun, aiming a right hook while closing distance rapidly. I feigned a step back, Blue-infused punch ready—but instead of striking, I shifted my stance, letting CE reinforcement absorb the brunt and Limitless slow his approach. The punch connected mid-step, snapping his balance just enough for a second strike to topple him.
The bell rang. I stayed back, breathing evenly, bruised but not beaten. Minor scratches, a trickle of blood from my side, nothing I couldn't handle. The fight had been a learning curve in live combat, teaching timing, control, and patience.
Officials moved quickly, updating the tournament bracket. I glanced at the screen: next opponent, Blind Spot. One of the favorites. I knew this wouldn't be straightforward. I left the ring, making my way to a designated rest area to recover, hydrate, and mentally prepare.
The rest area smelled of antiseptic and sweat, a mix of recovery stations and quiet chatter between fighters. I took a seat on a folding bench, flexing my fingers and running a towel over my forearms. CE reinforcement hummed faintly in my veins, a comforting constant. My mind ran over what I knew of the next opponent—Blind Spot, a favorite for a reason. Short-range teleportation made him deadly in a ring with minimal cover.
When my turn approached, I followed the same path I'd learned for Iron Fist: wristband scanned, verification complete, officials checking for prohibited equipment. My hood was up, face partially concealed—anonymity maintained. The corridor leading to the ring was quieter than before. I noted the walls, the angles of light, even the faint scrape marks on the floor that could be useful if I needed leverage for movement.
At the edge of the hexagonal mat, Blind Spot was already pacing. Smirk on his face, hands loose but ready. Blink-in attacks and evasive maneuvers—that was the pattern. He thrived on unpredictability. I clenched my fists, feeling bruises form on my ribs and forearms, the sting of previous scrapes reminding me this wouldn't be easy. CE reinforcement active, Limitless ready for any attack.
The bell rang.
He blinked to my left, then reappeared behind me. My first reactions were defensive, a Blue punch here, a sidestep there—but every short-range teleportation threw off my timing. He appeared where I wasn't expecting, striking fast, precise, impossible to block in time. A fist clipped my shoulder; I stumbled slightly, ribs flinching.
I started analyzing. Each blink had a rhythm, subtle but present. Micro-pauses after each teleport, tiny tells in the way he angled his shoulders, the brief hesitation before he swung. I needed a way to control that unpredictability without knowing exactly where he'd appear next.
My first thought: create a trap of sorts with Blue—force him into a zone where I could predict his trajectory. But he adapted instantly, teleporting out of reach. CE reinforcement helped, but repeated strikes left bruises, a small cut opening near my side.
Then I started projecting possibilities in my mind. If I couldn't stop him from blinking, could I slow the space he occupied just enough to interfere with the precision of his arrival? I imagined tiny distortions, proxies for the effect: a subtle pull here, a push there. Not enough to harm him outright, just enough to shift his trajectory fractionally.
The first "proxy" was a tentative Blue pulse timed with his reappearance. He slipped out, but I noticed the smallest change—his angle shifted. Encouraged, I adjusted again, visualizing a point in space I could anchor, a radius small enough to be practical, large enough to influence his blink. My mind mapped it, imagining a fixed node in space, distorting the surroundings. The physics weren't exact, but it made sense: anchor a point, manipulate local space, give myself a predictive edge.
By the time half the fight went by, blood trickled from a cut near my temple, ribs bruised, forearms swollen. I focused fully. Anchor Point Is what I decided to call it. I projected the space ahead, visualized the distortions, timed Blue punches to coincide with the micro-delay in his teleportation. On the first real connection, he blinked slightly off-target. My follow-up hit landed squarely, staggering him.
Adjusting in real time, I refined the technique with each strike. Not perfect. Not fully mastered. Each minor success gave me more data: where the radius needed to be, how to sync it with Blue, how to anticipate the blink cooldowns. CE reinforcement helped absorb the hits I misjudged, but the injuries accumulated: deep bruises across ribs and forearms, trickle of blood on my side, the sting of a small laceration above my eye.
Finally, after the most precise synchronization yet, I landed a Blue-infused punch as he blinked into the distorted space. He staggered, momentum misaligned, and fell to the mat. The bell rang. I stayed tense, chest heaving, muscles screaming, injuries evident but manageable. Anchor Point had worked—not fully polished, but enough to secure the win.
Officials stepped in, nodding approval, updating the tournament bracket. My name flashed beside Blind Spot's defeat. Confidence surged, but tempered—this technique was raw, improvised, and every fight from here could challenge it anew.
I left the ring through the controlled corridor, security guiding me. Water, quick bandaging, a brief assessment of injuries. I'd need rest, but my mind already turned to refining Anchor Point, thinking ahead to the next challenge. This wasn't just winning; it was learning and with I made my exit.
The arena faded behind me as I made my way back to my apartment, the cool night air carrying the faint hum of the city. Every step was deliberate, my muscles still carrying the memory of the fights, minor aches and bruises reminding me of Blind Spot's relentless assaults. CE reinforcement was off now; there was no need. My body just needed to settle.
Inside, the apartment was quiet, the dim glow of the city outside filtering through the blinds. I dropped my bag by the door, stripped off the sweaty clothes, and let the shower run hot over my skin. Water traced the contours of my arms, legs, and torso, loosening tension and washing away the grime of the night. Every bruise, every nick, every scraped knuckle was a lesson.
I sat on the edge of the cot afterward, still damp, muscles humming faintly with residual adrenaline. Mental notes streamed through my head: Anchor Point had worked in theory, but timing and radius needed adjustment. Could it be faster? Larger? What angles could I exploit if Blind Spot or someone else tried to teleport again? Every scenario played out in microseconds, a puzzle I wanted to solve before the next fight in 3 days.
Eventually, exhaustion won. I crawled beneath the covers, limbs still tingling slightly, mind half-focused on the mental sketches of Anchor Point and half on sleep. The city's distant sirens and traffic faded into the background, and my body surrendered to the rest it needed.
Tomorrow, the work would continue. Tonight, I allowed myself the quiet—time to recover, reflect, and reset for whatever challenges the tournament would throw my way.