The arena buzzed with renewed energy as Lucius and Odd made their way back through the entrance corridors. The two-hour break between fights had done little to diminish the crowd's appetite for violence—if anything, the anticipation had grown sharper, hungrier.
Lucius paused at the top of the arena seating, eyes scanning the executive sections with methodical precision.
"Yo, King." Odd stopped beside him, glancing between Lucius and the available seats below. "Ain't we gonna find a seat? Good spots are filling up fast."
Lucius didn't respond immediately, still scanning. His eyes tracked movement patterns, body language, the subtle tells of desperation and greed that marked certain executives more than others.
There.
Third row, slightly left of center. The same man from earlier—older, expensive suit that probably cost more than most fighters would see in their lifetimes, but his posture screamed desperation. He sat alone, no entourage, no assistants. His hands kept moving—adjusting his collar, checking his watch, reaching for the credential card in his pocket then pulling back.
"I'm looking for a golden pig," Lucius said finally.
Odd blinked, then laughed. "A golden pig? Man, where do you expect to find something like that in a place like this?"
Lucius nodded toward the executive. "Right over there."
Odd followed his gaze, eyebrows rising. "That guy? You know him?"
"No." Lucius started down the stairs, moving with casual confidence. "But I'm about to."
"Wait, what—" Odd hurried to follow. "King, what are you doing?"
Lucius didn't answer, just kept moving. He navigated the tiered seating with the ease of someone who'd studied the layout, positioning himself to arrive at the executive section just as the seats around the man were filling but not yet packed.
The executive—mid-fifties, graying hair slicked back with too much product, deep-set eyes that carried the weight of too many bad decisions—sat rigid in his seat. His suit was Giorgio Armani, probably last season's collection. His watch was a Patek Philippe, but Lucius noticed the slight discoloration on his wrist where a different, heavier watch used to sit. Sold recently. The wedding ring was gone too, leaving a tan line.
Gambling debts. Had to be.
Lucius dropped into the seat directly beside him. Odd hesitated, then took the seat next to Lucius, clearly confused but going with it.
The executive glanced over, irritation flashing across his face. "These seats are for—"
"Fighters who know how to read a room?" Lucius interrupted smoothly, leaning back like he belonged there. "Yeah, I noticed. Nice view from up here."
The man's jaw tightened. He looked like he wanted to call security, but something—maybe curiosity, maybe the desperate calculation of a man with nothing left to lose—made him hesitate.
Odd leaned close to Lucius, voice low. "Uh, King? Is this really allowed? We're supposed to be in the fighter sections."
Lucius didn't answer immediately, just waited.
The executive was definitely listening now, his posture shifting slightly toward them despite his attempt to appear disinterested.
Below, the arena lights shifted. The Jumbotron flickered to life with the familiar tournament graphics.
Jamal's voice boomed through the speakers: "WELCOME BACK, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! Hope you enjoyed that break, because we're about to kick things up a notch with our SECOND match of the day!"
The crowd roared.
"That's right!" Haurang added, his calmer tone cutting through. "Match two of round one. We've got two hungry fighters ready to prove themselves. Let's bring them out!"
The Jumbotron split-screen displayed the fighter profiles.
Left side: Chen Xiao. Five foot eleven, 180 pounds. The photo showed a man with sharp features and an easy confidence, the kind of fighter who looked comfortable in his own skin. His build suggested street fighting experience—lean muscle, practical strength.
Right side: Liu Yan. Five foot nine, 170 pounds. The photo captured intensity—hard eyes that had seen too much, jaw set with determination that bordered on obsession.
"In the blue corner!" Jamal's enthusiasm climbed. "Standing at five feet eleven inches, weighing one hundred eighty pounds, making his Underground Tournament debut—CHEN XIAO!"
Blue lights illuminated the fighter entrance. Chen emerged with an easy stride, hands loose at his sides. He wore simple fighting shorts and wraps, no shirt. His expression was relaxed, almost bored, like this was just another day.
The crowd gave appreciative noise—Chen had style, the kind of natural cool that made him likable.
"And in the red corner!" Jamal continued. "Standing at five feet nine inches, weighing one hundred seventy pounds, returning for his second tournament appearance—LIU YAN!"
Red lights. Liu's entrance was different—purposeful, controlled. Every step deliberate. His eyes never left the arena center, never acknowledged the crowd. Whatever drove him, it burned cold and focused.
Both fighters stepped into the ring.
"Now, executives!" Haurang's voice carried authority. "Betting is officially OPEN! You have one minute to place your wagers!"
Throughout the executive sections, tablets emerged. Cards slid into slots. Screens glowed to life.
"Look around," Lucius said quietly to Odd, nodding toward the scattered figures throughout the executive sections—younger people, some in casual clothes, sitting close to executives and discussing strategies in hushed tones. Some had tablets out, pointing at screens, analyzing odds.
"Assistants," Lucius explained. "Helping executives make betting decisions. No rule against it. And so long as we don't go advertising what we're doing, it'll just be our little secret."
Odd stared for a moment, then shook his head with a grin. "Damn, you're like a criminal mastermind or something."
The executive beside Lucius—the golden pig—pulled out his credential card. He stared at it, then at the tablet under his seat. His hand hovered.
Then stopped.
He started to put the card back in his pocket.
Lucius leaned over slightly, voice casual. "Aren't you gonna place a bet?"
The man's head snapped toward him, irritation flashing to anger. "Mind your own damn business."
"Alright." Lucius leaned back, completely unbothered. "I was just gonna make you an offer, but I guess I'd better find someone else."
He made a show of looking around at other executives, like he was evaluating options.
The man's eyes narrowed. His curiosity—or desperation—got the better of him. "Hey, wait. What do you mean, an offer?"
Lucius waved dismissively. "Nah, just forget about it."
"No, seriously." The man's voice carried an edge now, the tone of someone who couldn't afford to let opportunities slip away. "What offer?"
Lucius let the silence hang for a moment, then sighed like he was doing the man a favor. "Here's the deal. I'll analyze three matches for you—tell you exactly what I think will happen, who'll win, how they'll do it. You don't have to bet on any of them. Just watch and see if I'm right. If I prove myself over those three fights, then we talk about a partnership where you actually place bets and we split the winnings. Fair?"
The executive's expression shifted—skepticism mixing with desperate hope. "And what do you get out of giving me free analysis?"
"Proof of concept," Lucius said simply. "You won't trust me enough to bet real money without seeing results first. And I need someone with executive credentials to place bets for me. So I prove myself, you get convinced, then we both make money. Win-win."
"Why would you help me?"
"Money," Lucius said flatly. "Same reason I'm fighting in this thing in the first place. I can't bet myself—no fighter credentials for the system. But you can."
The man stared at him, calculating. "This is too risky. You're just some fighter. How would you even know what's going to happen?"
"Then don't bet," Lucius said reasonably. "Like I said—three matches, free analysis. You risk nothing. Just watch and see if I'm right."
Odd leaned in. "Yo, but seriously though—why are you offering him three free predictions?"
"The earlier you start in a system like this, the better," Lucius said, loud enough for the executive to hear. "Miss the first few matches, and you're playing catch-up the whole tournament. I need to prove I'm worth partnering with, and he needs to see results before risking money. Three matches gives us both what we need."
The executive's jaw worked. His eyes flicked to the arena, to his unused tablet, back to Lucius.
Finally, he nodded once. "Fine. Prove it. Tell me what's going to happen. But I'm not betting anything yet."
"Wouldn't expect you to," Lucius said. He settled into his seat as the betting timer on the Jumbotron counted down.
:45
:44
:43
"Liu Yan is going to win," Lucius said quietly, voice just loud enough for the executive and Odd to hear. "Here's how."
In the arena, both fighters were stretching, preparing. The crowd's energy built.
Lucius's eyes tracked them both, his senses extending in ways he'd never explain to anyone. The water content in their bodies painted a three-dimensional picture in his mind—blood flow patterns, heart rates, muscle tension, hydration levels. Chen's cardiovascular system showed the steady rhythm of someone confident and relaxed. Liu's heart beat faster, controlled but elevated. Adrenaline, focus, determination.
"Chen's new to the tournament," Lucius said, keeping his analysis simple. "But I've been watching fighters in the quarters, seeing how they move, how they train. Chen's got enhanced reflexes—you can tell from how he moves, how his eyes track things. And strength, definitely enhanced strength based on his build and the way he carries himself. But more importantly, he's got regeneration. Healing factor."
The executive leaned in slightly, listening despite himself. "How do you know that?"
Lucius didn't answer the question directly. "That regeneration is his ace," he continued. "He can tank hits that would cripple normal fighters, heal mid-combat, outlast opponents through attrition. It's a huge advantage."
Through his water-sensing, Lucius studied Liu more carefully. The man's body composition was different—cellular density higher than normal, the structure reinforced. And his leg muscles carried a strange quality, coiled potential like compressed springs.
"Liu's a returner," Lucius said. "Survived the last tournament, which means he's dangerous enough to make it through. I can see... his body's different. Denser. When he gets hit, I'd bet his skin hardens—physical defense enhancement. And his legs, the way the muscle is structured... explosive movement capability. Spring-loaded. Burst speed and power, but probably not sustainable."
:30
:29
:28
"Chen's going to be aggressive," Lucius predicted. "His regeneration gives him an endurance advantage, so he'll press forward, take hits, trade damage. He expects opponents to either fold under pressure or waste energy trying to break through his healing."
Odd was staring at him now, completely focused.
"But Liu's not going to play that game," Lucius continued. "He's a returner—survived the last tournament, which means he knows how to fight smart, not just hard. Watch—when Chen charges trying to tank and retaliate, Liu will back off, use that spring boost to create distance. He'll make Chen chase him, waste energy, get frustrated."
:15
:14
:13
"Chen's regeneration costs stamina," Lucius added. "Most people don't realize that, but it has to. You can't heal damage without burning energy. The more he heals, the more tired he gets. Liu will chip away at him, make him heal repeatedly, drain him slowly."
:05
:04
:03
"Liu wins by knockout in the second half of the fight," Lucius finished. "Chen gets overconfident, overextends trying to end it, and Liu catches him with a spring-boosted strike when Chen's too tired to keep up."
:01
"BETTING CLOSED!" Jamal announced.
The executive stared at Lucius, then at the arena. His tablet sat unused on his lap, credential card still in his pocket.
"If you're wrong—" he started.
"Then you've lost nothing," Lucius interrupted. "If I'm right, we talk about actually betting on the next match. That was the deal."
"AND NOW!" Jamal's voice peaked. "LET THE SECOND MATCH OF THE TOURNAMENT BEGIN!"
The barrier activated with a hum. Both fighters dropped into ready stances.
For three seconds, neither moved.
Then Chen grinned and charged.
---
Chen Xiao moved like liquid violence—reflexes so sharp that his body seemed to flow between positions without transitional movement. His fist drove toward Liu's jaw with superhuman force behind it.
Liu's body shifted—his skin taking on a subtle metallic sheen, density increasing. He didn't try to dodge, just raised his guard.
Chen's punch connected. The impact sounded like a hammer on an anvil.
Liu slid back several feet from the force, but his hardened defense held. No visible damage.
"Beautiful opening exchange!" Haurang analyzed. "Liu's defense holding strong against that enhanced strength!"
Chen didn't hesitate. He pressed forward immediately, throwing combination after combination—jabs, crosses, hooks, each one carrying enhanced strength. His reflexes let him adjust mid-strike, finding angles that should've been impossible.
Liu blocked, parried, backed away. His hardening absorbed each strike, but the force was still pushing him backward, controlling his positioning.
"Chen setting the pace early!" Jamal called. "Aggressive pressure right from the start!"
Liu's eyes tracked every movement, calculating. His stance shifted subtly.
Chen threw a heavy right cross, committing to the power.
Liu's legs compressed—sudden explosive movement. He launched backward in a blur, creating fifteen feet of distance in an instant.
Chen stumbled forward slightly, his momentum carried through empty air.
"There's that mobility!" Haurang noted. "Liu creating space when he needs it!"
Chen recovered quickly, grinning wider. "Running already?"
Liu didn't respond, just watched. Waiting.
Chen charged again, closing distance with raw speed. He feinted left, then drove a knee toward Liu's midsection.
Liu's body hardened further and he twisted, taking the blow on his hip instead of his stomach. Then his legs compressed again—spring boost launching him at an angle, repositioning behind Chen.
Chen's reflexes saved him. He spun, blocking the retaliatory strike that would've caught his kidney.
But Liu was already disengaging, using another spring boost to create distance again.
"Smart tactics from Liu!" Haurang observed. "Hit and run, not letting Chen establish rhythm!"
In the stands, Lucius spoke quietly. "See? Liu's making Chen chase. Every time Chen closes distance, Liu resets. Forces Chen to burn energy without landing clean hits."
The executive was leaning forward now, completely absorbed.
Chen's grin had faded slightly. His breathing was still controlled, but the constant charging was costing him.
He changed tactics. Instead of rushing straight in, he began stalking—slower, more measured, cutting off angles.
Liu backed toward the arena barrier, apparently running out of room.
Chen's eyes lit up. He burst forward, fist cocked back for a devastating strike.
Liu waited until the last possible moment.
Then his legs compressed and he launched straight up, over Chen's head in an impossible vertical leap.
Chen's punch hit the barrier. The electromagnetic field flared. His knuckles split open, blood spraying.
But the wounds closed almost immediately, skin knitting back together in seconds. Fresh, unbroken.
"THERE IT IS!" Jamal screamed. "That regeneration! Chen Xiao showing why he's dangerous!"
Liu landed behind Chen, immediately spring-boosting forward. His fist connected with Chen's lower back before Chen could turn.
Chen stumbled forward, then rounded on Liu with a spinning backfist.
Liu's hardening absorbed most of the impact, but the force still sent him rolling across the sand.
Both fighters reset, circling now.
Chen was breathing harder. The regeneration had healed his knuckles, but something in his movement was fractionally slower.
Liu's expression remained focused, patient. His hardening hadn't failed once, and his spring boost still seemed fresh.
Then—
The Jumbotron emitted a distinctive chime.
Both fighters paused briefly, eyes flicking upward.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jamal's voice carried new excitement. "Time to see if fate smiles upon this match!"
The Jumbotron displayed a large circular arrow—like a refresh symbol—spinning rapidly.
"Will we see an item deployment?" Haurang explained. "Let's find out!"
The spinning arrow became a blur. The crowd leaned forward, executives gripping their tablets in anticipation.
Then it began to slow.
Slower.
Slower.
It stopped on a red X symbol.
"NO DEPLOYMENT THIS TIME!" Jamal announced, unable to hide his disappointment. "Looks like these fighters are on their own!"
A mix of reactions rippled through the crowd—some disappointed, others relieved.
"Back to the fight!" Haurang called.
The fighters reset immediately, refocusing.
"Chen's pace is dropping," Lucius murmured quietly to his companions. "Regeneration's draining him. Won't be long now."
They engaged again. Chen threw a combination—three punches and a kick. Liu blocked two, dodged one, took the kick on his hardened shin.
Then Liu countered with a spring-boosted palm strike to Chen's chest.
The impact sent Chen flying backward. He hit the sand hard, rolled, came up quickly.
But for the first time, he winced.
"Chen's definitely slowing!" Haurang observed.
"Come on, man!" Jamal sounded disappointed. "Somebody BLEED already! Two matches and we haven't seen any real damage stick! Where's the carnage?!"
Chen's jaw set. He charged again, but his movements were noticeably slower. Still enhanced, still dangerous, but no longer overwhelming.
---
Liu Yan felt the shift.
Chen was tiring. The regeneration—Liu had suspected it wasn't free, and now he was certain. Every time Chen healed, he got a little slower, a little less sharp.
All Liu had to do was survive until that advantage became decisive.
His mind flashed briefly—the buyer's face, the man who'd owned him, beaten him, sold him like property. The feel of that man's neck breaking under Liu's hands.
He pushed the memory down. Focus. This wasn't revenge yet. But it was a step closer.
Chen came in again, throwing a heavy overhand right.
Liu hardened his forearm, blocked it. The force jarred his bones even through the hardening, but he held.
Then he saw it—the opening.
Chen had overcommitted, his weight too far forward, expecting Liu to back away like before.
Liu didn't back away.
His legs compressed, spring boost activating—but this time he launched forward, into Chen's guard.
His shoulder connected with Chen's chest like a battering ram.
Chen flew backward, hit the sand hard.
He was up immediately, but Liu saw it clear now—Chen's breathing was labored, his regeneration slower. The constant healing had drained him more than the actual fighting.
Chen charged again, desperate to end it before he exhausted completely.
Liu waited, patient. Calculated.
Chen threw a combination—left jab, right cross, left hook.
Liu blocked the jab, slipped the cross, and caught the hook with his hardened forearm.
Chen's eyes widened as Liu's free hand shot forward.
Spring boost activated. Every ounce of explosive power in Liu's legs transferred through his body, through his arm, into his fist.
The punch caught Chen square in the jaw.
The sound cracked through the arena like a gunshot.
Chen's head snapped back. His body went rigid for half a second.
Then he collapsed.
Face-first into the sand.
Unconscious before he hit the ground.
Silence.
Then the crowd exploded.
"WINNER—LIU YAN!" Jamal's announcement shattered the shocked quiet. "What a KNOCKOUT! That spring-boosted finishing blow!"
The executive beside Lucius sat frozen, staring at the arena. His mouth hung slightly open.
Everything Lucius had said—every prediction, every tactical detail—had happened exactly as described.
"Holy shit," Odd breathed. "You called that perfectly. Every part of it."
Haurang was analyzing the finish: "Chen's regeneration drained him more than anticipated. Liu recognized the weakness and capitalized brilliantly. Smart, patient fighting."
"Yeah, yeah, great knockout!" Jamal cut in, frustration heavy in his voice. "But come ON! Second match and STILL nobody's dead yet?! Where's the BLOOD?! Where's the carnage?! This is supposed to be the Underground Tournament, not a damn sparring session! Getting boring up here!"
"Patience, Jamal," Haurang said diplomatically. "We have many matches ahead."
"Still! These fighters need to stop holding back!"
Medical personnel rushed onto the sand, checking Chen's vitals. He was breathing, already starting to stir slightly. The knockout had been clean, but not lethal.
The gray-suited staff moved through the executive sections, collecting betting tablets. Some executives looked pleased, others frustrated. The crowd began dispersing again—some staying for later matches, others heading to lounges.
The executive finally found his voice. He turned to Lucius slowly, eyes wide with shock and desperate hope.
"How..." He swallowed hard. "How the hell did you know that was gonna happen? Are you sure you can't see the future or something?"
Lucius shrugged. "If I could see the future, I certainly wouldn't be here. I'd be a stock trader making easy money."
"But everything—every detail you said—"
"Observation," Lucius said simply. "Reading fighters, understanding abilities, tactical prediction. That's all it is."
The man looked at his unused tablet, then back at Lucius. The desperate calculation in his eyes had shifted to desperate belief.
"The next match," he said quickly. "You said three matches to prove yourself. I want to see the next one. And if you're right again..."
"Then we talk about actually betting," Lucius finished. "With a seventy-thirty split."
The executive blinked. "Wait, what split?"
"When we actually start betting together," Lucius clarified. "I take seventy percent of the winnings, you take thirty."
"That's—" The man's face reddened. "No way. Fifty-fifty at most. I'm the one with the credentials, the one taking the risk—"
"Then find someone else to give you accurate predictions." Lucius stood, like he was about to leave.
"Wait, wait." The man grabbed his arm. "Sixty-forty. Me sixty, you forty. When we actually start betting."
"Seventy-thirty," Lucius repeated. "My analysis is the only reason you'd win anything at all. Without me, you were too scared to even place a bet on that match just now. Without me, you're just another executive drowning in debt watching opportunities pass by."
The man's face flushed, but he didn't deny it.
"Besides," Lucius added, voice dropping lower. "There are betting limits per match. You can't just throw everything at one fight. But over multiple matches, with consistent wins? That thirty percent will add up faster than you think. And unlike seventy percent of nothing, thirty percent of something actually pays your debts."
The executive's jaw worked. His pride warred with his desperation.
Desperation won.
"Fine. Seventy-thirty when we start betting for real," he agreed through gritted teeth. "But you said three matches of analysis first. I want to see you prove this wasn't just luck before I risk any money."
"That was the deal," Lucius confirmed. "Three fights, free analysis, no betting required from you. After that, if you're satisfied, we start the real partnership."
The man thrust out his hand. "Seung Hoon."
Lucius gripped it. "King."
"And I'm Odd," Odd added, feeling like he should contribute something.
Seung Hoon barely glanced at him, still focused on Lucius. "Next match is tomorrow, right? Same time?"
"Afternoon match, yeah," Lucius confirmed. "I'll find you. Same seat, same section. Be ready for match three."
He turned and headed toward the exit, Odd following.
Seung Hoon watched them go, his mind already spinning. If this kid could really predict fights with that accuracy... three free analyses to prove himself, then actual betting with a seventy-thirty split. It wasn't ideal, but if the predictions kept being accurate, even thirty percent could clear his debts. And once those were clear...
He pulled out his credential card, staring at it with new eyes.
Maybe his luck was finally changing.
---
Lucius and Odd navigated the corridors leading away from the arena. The crowd noise faded behind them as they moved deeper into the facility's arterial passages.
"Yo, King." Odd kept pace beside him, voice low. "That was insane. How did you actually do that? The analysis, I mean. You really just... figured all that out from watching them?"
"Something like that," Lucius said vaguely.
"Man, you make it sound easy, but..." Odd shook his head. "That was some next-level shit. Every detail you called came true."
They walked in silence for a moment.
"Where we going?" Odd asked.
"Just gonna explore a bit," Lucius said casually.
"Explore? Why?"
Lucius glanced at him, expression neutral. "I'm bored."
Odd stared at him for a moment, then laughed. "Bored. Right. In an underground death tournament, surrounded by criminals and killers, after perfectly predicting a fight and conning an executive into a partnership, you're bored."
"Aren't you?"
"Fair point."
They continued down the corridor, Lucius's eyes tracking everything—camera positions, guard patrol patterns, structural details that most people wouldn't notice.
Behind them, the arena prepared for the next match.
And in the walls, dozens of small shapes moved through darkness—spreading, multiplying, mapping every hidden space in the facility.
The game had begun.
TO BE CONTINUED