The training room at 7 AM was empty except for Lucius and Odd.
No rest. Not now. Not with Round 3 approaching.
Odd moved through the drill, his transitions smoother than yesterday. Rubber to hardened to slippery, each shift flowing with increasing confidence.
"Again," Lucius said. "Faster."
They'd been at this since dawn. Three hours of drilling defensive transitions, impact absorption timing, movement patterns. Odd's body was learning what his mind couldn't process fast enough.
By 10 AM, Odd was drenched in sweat but moving with real competence.
"That's it for today," Lucius said, checking the time. "Get some water. Rest until your next match."
Odd grabbed a bottle, downing half of it in one go. "What about you?"
"Going to watch Plague's fight."
Odd's expression shifted immediately, darkening. "I'm not going."
Lucius glanced at him.
"After what he did last time..." Odd shook his head. "That made me sick to my stomach. I'm not interested in watching that again."
"Alright." Lucius headed toward the exit, then paused. "Word of advice though. Your fights only get harder from here. I'd recommend watching what your possible opponents can do."
"I understand what you're trying to say," Odd replied. "But if Plague wins, he'll most likely end up fighting Adam. And seeing as Adam's been champion for three years now, he'll probably win. You said it yourself—Plague forfeits when matched against someone strong."
"Maybe." Lucius's tone was neutral. "But I wouldn't bet on it."
He walked out.
---
The arena viewing section at 12:30 PM was filling up with the usual pre-fight energy. Lucius made his way to the middle rows where Seung was already seated, tablet in hand.
"King!" Seung waved him over. "Where's your friend? Odd not joining us?"
"He's not coming." Lucius sat down.
"Fair enough. That last Plague fight was..." Seung's face twisted slightly. "Disturbing doesn't quite cover it."
"It was exactly what Plague intended."
Seung pulled up the fight information on his tablet. "Alright, so we've got Plague versus Diablo. What do you think? Diablo's got some serious firepower from what I heard about his first match. Completely dominated Andrew."
"Fire and transformation abilities. MorphBreed with flame production. Dangerous in the right circumstances."
"And Plague?"
"You saw what he can do."
"Yeah, but against someone who can torch everything?"
Lucius didn't respond, just watched the arena floor being prepared.
"You're not telling me which way to bet, are you?"
"You've seen them both fight, so make your decision."
Seung sighed. "You're really gonna make me work for this one."
The lights began to shift. The pre-fight presentation was starting.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jamal's voice exploded through the speakers. "Welcome to Fight SEVEN of Round Two! This one's gonna be SPICY, folks!"
"Quite literally," Haurang added with his characteristic calm. "We have fire versus insects. Two very different combat philosophies about to collide."
The Jumbotron split into two panels.
Left side: A grainy image of Diablo in his transformed state, flames surrounding him. DIABLO. 5'10". PREVIOUS MATCH: VICTORY VS ANDREW G. ADAMS.
Right side: That disturbing shot of Plague's milky eyes gleaming with scientific curiosity. PLAGUE. 5'8". PREVIOUS MATCH: VICTORY VS OLIVER SCOT.
"In the blue corner," Haurang announced, "fighting out of Mexico via New Kong—the former cartel enforcer who survived being hunted across continents—DIABLO!"
The blue entrance opened.
Diablo emerged, and even from the viewing section, his presence was immediately striking.
He was maybe five-foot-ten, but his build suggested someone who'd survived through violence. Not bulky, but solid—the kind of muscle that came from actual combat, not gym work. His skin was brown, weathered by sun and hard living.
But it was the tattoos that told his story. They covered almost every visible inch of skin—arms, neck, hands, even creeping up toward his jawline. Religious imagery mixed with violent iconography. A massive Virgin Mary on his chest, surrounded by skulls. Saints on his forearms alongside gang symbols. Crosses and roses intertwined with knives and flames.
His head was shaved clean, revealing more ink across his scalp—script in Spanish that probably represented names of the dead or prayers or threats, maybe all three.
His face was hard, angular, with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His eyes were dark and cold—the eyes of someone who'd done terrible things and made peace with it, or at least stopped caring.
He wore simple black athletic shorts and no shirt, leaving all that ink on full display. His hands were wrapped in tape, knuckles scarred from years of violence.
He moved with the controlled aggression of a predator. Every step deliberate. Every glance assessing threats.
This was a man shaped by cartels, by war, by survival. Someone who'd learned that violence was currency and mercy was weakness.
As he walked toward his position, memories flickered through his mind—unbidden but familiar.
'Los Sanguinarios.' The cartel that had taken him in when he was sixteen. Given him purpose, power, identity. Made him into something feared.
He remembered the compound in Mexico. The respect in people's eyes when they saw his tattoos, when they knew what he could do. The money, the women, the power. Everything a kid from nothing could want.
Then the rival cartel came. The massacre. Bodies everywhere. His brothers, his family—all dead in a single night of violence.
He'd escaped to New Kong. Thought distance would save him.
It didn't.
The hitmen found him. Again and again. Each time he fought them off, each time more desperate than the last.
Then the heroes came. Captured him. Called him a terrorist, a murderer, a monster.
Maybe they were right.
Prison was supposed to be the end. NovaBreed detention facility. Maximum security. But then the invitation came. A way out, paid for by someone with deep pockets and darker intentions.
And here he was. Fighting for survival again. Like always.
The crowd gave him solid noise. Diablo acknowledged it with a slight nod, then focused entirely on the arena floor.
"And in the red corner," Jamal's voice took on that darker edge, "returning once again—the walking nightmare, the bug whisperer, the scientist from hell—PLAGUE!"
The red entrance opened, and Plague shuffled out.
That same ancient, frail appearance. Paper-thin skin stretched over prominent bones. Wispy white hair. Gnarled hands with swollen knuckles. The simple gray robe hanging on his skeletal frame like burial shrouds.
But those eyes—milky with cataracts but gleaming with sharp intelligence in the dark centers. The eyes of someone who'd spent decades studying suffering and found it fascinating.
He moved with that same careful, elderly shuffle. Each step measured, deliberate. His breathing audible even through the arena's speakers—that slight wheeze suggesting damaged lungs.
He looked like he belonged in hospice care, not a fighting arena.
The crowd's reaction was more muted, more uneasy. They knew what was coming.
Both fighters reached their positions.
"Betting is OPEN!" Haurang announced. "Sixty seconds!"
Throughout the arena, executives pulled out their tablets. The betting interface activated.
Seung pulled up his tablet, staring at the two names. "No odds showing. Never know if you're making a smart bet or a stupid one until after it's locked in."
"That's the point."
Seung hesitated, then placed his money on Plague. "Playing it based on what we saw before."
The countdown ticked down.
:10 :05 :04 :03 :02 :01
"BETTING CLOSED!" Jamal called.
The odds appeared on screens throughout the arena: PLAGUE 78%, DIABLO 22%.
"Looks like most people had the same idea," Seung muttered.
"Let's see if Diablo can barbecue some bugs, or if Plague adds another victim to his collection!" Jamal continued.
The arena went silent.
"BEGIN!"
Plague moved first—a small gesture with one gnarled hand.
From the sand behind Diablo, something erupted. Not dramatically, just rising quickly. A centipede, massive, three feet long, segmented body gleaming as it lunged for Diablo's back.
But Diablo was already moving.
He'd seen this before. Watched Plague's first match. Knew what was coming.
Fire exploded from his hands— The flames engulfed the centipede completely.
The insect writhed, its carapace cracking under intense heat, then collapsed into smoking remains.
"Smart!" Jamal laughed. "He did his homework!"
But Diablo wasn't done.
His body began to change.
The transformation was visceral, biological, accompanied by wet tearing sounds as his anatomy restructured itself.
His spine curved forward, vertebrae extending and thickening to support the new form. His ribcage expanded dramatically, making room for larger lungs capable of producing the flames. Each rib cracked and reformed, the sound echoing through the arena.
His skin darkened, hardening into scales—not full armor, but thick enough to provide protection. The scales emerged in overlapping patterns, starting at his spine and spreading outward. Where they formed, his tattoos distorted, religious imagery warping across reptilian hide.
His face elongated, jaw extending forward as his skull restructured. Teeth sharpened into fangs, each one serrated for tearing. His eyes shifted—pupils becoming vertical slits, sclera darkening to deep red.
His hands transformed, fingers extending into clawed digits with black talons. The joints reversed, giving him both human dexterity and animalistic striking power.
The most dramatic change came at his back. His shoulder blades split open with a wet tearing sound, flesh parting to reveal hollow pockets—not full wings, but the skeletal framework for them. Thin membrane stretched between extended finger-bones, creating bat-like structures that could unfold partway.
These weren't for sustained flight. The anatomy was wrong for that—his legs were too heavy, his torso too dense. But they could produce bursts of directed flame like biological jet engines, providing explosive movement and high jumps.
When the transformation completed, Diablo stood there in his half-dragon state—hunched forward, spine curved to balance his center of gravity, arms slightly longer, legs digitigrade with reversed knees for explosive power.
He looked like something that shouldn't exist. An anatomical nightmare that somehow functioned.
The crowd roared its approval.
Diablo inhaled deeply, his expanded ribcage swelling dramatically.
Then he exhaled.
WHOOOOOSH!
Fire erupted from his mouth in a concentrated stream—not a brief burst, but sustained flames like a World War II napalm flamethrower. The intensity was staggering, the heat visible as distortion in the air.
The flames engulfed Plague's position completely, turning that entire section of the arena floor into an inferno.
Diablo held it for five full seconds, pouring fire across the sand, scorching everything.
Finally, he stopped, breathing hard from the exertion.
The flames died down, smoke billowing upward.
And there, in the center of the scorched area, stood a cocoon.
Massive insects—beetles, each one the size of a car tire—had formed a protective dome around Plague. Their carapaces were blackened, cracked from the heat, but they'd held.
The cocoon split apart, insects scattering.
Plague stood unharmed, that thin smile spreading across his ancient face.
"Hmmm. Yes." His reedy voice carried across the arena. "You seem to have some fight in you. You'll be worth tormenting."
He gestured again.
The sand exploded as another centipede burst from beneath the arena floor, this one even larger than the first. It coiled and lunged at Diablo with remarkable speed for something its size.
Diablo's membrane-wings flared, blasting flames downward. The thrust launched him upward in an explosive jump, clearing fifteen feet easily.
"Old man!" Diablo's voice was guttural, distorted by his transformed anatomy. "Is that the only move you have?!"
He angled downward mid-jump, wings positioning for a dive, claws extended. The trajectory would bring him down through Plague's defenses at an angle impossible to block.
But as he descended, Plague was already moving—or rather, being moved.
The old man had positioned himself on another centipede that rose from the sand like an organic platform. As Diablo dove, Plague's mount circled the arena at impressive speed.
Diablo's claws tore through the protective cocoon of beetles, shredding them, but Plague was already gone.
"Over here, child."
Plague's voice came from across the arena. He stood casually on his centipede mount, arms folded behind his back in that characteristic pose.
The centipede beneath him began to move, circling back toward Diablo. As it approached, it coiled itself into a striking position and lunged.
Diablo saw it coming. He inhaled deeply, ribcage expanding—
Then exhaled another devastating stream of fire.
But mid-attack, Plague did something subtle. His thumb flicked, the gesture almost invisible. Something small—maybe a pebble, something tiny—flew through the air.
It entered Diablo's flames, carried by the heat and wind, and went directly into his open mouth as he breathed fire.
Diablo didn't notice. Too focused on the centipede burning before him.
Lucius noticed.
Plague had already leapt from his mount, landing gracefully on another centipede that rose to catch him. The burning one collapsed, writhing.
Diablo turned mid-breath, trying to track Plague's movement with his flame stream, swinging his head to catch the new centipede.
WHAM!
From directly beneath him, something erupted.
A rhinoceros beetle—massive, three feet tall, built like a battering ram. Its horn caught Diablo in the chest with tremendous force.
The impact launched Diablo backward through the air. He tumbled, tried to correct with his wings, barely landed on his feet, skidding across the sand.
"Damn, this guy's creepy," Seung muttered. "So he can just spawn bugs out of nowhere?"
"No." Lucius's eyes tracked Plague's movements. "If you look closely, that's not the case."
"What do you mean?"
"You probably won't be able to see it because of all the flames. But he doesn't just spawn bugs. He seems to be producing very small larvae from his body and dropping them. They burrow into the sand, some move toward their target as they grow at remarkable speeds, while others stay lying in wait. I wouldn't be surprised if he even hid some before the match began."
Seung's face twisted with disgust. "Eww. That's even worse. They come out of his body?"
"Not all powers are flashy or pretty."
"What about yours? I haven't really seen you use them."
Lucius scoffed. "I'm not telling you that."
"Alright, fair enough. Want to keep it as a surprise for when it matters."
"Something like that."
In the arena, the fight continued.
"BARBECUED BUGS!" Jamal shouted with obvious delight. "This is like the world's most horrifying cookout! Someone get the sauce!"
"Diablo's fire is proving effective against individual insects," Haurang observed, "but Plague's strategic positioning and continuous spawning are creating problems. This is a battle of attrition."
Diablo closed distance, using his enhanced speed and wing-boosted jumps to stay mobile. He'd torch approaching insects, use his claws to tear through protective formations, trying desperately to reach Plague himself.
But Plague stayed back, riding his centipede mounts, using the terrain, constantly repositioning. Every time Diablo got close, more insects emerged to intercept.
The old man landed a few hits—beetles ramming, centipedes striking with surprising speed, smaller insects injecting venom during brief contact.
Diablo never landed a direct hit on Plague. Not once.
The back and forth continued for several minutes. Diablo's flame breath had to recharge between uses—maybe fifteen, twenty seconds of downtime. Plague exploited those windows, sending swarms during the vulnerable periods.
The drop spinner spun on the Jumbotron.
but the screen showed: NO DROP THIS MATCH.
"No assistance from above today!" Jamal announced. "These fighters are on their own!"
Diablo was starting to look noticeably weaker. His movements were slowing. His flames less intense. His breathing more labored.
And he was looking nauseous.
He stumbled mid-dodge, one hand going to his stomach.
'What's happening to me?'
Another memory surfaced—unwanted but vivid. The prison medical ward. Being examined like livestock. The doctors discussing his transformation ability, his flame production, his internal temperature regulation. Clinical. Cold.
"Elevated metabolic rate," one had noted. "Means toxins would metabolize faster in his system. Or accelerate, depending on the compound."
He'd taken hits, sure, but nothing that should affect him this severely. His transformation gave him enhanced durability. The damage shouldn't—
His stomach cramped violently.
Diablo dropped to his knees, gagging.
Then he vomited. Blood and bile and something else—something moving.
"What the hell?!" Seung leaned forward.
Plague descended from his centipede mount, approaching slowly, that thin smile never wavering.
"Ah yes." His reedy voice carried satisfaction. "Looks like the effects are taking place."
Diablo's stomach cramped again. He vomited more blood, this time with visible larvae writhing in it.
"ARGHHH!" Pain tore through him, worse than anything he'd felt. Worse than gunshot wounds, worse than knife fights.
He collapsed onto his side, both hands clutching his stomach.
The pebble. The thing Plague had thrown into his mouth during the flame breath. An egg. Larvae. Something that was now inside him, growing, feeding.
Diablo's stomach began to visibly enlarge, distending unnaturally.
The crowd leaned forward, horrified fascination spreading through the executive sections.
"Oh god," Seung breathed. "Oh god, he's..."
Plague knelt down slowly, his ancient joints creaking. He pulled out a small notebook and pen from his robe, beginning to write observations.
"Subject ingested egg approximately four minutes ago," Plague narrated to himself. "Gestation period shorter than anticipated, likely due to host's elevated internal temperature from transformation. Fascinating."
Diablo screamed as his stomach cramped again. More blood poured from his mouth, along with more larvae—these ones larger, more developed.
They weren't just worms. They were a hybrid—part worm, part centipede, each one equipped with both the burrowing capability of larvae and the aggressive feeding behavior of centipedes.
"Please," Diablo gasped, blood running from his mouth. "Please, I—"
He was trying to say something. Trying to forfeit.
Plague reached forward and covered Diablo's mouth with one gnarled hand, silencing him.
"Shhhhh." The sound was almost gentle. Almost paternal. "Let me tell you something, child."
Diablo's eyes were wide with agony and terror.
Plague's milky eyes gleamed as he began to speak, his voice taking on a distant quality—remembering.
"I was born in 1998. North Korea. But I don't remember my parents. Don't remember a home, or family, or any of those things people claim shape who you become. My first memories are of the camp."
His fingers tapped rhythmically on Diablo's distended stomach, feeling the movement beneath the skin.
"They trained NovaBreeds there. Children, mostly. The war was young then, and everyone was scrambling to figure out how to use us. How to weaponize us. I manifested my abilities early—age seven. Insect manipulation. Not flashy like fire or lightning. Not immediately useful like super strength. But the scientists..." He smiled at the memory. "The scientists saw potential."
Diablo tried desperately to pull Plague's hand away from his mouth, but the old man's grip was surprisingly strong.
"They moved me from the combat training section to their research field. Gave me freedom that other children didn't have. Freedom to experiment. Freedom to explore what my abilities could do. All they asked in return was data. Results. Documentation."
The larvae inside Diablo were growing faster now. His stomach distended further, skin stretching.
"Do you know what happens when you give a child unlimited subjects to experiment on? When you tell them their only value is in discovering new ways to cause suffering? I was fascinated. Still am. The human body is remarkable. The nervous system especially. So many ways to stimulate it. So many variations in response."
Plague pulled his notebook closer, making another observation about the larvae's development rate.
"I spent the war years in that camp, perfecting my craft. Testing compounds. Studying pain thresholds. Mapping neural pathways through empirical observation. They gave me NovaBreed children to work with. Fresh subjects every week. Some lasted days. Some lasted hours. The data I gathered..."
He trailed off, lost in reminiscence.
"When the war cooled and the stalemate happened, I left the camp. Joined the Big Boys because they offered resources. Freedom to continue my work. They understood that knowledge has value. That someone needs to understand how these abilities function at their most fundamental level."
Diablo's eyes were rolling back, consciousness fading from the agony.
"I'm old now. Eighty-one years documenting the limits of suffering. And yet I'm still fascinated. Still learning. You, for instance—your elevated internal temperature accelerated the gestation. I hadn't accounted for that variable. Wonderful."
He finally removed his hand from Diablo's mouth.
Diablo tried to scream, tried to speak, but only blood came out.
His stomach distended impossibly far. The skin stretched translucent. Movement visible beneath—dozens of larvae, now fully developed, feeding, growing, preparing.
"The moment of emergence is always the most informative," Plague noted clinically. "The body's final defense mechanisms activate. Adrenaline spikes. Pain receptors overload. Consciousness tries to preserve itself even as the physical form fails. Remarkable adaptation, really."
Diablo's body convulsed one final time.
Then his stomach exploded.
Not metaphorically. Not an exaggeration.
The distended flesh ruptured completely, blood and viscera spraying outward in a grotesque fountain. The larvae burst free—dozens of them, each one the size of a large snake, blood-covered and writhing.
The hybrid creatures—part worm, part centipede—emerged fully formed from their host, immediately burrowing into the sand and disappearing.
What remained of Diablo collapsed backward, his transformation reverting as his body went into shock. His eyes stared at nothing, mouth slack, chest no longer moving.
Dead.
The arena was silent.
Even Jamal seemed at a loss for words for a moment.
"Winner... PLAGUE." Haurang's voice was hollow.
The cleanup crew entered immediately, multiple teams converging on the remains.
One of them, a younger man with a horrified expression, muttered to his colleague, "Damn that old man gives me the creeps. Whats worse , Every time we gotta clean up the mess he makes—"
"Shut up," the other cleaner hissed. "Just shut up and work."
But they hadn't realized Plague hadn't left yet.
The old man stood just outside the arena floor, still making notes in his book.
He paused, tilted his head slightly like he'd heard something interesting.
His gnarled hand made a small gesture.
The sand beneath the complaining cleaner exploded.
A centipede erupted from below, its massive mandibles opening wide.
It bit the man in half at the waist in a single motion.
The upper half of his body hit the sand separately from the lower half, blood spraying across the arena floor.
The other cleaners scattered, screaming.
Plague looked up mildly. "Oops. Forgot one of my pets in there. Sorry about that."
His tone suggested otherwise.
He shuffled toward the exit, that same careful elderly gait, hands folded behind his back once more.
The remaining cleanup crew stood frozen, staring at what used to be their coworker.
Additional security arrived, weapons drawn, but Plague was already gone.
Seung sat in his seat, face pale, hands shaking. "That was... I don't..."
Lucius stood. "I've seen enough."
"Where are you going?"
"Done for the day. Probably gonna grab something to eat before calling it."
Seung looked at him incredulously. "You can still eat after witnessing that? You really are one weird person, you know that?"
Lucius just walked out.
---
The mess hall at 2 PM was moderately busy. Lucius grabbed a simple meal and found a table where he could overhear staff conversations.
Big Mama was already complaining loudly to anyone who'd listen.
"Those damn exterminators said they got them all! CLEARLY they didn't do their job right if we're seeing babies already!"
A staff member tried to calm her. "We've already contacted them. They said they can come back tomorrow night, after lights-out like last time."
"They better. I'm not running a kitchen with rats everywhere. It's unsanitary!"
Lucius filed away the information. Tomorrow night. After lights-out. Same exterminator.
That complicated things. Fighters weren't allowed in corridors after lights-out. Guards patrolled regularly.
He'd need to figure something out.
Lucius finished his meal methodically, thinking through possibilities.
---
At 3:45 PM, Lucius made his way back to the fighter viewing section.
The arena was preparing for the final match of the day. Adam Mavrick versus Yan Dawo.
Odd was already there, sitting in the middle section. He spotted Lucius and waved him over.
"You came," Lucius noted.
"Yeah. Figured I should see Adam fight properly. He's who I'll be facing if I keep winning."
Seung was there too, though he still looked shaken from earlier. "King. Your friend actually showed up this time."
"I'm right here," Odd said. "You can talk to me directly."
"Fair point."
The pre-fight presentation began.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!" Jamal's energy had returned. "Time for our FINAL match of the day! And this one's going to be GOOD!"
The Jumbotron displayed both fighters.
ADAM MAVRICK. 6'2". FIELD COMMANDER. THREE-TIME TOURNAMENT CHAMPION.
YAN DAWO. 5'11". PREVIOUS MATCH: VICTORY VS TIM YOUNG.
"In the blue corner," Haurang announced, "the three-time champion returning to defend his title—ADAM MAVRICK!"
Adam emerged, and his presence was immediate.
Six-foot-two, powerfully built but not bulky. Tanned skin weathered from years of combat. Dark hair buzzed close to his scalp. His face was hard angles and controlled aggression, his eyes dark and flat—the eyes of someone who'd seen too much violence and stopped caring.
His arms were heavily scarred—blades, burns, things that couldn't be identified. Each scar a story, each story violent.
He wore simple black combat pants and a dark gray tank top. No gloves, no tape on his hands. He didn't need protection.
He moved into position with complete confidence. No showboating. No acknowledgment of the crowd. Just focused readiness.
"And in the red corner—Yan Dawo, looking to prove himself against the champion!"
Yan Dawo entered looking determined but nervous. He was shorter, less imposing, clearly aware of what he was facing.
The betting opened.
Throughout the arena, tablets activated. Executives and authorized fighters made their selections without seeing any odds.
Seung placed his money on Adam without hesitation.
The betting timer counted down.
:10 :05 :03 :01
"BETTING CLOSED!" Haurang announced.
The odds appeared: ADAM MAVRICK 98%, YAN DAWO 2%.
"Not even a contest," Seung muttered.
"BEGIN!"
Yan moved first, trying to establish control before Adam could dictate the pace.
He had decent speed and technique, landing a few hits that would've troubled most fighters.
They did nothing to Adam.
The champion absorbed them without reaction, then countered with devastating efficiency.
One punch. Yan's guard broke.
Second punch. Ribs cracked audibly.
Kick. Yan flew backward, hit the sand hard.
The difference in skill was staggering.
Yan tried. Genuinely tried. He got back up, adjusted his approach, used better angles.
Adam dismantled every attempt methodically. No wasted movement. No unnecessary violence. Just clinical efficiency.
Five minutes in, Yan was bloodied and struggling to stand.
The drop was announced.
The ceiling compartment opened. The parachute descended.
A katana.
It landed in the sand between them.
Adam walked over, picked up the blade, examined it briefly.
The crowd leaned forward. This was it. Execution time.
Adam walked toward Yan, who was on one knee, breathing hard, blood running from multiple cuts.
Then Adam tossed the katana.
It landed in the sand directly in front of Yan.
"Get up and fight." Adam's voice was cold but not cruel. "Fight until you can no longer stand."
Yan stared at the weapon, then at Adam, confusion and terror warring on his face.
He was being given a chance. A weapon. An opportunity.
But looking at Adam—at those flat, dark eyes, at the complete confidence, at the power barely restrained—Yan realized something.
He couldn't win. Not with the katana. Not with anything.
And Adam would make him earn his death if he picked up that blade.
Yan's hands were shaking.
He opened his mouth.
"I FORFEIT!" The words came out as a scream. "I FORFEIT!"
Adam stared at him for a long moment.
Disappointment flickered across his expression. Not anger. Not contempt. Just disappointment.
In the beginning, Yan had shown promise. Real capability. But now...
Adam turned and walked away without another word. Didn't look back. Didn't acknowledge the crowd.
Just left.
"WINNER BY FORFEIT—ADAM MAVRICK!" Haurang announced.
The crowd's reaction was mixed. Some appreciated the mercy. Others were disappointed at the lack of bloodshed.
Jamal tried to salvage it. "Well, folks, that's one way to end a match! Yan lives to see another day, and Adam Mavrick advances to Round 3!"
Medical personnel rushed in to treat Yan, who was sobbing with relief.
Odd watched the whole thing with an unreadable expression.
"That's who I might face," he said quietly.
"Probably," Lucius replied.
"Think I can beat him?"
"No."
Odd looked at him, startled by the bluntness.
"But," Lucius continued, "you can survive him. If you're smart. If you use everything I've taught you. If you don't let fear control you."
"That's not exactly encouraging."
"I'm not here to encourage you."
They sat in silence for a moment, watching as Adam disappeared into the exit tunnel.
"He didn't kill Yan," Odd observed.
"Adam's not like Plague. He doesn't kill for enjoyment. He kills when necessary, when the fight demands it, when the opponent proves themselves worth the respect of a clean death. Yan gave up. Adam let him live."
"Is that better or worse?"
"Depends on your perspective."
They stood to leave.
"Go get some rest," Lucius said. "Tomorrow's gonna be another day of training."
"What about you?"
"I gotta prepare for my match with wang."
Odd nodded and headed toward his quarters.
Lucius made his way through the corridors, mind already working through the problem.
Exterminators tomorrow. Tag to retrieve. But he'd need to intercept during lights-out when fighters shouldn't be in corridors.
He'd figure something out.
Always did.
---
TO BE CONTINUED