A smooth, synthetic voice echoed through the competitors' holding area and across the global broadcast.
ROBOT: All participants and audience members, welcome.
The tournament will commence shortly.
Contestants will be transported into an Artificial Physical Reality, facilitated by Grade 2 Resonator Okebe, whose power distorts and replicates reality with indistinguishable fidelity.
All previously stated rules remain in effect. First to four victories wins the tournament.
A match may be won by: opponent death, opponent surrender, knockout, coach forfeit, or—should the timer reach zero—superior performance as judged by the officiating AI.
No Resonators allowed. Resonant weapons or military-grade cyberware are prohibited. Racial technology is allowed.
Two commentators per territory will be permitted to speak only when a fighter from their territory is competing.
As the announcement concluded, four Grade 2 Resonators from each major territory materialized around the tournament venue perimeter—except for Neutral Territory, which was represented by four Grade 3 Resonators.
Among the African delegation stood Colonel Aloguja, flanked by three other Grade 2 Resonants at stiff attention. Her gaze was fixed on the European, Asian, Neutral, and South American Resonators with the predatory stillness of a leopard assessing prey.
"Captain Lerato," she said, her voice low and carrying hidden fury. "You're with me. If any of them so much as twitches wrong, we kill them all. Captain Tyrone, Sergeant Mamba you'll protect our people spectating if shithits the fan. Understood?"
A thunderous, unified response shook the air.
"ALL FOR THE GLORY OF AFRICA!"
The salute was sharp, decisive—they drew their weapons, clenched fists slamming over their chests, arms crossed in an 'X' shape, holding their weapons in a salute called the Ausar Risen.
To anyone who could sense the shape of souls, the air from the opposing territories tasted of anxiety, fear, and thinly veiled hate. The Africans weren't hiding their intent. Every soldier, every Resonator, watched everyone like a coiled snake. And at the center of it all was Colonel Aloguja—a Grade 2, Class A Resonator, a storm given human form.
Somewhere in the European Upper Sector
A man lounged in a throne of gold, diamond, and silk spun by hands he'd never see, his face a mask of irritation.
"Why is that psychotic bitch here?" he hissed to the holographic forms floating before him. "Of all the Resonators they could have sent, why her…"
"These apes understand nothing of restraint," another voice crackled. "They swagger and threaten others like beasts."
A third chimed in, dripping with contempt. "Ungrateful savages. We tried to civilize them, and they repay us with defiance. They will remember their place. Let them beat their chests now—it changes nothing."
Back in the Arena
The robotic voice returned, announcing the first twelve matchups at random.
ROBOT: Match Twelve. Fighter Marcus Webb, Neutral Territory… versus Avenger, African Territory.
A faint, cold smile touched Colonel Aloguja's lips.
The Introduction
"From Neutral Territory: Marcus Webb! Former security forces, specialist in tactical combat!"
Scattered, polite applause rose from the Neutral sections. No fervor, no pride—just acknowledgement of a professional here for the credits.
"From Sector 7, African Territory… AVENGER!"
The arena erupted.
The difference was seismic. From the African section came a wave of sound—drums, ululations, chants of ancestral praise. The Solidarity Bloc joined: Soviet stomping shook the stands; Indigenous war cries cut through the din. Together, it was a wall of will, a declaration before the first blow was thrown.
Marcus Webb looked unnerved. This wasn't just a fight. It was a statement.
As Avenger approached the combat platform, a corridor formed—Africans lining both sides, leaving a path just wide enough for him to pass. When his foot touched the first step, they began: instruments played, bodies danced, voices chanted in unison. They were not just cheering for him. They were lifting him as he would rise for them. Fight for them. If necessary, die for them.
The crest on Avenger's and the ceremonial marks on those around him began to glow softly, resonating in harmony a visible pulse of shared pride to all those that where marked.
He walked slowly, draped in silk robes and a lion's pelt, his face hidden behind a featureless ivory mask. Silver chains held the regalia in place; a golden crown sat upon his head. With each step forward, hands reached out to gently unclasp a chain, letting it fall to the ground—a ritual shedding of ceremonial weight, of shared burden.
By the time he reached the end of the human corridor, the chains and adornments were gone. His fighter's frame stood revealed sleek, focused, and honed. The crowd encircled him one last moment before parting, leaving him face-to-face with Marcus Webb.
ROBOT: Match begins in three… two… one… FIGHT!
The Dance
Webb came in hard—a straight-line rush, all augmented muscle and military conditioning. His first punch was a piston jab aimed to test, to measure Avenger's skill level.
Avenger didn't block. He slipped through the attack by a hair's breadth, feeling the wind of the punch brush past his cheek. He circled, light on his feet, the sway in his step making him hard to pin down.
His rhythm's predictable, Avenger thought, already reading the pattern. One-two, feint, low kick. His augments are weak—are these supposed to be for combat? Can't be, but our medical augments perform better than this. He's sloppy. There's no flow to his fighting style.
Webb threw the combination exactly as predicted. Avenger flowed around it, a leaf on the wind, letting Webb's momentum carry him forward into empty space. The crowd murmured, sensing the mismatch already.
Africans are not fans of cyberware. They prefer non-intrusive augments, but the other races use them much more, especially those in Neutral, European, and Asian territories. They rely on this hardware because of their lower connection to WIL. Webb's augments were mostly cheap upgrades, mass-produced. They follow capitalist ideology—you need money, and lots of it, to get the actual good ones, or you need a sponsor. There is no soul in his movement. Most likely downloaded through chips, not learned through trials. He's truly only here for money, Avenger thought.
Webb growled, frustration edging into his attacks. He lunged for a clinch, hoping to use his weight and cyber-strength to crush and control him.
Bad idea.
As Webb's arms came forward, Avenger stepped into the grab, not away. His hands shot up, not to meet force with force, but to redirect—one palm guiding Webb's wrist sideways, the other snaking behind his elbow. A twist, a pivot, and Webb's own charge was turned against him. There was a wet, metallic crunch as something in Webb's augmented shoulder gave way when his body was slammed into the ground.
Webb hissed in pain as he stumbled onto his feet facing Avenger, lurching forward to attack. Avenger was already behind him.
Too slow. Too heavy. All push, no pull.
Before Webb could turn, Avenger's arms wrapped around his waist from behind. He didn't just lift—he hoisted Webb up, arching his own back like a bow, and slammed him head-first into the arena floor.
The impact was a sickening, hollow thud. Webb's body went limp, neck bent at an unnatural angle. He wasn't unconscious—his eyes were wide, panicked—but his limbs wouldn't obey. Neural feedback from his cybernetics sparked and fizzled under his skin.
Avenger placed his foot on Webb's temple and applied pressure until he felt the bone begin to give. A slow, wet creak. Then he stopped. Just resting his foot there, a silent promise. I could. But I won't.
The referee's hand shot up.
"Winner… AVENGER!"
No blood. Just a body broken with chilling precision. The crowd roared, not in bloodlust, but in awe—at the control, the elegance, the sheer certainty of it.
Post-Fight: The Spin
In the media zone, holographic feeds showed different stories:
African Network: "CHAMPION RISES! A flawless technical victory—skill over savagery, honor over brutality!"
Soviet Feed: "Solidarity Bloc discipline on full display. A lesson in control."
Indigenous Broadcast: "Clean. Honorable. This is how true warriors fight."
European Net: "African contestant advances amid questionable officiating. Observers note a lack of decisive closure… Was the stoppage premature?"
Avenger watched the European feed, jaw tight. They would spin anything.
Isaac appeared at his shoulder, a grounding presence. "They wanted you to kill, so it would be easy to make us look like monsters. But you didn't, and that angered them more than any blood would—so they attack the victory itself."
"What was I supposed to do?" Avenger replied, frustration edging his voice. "Keep hitting a defenseless man? I don't like those whities like any sane person,but the fight was over...It was over, so I stopped. If he struggled, I would have crushed his skull."
"It was the correct decision. And you ended it cleanly. That's the objective truth. But their truth is about perception, not reality. Everything is false if it doesn't make them look better than others and make others look lesser. Don't lose sleep over their false narrative. This is the only thing that matters."
Isaac switched the feed back to the African broadcast. The screen showed streets in Level 2 and 3—people celebrating, children mimicking Avenger's moves, elders nodding in approval. The pride was palpable, warm, real.
A slow smile spread across Avenger's face. "You're right," he said softly. "This… is all that matters."