The air in the "Iron Pit" didn't smell like air. It smelled of old grease, oxidized copper, and the distinct, copper tang of fresh blood.
Deep beneath the smog-choked streets of Chrome City, three hundred people screamed for violence. They hung from the rusted catwalks, banging wrenches against the railings, creating a rhythm that sounded like the heartbeat of a dying machine.
In the center of the ring, Victor Vex wiped a streak of crimson from his lip and smiled.
"Is that it?" Victor asked, his voice cutting through the noise. He adjusted the collar of his tattered, floor-length leather trench coat. "I thought hydraulic pistons were supposed to hurt."
Standing opposite him was a nightmare of engineering. They called him Titan-X. He was seven feet of grafted steel and steroid-pumped flesh. His left arm had been replaced by a pneumatic pile-driver, hissing with steam.
Titan-X roared, a sound that was half human vocal cords and half grinding gears. "Die, street rat!"
The cyborg charged. The ground shook with every step.
Victor didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his fists. He stood with a casual arrogance, his messy black hair falling over eyes that held a dangerous, bored glint. Just as the pneumatic fist rocketed toward his skull—a blow meant to turn bone into powder—Victor moved.
Whoosh.
He sidestepped with the fluidity of oil on glass. The pile-driver smashed into the concrete floor, sending a spiderweb of cracks tearing through the arena.
"Too slow," Victor whispered. He spun, his heavy combat boot connecting with the Titan's human knee.
CRACK.
Titan-X howled, but the machine parts took over. The cyborg pivoted on one leg, swinging a backhand that caught Victor in the ribs.
The impact was sickening. Victor was launched across the ring, crashing into the chain-link fence. The crowd went wild, baying for blood. Victor slid to the floor, coughing. He felt two ribs shift out of place. The pain was sharp, electric, and real.
"Finally," Victor wheezed, pushing himself up. "Now my blood is awake."
He looked down at his right hand. On the back of his hand, right over the metacarpals, was a faint scar shaped like the letter V. It had been there since birth, a birthmark he never understood.
But tonight, as the pain flooded his system, the scar began to burn.
Titan-X was charging again, the pile-driver fully retracted for a killing blow. "No more dancing!"
Victor closed his eyes. He felt a rhythm in his chest—not panic, but an engine revving up. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. It grew faster. Louder. It drowned out the crowd. It drowned out the steam.
[CORE: DETECTED]
[ADRENALINE: CRITICAL]
[OVERDRIVE: ENGAGED]
Victor's eyes snapped open. The irises were no longer black; they glowed with a feral, electric crimson.
"You're just scrap metal," Victor growled.
The scar on his hand erupted in red light. From the empty air behind Victor's back, reality seemed to tear open. Two massive, spectral-mechanical arms—forged of polished steel and exposed, glowing wires—materialized. They hovered like the wings of a fallen angel, humming with terrifying power.
The crowd went silent.
Titan-X froze, his sensors screaming warnings he didn't understand. "What... what are you?"
Victor took a step forward. The mechanical arms mimicked his movement, flexing fingers the size of anvils.
"I am the wrench in your gears," Victor said.
Titan-X screamed and threw the pile-driver.
Victor didn't dodge this time. He punched forward. The massive mechanical arm mirrored him, colliding with the cyborg's weapon.
BOOM!
The sound was like a cannon firing in a library. The shockwave blew the hats off the spectators in the front row. Titan-X's pneumatic arm didn't just break; it disintegrated. Metal shrapnel rained down like hail.
Victor didn't stop. "Orra!"
The second mechanical arm swung a hook, catching the cyborg in the chest. Titan-X was launched—not just across the ring, but through the reinforced concrete wall of the arena. He flew twenty meters into the darkness of the tunnels, leaving a cartoonish hole in the structure.
Silence. Absolute, terrified silence.
Victor stood amidst the dust, the red glow of his "Core" fading, the mechanical arms dissolving back into mist. He cracked his neck. "Who's next?"
"No one," a voice replied. It was calm, cultured, and utterly out of place.
From the shadows of the VIP balcony, a man descended. He floated. He didn't walk down the stairs; he simply drifted through the air as if gravity were a suggestion he chose to ignore.
He wore a pristine, tailored white suit that contrasted sharply with the filth of the pit. A silver mask covered the lower half of his face.
"Alexander..." someone in the crowd whispered in terror.
The man landed softly in the center of the ring, his polished shoes hovering an inch above the bloodstained concrete.
"The Von Weiss lineage," Alexander said, his voice amplified by the mask. "I thought we extinguished your kind during the Dark Night. It seems a rat survived."
Victor narrowed his eyes. Every instinct in his body screamed Danger. "Who are you calling a rat, floaty-boy?"
Alexander raised a single gloved finger. "Kneel."
Suddenly, the world turned upside down.
Victor felt his stomach lurch. The gravity around him didn't just increase; it vanished. He floated up, helpless, his boots losing traction. Then, with a flick of Alexander's finger, the gravity returned—multiplied by ten.
SLAM.
Victor was driven into the ground. The concrete cracked beneath him. He tried to stand, but it felt like a mountain was resting on his shoulders.
Alexander looked down at him with cold amusement. "Your fist is heavy, Victor Vex. But how can you fight... when you cannot even stand?"
The villain turned his back, the debris of the arena orbiting him like small moons.
"Welcome to the extinction event," Alexander whispered. "Part one has just begun."