The cage door slammed shut behind me, sealing in the silence before the storm. The air was electric—not metaphorically. The energy dome pulsing above the ring sparked like a live wire. Static danced across my skin, raising the hairs on my arms. Every breath tasted of ozone, blood, and sweat baked into the underground coliseum.
They were expecting me to die.
The announcer's voice thundered through the speakers, stretching out Danny "Brick" Brickwell's name like it was some kind of ritual. The crowd responded like zealots, stomping and shouting until the foundation trembled.
I tuned it all out.
Focus.
Brick stood across the ring, his posture deceptively relaxed—shoulders low, arms loose, like a man on vacation rather than a fighter stepping into hell. He didn't posture, didn't flex. His eyes scanned me like a blueprint. Clinical. Exacting. No malice, just a professional assessing the next task on his list.
Calm, composed. That was worse than rage. Rage could be baited.
No. This was calculated.
He knew what he was.
And he knew what he was about to do.
Good. Let him think he had me figured out.
The bell cracked like a gunshot, and the arena went still for a heartbeat.
I moved—low, fast, targeting the opening in his lead stance. A feint, then a tight spinning elbow aimed at his temple. It landed, but barely—a glancing hit across his cheekbone that might've rocked a regular opponent. On Brick, it felt like striking concrete. The shock traveled up my arm like lightning. My elbow screamed.
He didn't so much as blink.
I slid back, keeping my guard tight. My breathing hissed through clenched teeth as I adjusted, recalibrated.
Brick's lips curled into a smirk.
"Cute," he muttered, almost amused.
Then he moved.
Measured, efficient. No wasted energy. He advanced like a juggernaut—methodical and controlled, each step sealing the exits. I pivoted, slipped right under a looping swing that would've knocked my jaw into the cheap seats. The wind from it burned across my face.
I responded with rapid strikes—three body shots in tight succession, aimed at his ribs and obliques. Perfect placement. Speed and form were textbook.
They might as well have been love taps.
He caught the fourth strike.
His hand locked around my wrist like a hydraulic clamp.
With a single jerk, he yanked me off-balance, and the world flipped sideways. My back slammed into the mat with a thud that drove the air from my lungs. The roar of the crowd became a wall of static.
Brick didn't capitalize immediately. He backed off, casual, as if to say, "Whenever you're ready."
Like I was a warm-up set.
He didn't rush. Brick advanced with the weight of inevitability—like gravity incarnate. I barely ducked beneath a wide hook, felt the heat of it skim past my ear. I pivoted inside, countering with three sharp jabs to his ribs and flank. Textbook strikes. Solid contact.
He didn't flinch.
Then his hand snapped out like a bear trap. Caught my wrist mid-punch.
Fingers like steel.
He yanked hard.
The world spun sideways, and I slammed into the mat shoulder-first. Pain detonated across my ribs like a landmine. The sound of the crowd erupted around me, a crashing wave of noise that faded into white static.
Brick didn't follow through.
He just turned, walking away in that same, unhurried way. Like he had somewhere to be after this. Like I was just another line item on a checklist.
I rolled over, gritting my teeth, forcing myself to stand. My ribs screamed. My shoulder pulsed. But I pushed through it. Every inch of him was reinforced—too clean, too sturdy. It wasn't just training. Something synthetic moved under his skin.
Nanoweave? Carbon-plate augments?
Didn't matter. I needed a new approach.
I changed levels, tightened my spacing. No wide strikes—no room for him to counter. I closed in, hitting joints and soft targets. A low knee into the crook behind his leg. A snapping elbow to his jaw hinge. A palm strike angled up beneath his chin.
He staggered. Not far. But enough to know he felt it.
He responded immediately.
A short backhand—compact and brutal—whipped across my face before I could reset. My jaw lit up. Vision swam. The lights smeared sideways, and blood flooded my mouth.
Still, I held my stance.
He closed the gap now. No flair. No arrogance. Just stripped-down violence. A technician with hands built to dismantle.
We clashed. A hammer and scalpel. Forearms clashed. Shins collided. My knee caught his side. His elbow slammed into my shoulder.
We traded blows like wagers.
I managed to hook his head into a guillotine. Dropped my weight. Pulled him down.
He didn't resist—he surged upward, slamming me back against the mat like a ragdoll. Once. Then again.
The second hit knocked my breath out in one blast. I released the hold and rolled away, gasping, ribs on fire.
We both rose.
He studied me for half a second.
"You're not bad," he said, voice low.
I stayed silent.
He charged again.
But this time—I didn't brace. I didn't resist. I let the rhythm take over.
There's a point in a fight where thinking gets in the way. Where instinct drowns logic, and movement becomes something primal. Precise. Pure.
We circled. Clashed. Broke apart and collided again. No wasted breath. No words. Just bone, muscle, breath.
We weren't men anymore. We were something closer to wolves.
Then it happened.
A ripple deep in my chest. Like something waking up. A pressure. A pulse.
He came in with a right hook. I stepped inside. Caught the punch in my palm.
My skin burned.
Not from the impact—but from something underneath. Golden light bled through the cracks of my fingers. Flickering, then steady. My bones felt molten. My nerves alight.
Brick blinked.
So did I.
Then I moved.
Twist. Step in. Weight behind the strike.
I let the energy go.
It burst from my hand like a cannon. Pure kinetic discharge—force without mass. Brick flew. His body left the ground like it had been yanked by invisible chains and smashed into the cage wall hard enough to dent steel.
The whole arena held its breath.
Brick hit the floor. Groaned. Tried to rise.
I didn't wait.
I was already moving—footwork clean, close. I weaved under his retaliatory swing and slammed my glowing hand into his chest.
Another blast.
The shockwave blasted through his chest. His body folded like a puppet with its strings cut, crashing into the mat with a thud that echoed through the cage.
I didn't hesitate. I pounced—clinical. Precise.
My knees landed on either side of his ribs, pinning him. His arms twitched, trying to form a guard, but I was already inside his reach.
Left hook. Kinetic flash. Right cross. Another pulse of energy.
His head snapped sideways, blood misting from his nose.
Every punch wasn't just a blow—it was a conduit. The golden light surged from my knuckles like compressed thunder. The feedback loop hummed in my bones.
He raised an arm.
I shattered the block with a straight jab, then pivoted my weight and drove a hammerfist down into his collarbone. I felt something give.
Brick coughed, trying to speak—maybe beg, maybe curse. I didn't let him finish.
Another strike. Kinetic. Sharp.
He slumped.
His fists went slack.
Still, I held over him for another breath, adrenaline clouding judgment. I was ready to keep going. I wanted to.
But then—the bell.
It didn't sound like salvation.
It sounded like a pause.
I stopped. Slowly. My chest heaved. My fists still glowed—veins lit up like golden wires beneath the skin.
Brick blinked up at me. His lip was split. His cheek crushed purple.
He smiled anyway.
"Crazy bastard," he rasped, breath bubbling with blood.
I stood slowly, feeling the weight of every second that had passed in that cage settle in my spine. My shoulders ached, my knuckles still buzzed with residual heat, and the crowd's roar behind the cage was a tidal wave pressing against my ears—but I barely registered it.
The dome above flickered, then dropped with a hiss like a breathing beast exhaling. The cage door creaked open, dragging out its rusted groan like a reluctant invitation.
I didn't raise my arms. There was no celebration. No victory pose.
Just movement. Silent. Steady.
Each step away from the mat felt heavier than the last, like I was peeling myself out of an old skin. I could feel every eye in the room on me—some in awe, some in fear, a few in something closer to recognition.
I didn't look back. Not at Brick. Not at the cage. Not at the trail of blood I left behind.
I just walked.
Breathing. Still standing. But changed.
Something inside me had cracked open tonight, and I felt it pulsing beneath my ribs like a second heartbeat—hot, awake, and insatiable.
And whatever it was… it wasn't going back to sleep.
Author's Note:
If you're enjoying the story and want to read ahead or support my work, you can check out my P@treon at P@treon.com/LordCampione. But don't worry—all chapters will eventually be public. Just being here and reading means the world to me. Thank you for your time and support.