We walked in silence, my footsteps echoing faintly in the tunnel behind us.
The short man leading me would occasionally stop to shake hands, exchange brief pleasantries, then continue onward as though I wasn’t there. He carried himself with an air of authority, his interactions smooth and deliberate.
His presence demanded respect, and from the way others seemed to hang on his every word, I could tell his position here was important. How important? I wasn’t eager to find out.
The dim tunnel gradually gave way to brighter lights as we walked. My anxiety had been rising with every step, but I kept it hidden, trying not to let my nerves show.
After all, I had no idea what was about to happen. We turned a corner, and there, looming ahead of us, were massive steel doors—towering and menacing. They looked as though they belonged more in a prison or a vault than whatever lay beyond them. The man snapped his fingers casually, and the two bodyguards who had silently escorted us turned and left.
I couldn’t help but wonder why they don’t get pants?
The man pressed his hand against the door, and after a few tense seconds, a mechanical buzz echoed through the air. Slowly, with a heavy groan, the door began to slide open. For all its size, the security seemed remarkably low. It was a bit disappointing after the ominous setup, but I suppose not everything needed to be theatrical.
Inside was a room that, while not grand, was certainly comfortable. A glass desk stood on the far left, flanked by shelves full of books and paintings. The walls were adorned with artwork I didn’t have time to appreciate fully, but the vibe was clear—whoever worked here appreciated finer things. Two couches sat in the middle of the room, positioned opposite each other. The man motioned for me to sit on one, and I hesitated only for a moment before complying. He walked over to the desk and, from thin air—or at least it seemed that way—pulled out a glass bottle and two cups.
That caught my attention. I really need to ask about that, I thought to myself. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen people pull objects out of some mysterious void.
How did they do it? No clue. But curiosity gnawed at me, and it would keep doing so until I figured it out.
I glanced around, paying further attention to the decor. In terms of todays society and all that I’d seen on the outside, the room itself felt ancient. Or atleast, ancient in the way that it felt familiar to me. Nothing over the top, nothing difficult to explain or understand. The room was simple.
He joined me on the couch, plopping down with the ease of a man completely in control of the situation. Without a word, he poured the clear liquid into the cups. At first, I thought it might be water, but as the smell—or lack thereof—wafted over, I wasn’t so sure. He handed me a cup, and I took a cautious sip. The taste was strange, a mix of sweet and sour that left a bitter aftertaste. Definitely not water.
"Cyrus Carod," the man said, breaking the silence. His tone was casual, but the weight of his words immediately made me tense. "Eighteen years of age. Recently woke up from a three-year coma at Sky Saints Hospital. No record of an accident. No visible injuries. Just... amnesia."
I shifted uncomfortably on the couch, my body reacting to the discomfort his words stirred inside me. It wasn’t so much what he was saying—it was how much he knew. The details of my life laid out so plainly, like I was some open book for him to read.
“Declared an orphan after no records could be found. Not a single visitor came in those three years. After leaving the hospital, you went to a rundown motel on the outskirts of the city and haven’t left for some months. Does that all sound correct?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no point in asking how he had obtained all this information—it was clear this man had access to things far beyond my understanding. So, instead, I nodded.
“That’s right,” I said, keeping my voice as steady as I could.
He nodded thoughtfully, pouring himself another glass of that strange liquid. He wasn’t rushing. It was as though this entire conversation was just a formality for him.
“Now, normally, I wouldn’t give a second glance to someone wanting to become one of my fighters unless they were missing limbs or just really rubbed me the wrong way.” He chuckled at his own joke, but I couldn’t bring myself to join him.
‘Great criteria,’ I thought with a small, humorless smile.
"But when someone like you shows up, with more red flags than a parade, I have to be cautious. Now, I won’t bother asking how you got the password to enter here. I assume your chip figured it out for you.” He paused and looked me over, his eyes calculating, weighing me as if deciding whether I was worth the trouble.
I tried to relax, but my stomach churned. The way he was speaking, the way he was looking at me, it felt like a predator sizing up prey.
“You like the drink, kid?” he asked suddenly, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I glanced down at the empty cup in my hands, unsure how to answer. "It’s... different," I said. "Not the worst thing I’ve had, but considering I’ve only had water since waking up, I guess that’s not saying much."
He grinned and poured me another glass, encouraging me to drink up.
“I import it from a neighboring sector," he said, leaning back on the couch. "Damn expensive stuff. But it grows on you. Want to know something interesting about it?”
I was about to say yes, but before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out: "Not really."
He raised an eyebrow but continued anyway. “This drink comes from the Srilla plant, found on a distant planet. ‘Srilla’ roughly translates to ‘holy’ in the native language. When humans first found the plant, they thought it got its name because of its halo-like shape.”
Distant planet? I guess it’s to be expected considering the spaceships I saw, but the thought alone was exhilarating. Humans had reached a point of communicating with other intelligent life forms. That was nothing short of amazing.
He paused, letting the story sink in before continuing.
“But the real reason is far more interesting. Turns out, when you consume the leaves or extract from the plant, you can’t lie. Your true thoughts, your real feelings—they just spill out. Made for a damn good tool in war, extracting information from prisoners.”
I blinked, suddenly feeling a lot less comfortable.
“To put it simply, what you’ve been drinking is the most potent truth serum in the universe.”
I stared at the liquid in my cup, my heart pounding in my chest. But instead of fear, what came out was something much less expected.
“That’s intriguing, I guess,” I said slowly.
He looked at me, clearly taken aback. “You’re not scared?” he asked, his expression one of mild confusion. “Worried I’m going to pry into your darkest secrets?”
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have any secrets. I barely have any memories. What could you possibly extract from me that matters?”
He stared at me for a long moment, then let out a slow, thoughtful laugh. "You’re an interesting one, I’ll give you that."
The atmosphere shifted, but the tension didn’t leave. If anything, it felt like something worse was coming.
"To be completely honest with you, kid," he said, "I was going to kill you, no matter how this conversation went."
A chill ran down my spine, but my mouth acted faster than my brain. "That’s... not great."
He grinned, clearly amused by my blunt response. "But you’re too interesting to kill just yet. So, I’ll give you a chance. This lovely lady here," he said, nodding toward the door as a woman entered the room, "will show you to your new quarters. Welcome to The Underground, kid."
I looked at the woman and was taken aback.
She exuded an air of polished professionalism, her deep chestnut hair neatly pulled back into a sleek ponytail that accentuated her strong jawline. Her hazel eyes sparkled with a blend of intelligence and warmth, drawing people in while conveying her unwavering focus.
Dressed in a tailored blazer that complemented her figure and a crisp white blouse that hinted at her meticulous nature, she embodied elegance and capability. Her posture was upright, radiating confidence, while her movements were fluid and purposeful, as if she glided through the office. With a subtle touch of makeup enhancing her features.
Wasn’t fully my type but it would be stupid not to acknowledge her beauty.
I turned my attention back to the man, uncertainty still clouding my mind.
His smile was unnerving, but I forced myself to shake his hand, hiding my unease as best I could. I had gotten through the first hurdle without any immediate danger. Maybe, just maybe, things wouldn’t go completely sideways.
As I turned to follow the woman out of the room, he called after me, "Oh, and one last thing. If you screw me over, I’ll rip your head off and feed it to the other fighters. Have fun."
The smile vanished from my face, and as I walked away, I could almost hear the amused whir of Infra chuckling inside my head. Though I doubt that was possible.
⥁
After navigating what felt like an endless labyrinth of narrow tunnels, the woman leading me finally brought me to a single-floor structure. It was starkly different from the underground maze I had just emerged from. We stood before double doors that seemed out of place amid the dim corridors, opening with a low hum to reveal a corridor that stretched far into the distance. The hallway was lined with identical doors, spaced evenly like cells in a hive.
I couldn’t help but wonder if they have an obsession with doors and tunnels? It seemed like a strange fixation, but I bit my tongue and followed the woman in silence.
The woman led me down the hall, passing several doors before stopping abruptly in front of one. Without a word, she jabbed her finger at a hole in the door, the small action feeling oddly violent. Then she grabbed my arm, guiding my hand to the door’s surface. It buzzed under my palm as if reading my identity. A few tense moments later, the door slid open with a mechanical hiss, and she stepped inside without so much as glancing back at me.
I hesitated at the threshold, staring into what was now my new ‘home.’ The room itself was plain—bare walls, a small desk shoved in the corner, and two single beds lined against opposite walls. Not much different from the dingy motel room I had been staying in, save for the fact that this time I had a roommate. The sight of the second bed made something tighten in my chest. Sharing a space in a place like this didn’t exactly fill me with comfort.
Reluctantly, I stepped inside and sat down on one of the beds. The springs groaned beneath me, and for a brief moment, I thought about how much I missed the quiet isolation of that rundown motel. Here, I was exposed, vulnerable, and more importantly, trapped.
The woman turned to face me, her movements sharp, no-nonsense. “This will be your room from now on,” she said, her voice flat and mechanical, like she had given this speech countless times. She gestured toward the desk and motioned for me to sit.
I complied, slipping into the chair tucked beneath the desk, though I couldn’t shake the feeling of being scrutinized.
She began speaking again, rattling off information as if I were supposed to absorb it all without question. “The Underground runs on a ranking system, where only the strong are treated with respect. If this room or your roommate isn’t to your liking, you can fight your way into the top twenty. Only then will you be given better accommodations.” Her gaze flicked briefly to the second bed before landing back on me. “You’re currently ranked three hundred and forty-fifth.”
Three hundred and forty-fifth? I kept my face neutral, but internally I grimaced. I wasn’t even close to the top, nowhere near earning any kind of respect. Every word she spoke piled more anxiety onto my already fraying nerves.
“You’ll fight three times a week—once every other day. Your rank will rise with each victory and fall with each defeat. The amount it shifts depends on a few factors: how fast you win or lose, how much you suppress or get suppressed, and how entertained the audience is by your fight. Once you make it to the top one hundred, you’ll be eligible for sponsorship matches—unranked fights designed to showcase your abilities and attract financial backers.” She paused for a moment, her eyes scanning me like I was just another number.
“Our tailor will visit you tomorrow to discuss your outfit and alter ego. Never, under any circumstances, reveal your real identity. Do you understand?”
I blinked, trying to process the information overload, but my mind kept snagging on one detail—the sponsorships. Financial backers? That was exactly what I needed, a way to climb out of this hellhole, even if it meant selling a part of myself to some faceless sponsor. I barely noticed that she had stopped talking, my mind wandering as I tried to plan my next steps.
‘Infra, I think I found you a girlfriend,’ I thought, the sarcastic comment keeping me grounded as my thoughts raced. Talk about uptight.
‘Match made in heaven.’ I almost laughed out loud.
Suddenly, the woman snapped her fingers in front of my face, jolting me out of my mental spiral. “Hello? Are you even listening?”
“Uh, yeah, sorry. No questions,” I mumbled, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears.
She scoffed, clearly unimpressed, before turning on her heel and walking out, leaving me alone with the silence and the overwhelming realization of what I’d just gotten myself into. The door clicked shut behind her with an unsettling finality.
I let out a long sigh, feeling my body sag as the weight of everything settled on my shoulders. I kicked off my shoes and collapsed backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as if it might offer me some kind of answer. But no matter how hard I tried to think through the mess I’d created, the doubts gnawed at me.
What if I got hurt? What if my identity got exposed? Those were the thoughts circling in my mind, and either of those scenarios would ruin my chances of ever attending the academy. The academy—my one real hope for a future, dangling above me like some unreachable dream, while I was stuck in this underground pit, fighting for scraps.
The thought of the man in the black mask crossed my mind—the Keeper, or whatever they called him. The memory of his effortless power made my chest tighten. If I’m at the first stage, I wonder what stage he’s at. The eighth?
My heart sank. Only two stages separated us, but the gap between our strength felt like an abyss. How was it possible that someone only two stages ahead of me could make me feel so… insignificant?
“How is he so strong then?” I whispered aloud, hoping Infra might have an answer that would make this all make sense. “Is he just more experienced?”
“And you didn’t think to mention that while I was putting this plan together?” I hissed, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Or, I don’t know, while I was walking into the stadium!?”
Great. Just great. My brilliant plan had unraveled in less than a minute. I felt a familiar hatred for Infra rise up inside me, but there was no time to dwell on that. I needed a way out of this mess.
My first instinct was to run, to get out of here before things got worse, but leaving now would only be seen as betrayal. And I was rather attached to my head staying on my shoulders. Then there was the idea of throwing fights on purpose, losing as quickly as possible to avoid injury, but that wouldn’t get me anywhere. My ranking would plummet, and I’d be stuck here, just waiting for something worse to happen.
Before I could settle on a decision, the doorknob rattled. My heart jumped into my throat as the door slowly creaked open.
My roommate had arrived.