The door creaked open, and a figure stepped inside, moving with a deliberate quietness that immediately set me on edge.
He was tall and broad, his build suggesting he was older than me, or at least had seen far more hardship. His attire consisted of loose, dull-grey robes that hung loosely over his frame, and around his waist, a belt—no, a rope—was tied in a makeshift knot, adding to the eerie, almost monk-like image.
But it was the mask that caught my attention first. It was carved into the grotesque likeness of a troll, the exaggerated features—large nose, jagged teeth, and bulging eyes—only serving to make his presence more unsettling. As he removed the mask, however, I was unprepared for the sight beneath.
His head was completely shaved, gleaming under the dim light, but what truly froze me in place was the hideous burn scar covering the left side of his face.
The flesh was warped, seared, exposing raw red tissue where his skin hadn’t healed properly.
His teeth were bared in a permanent grimace, the scar tissue having melted away his cheek, and his eye socket was a hollow cavity, the eye itself missing entirely. His remaining eye was cold, hard, and focused, a predator’s gaze that sent a chill down my spine.
The scar, combined with his snow-pale skin, created a grotesque contrast, turning his face into a macabre mask in its own right. It took every ounce of willpower not to let my jaw drop in shock or, worse, show any reaction that might provoke him. Something told me that upsetting him wasn’t a wise move, not when I wasn’t sure I could defend myself if things turned violent.
The man said nothing as he walked past me, his boots scraping against the uneven floor. He approached the dresser at the head of the other bed, the only other piece of furniture in this cramped, claustrophobic room. Without a word, he slipped off his robes, revealing the full extent of the damage to his body.
The burn scars continued down the left side of his torso, the skin an uneven patchwork of grafts and raw, angry tissue. But the right side of his body fared no better; it was a mosaic of scars, cuts, and bruises, as though he had been carved up by a thousand blades over the years. The muscles beneath the skin were tight and corded, his body built for violence and survival.
For a long moment, we sat in tense silence. Neither of us acknowledged the other, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on the room. I didn’t dare move or speak, my instincts telling me that this man wasn’t one for idle conversation. He carried an aura of danger, and I, for one, enjoyed living.
Minutes passed in suffocating quiet until, at last, he broke the silence, his voice low and gravelly as he threw himself onto the bed, the springs creaking under his weight.
“You get three questions,” he said, his tone as rough as his appearance. “I get three questions. You ask me anything too personal, I’ll kill you as soon as we meet in the ring. Fair?”
There was no malice in his words, only a cold, matter-of-fact tone that made it clear he wasn’t joking. His straightforwardness was both unsettling and strangely respectable. He wasn’t playing games, and even though my life had been threatened more times than I cared to count lately, something about his offer felt… reasonable.
I nodded slowly in agreement.
“Good,” he grunted. “What stage are you at, and what type are you?”
His question was blunt, the words cutting through the air like a knife. Technically, that was two questions, but I wasn’t about to argue.
“I’m at the Macin stage,” I admitted, the truth serum still in my system preventing me from holding back. “As for my type… I have no idea.” I grimaced inwardly, remembering how Infra had said my type would awaken "shortly." Clearly, shortly wasn’t very soon.
The man’s eyebrow—his remaining one, anyway—arched slightly in surprise, but he didn’t press for details.
The silence stretched again, an awkward pause that lingered in the air before I realized it was my turn to ask a question. My mind raced, unsure of what to say. I didn’t want to push too hard and trigger his threat, but I also didn’t want to waste my questions.
“How did you get the…” I waved my hand vaguely toward my face, trying to gesture to his scar without being too offensive. I knew it was insensitive, but there was no easy way to ask something like that.
“Say it like a man,” he grunted.
“I got the scar in an accident. Long time ago. House came down on me, left me to burn for hours.”
His tone was devoid of emotion, a hollow statement of fact. Yet there was a subtle warning there: don’t push further.
He followed up with another question. “When did you awaken your Heartile?”
“Four weeks ago,” I replied, quickly changing the subject. “What’s the average strength of the fighters in this place?”
I’d been wondering that since the woman first brought me here. It wasn’t like I trusted her completely, so I figured I’d ask someone who knew the place better.
“Second stage or higher,” he answered, his voice cold. “There’s three or four other Macins, but don’t rely on them to get your rank up. They’re all stronger than you.”
Of course they were.
“And why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice sharp, cutting to the heart of things.
I hesitated, wondering why it didn’t count as “too personal” for him to ask such a question, but I answered truthfully.
“I want to be stronger. There are things I need to do, and without strength, I won’t achieve any of it.”
The man nodded, seemingly satisfied with my response.
Now it was my turn to ask a question that mattered. I could ask about strategies, about the Underground itself, or how to survive. But as I looked at him, something else came to mind.
“What do I call you?” I asked, sincerity in my voice.
It might have seemed like a stupid question, but I thought it was appropriate. Outside help was outside help, I wouldn’t go back on my words by using the excuse of it being a human.
For the briefest of moments, his mouth twitched in what could have been a smile, but it disappeared just as quickly. He definitely wanted to smile.
He rolled over in his bed, facing the wall, and pulled the blanket over his scarred body. After a long pause, he finally spoke.
“My fighter name is Goblin.”
A soft chuckle almost escaped me, but I stifled it, letting out a low ‘hm’ to show I heard him.
It was a strange question to ask, but something told me it was the right one. Even if I didn’t survive long in this place, it wouldn’t hurt to know my roommate’s name. And somehow, Goblin suited him in a dark, twisted way.
I turned off my bedside lamp and lay back on the bed, the tension in my body finally easing.
‘Goblin,’ I thought with a wry smile. ‘Everyone here has a stupid name.’
⥁
Morning came far too early, or at least, the blaring alarm clock beside me made it feel that way. The beds in this place were like stone slabs, and the pillows might as well have been rocks. My body ached from the uncomfortable night, and I groaned as I sat up, rubbing my sore neck.
I glanced across the room to see Goblin’s bed already made and empty. Of course, he was a morning person. I grumbled to myself as I stood up and began stretching.
Meditation helped alleviate the soreness in my muscles, the Tecz flowing through me like a cool stream, soothing the aches. But despite my efforts, my Heartile remained unchanged. No miraculous breakthrough today. Just my luck.
I rose from bed and made my way out of the room, deciding to give the place a look around as I headed for the bathroom.
The low hum of the ventilation system filled the air as I stepped out of my room. The metal door slid shut behind me with a quiet hiss. The air was cooler than I remembered from yesterday, almost sterile, and the walls glowed faintly with strips of soft white light embedded directly into the polished steel surfaces. In fact I began to take note of quite a few things I hadn’t spotted yesterday.
The ceiling curved overhead, a seamless blend of alloy and translucent panels, which occasionally flickered with digital readouts displaying room numbers and system diagnostics in a language I couldn’t fully understand.
As I walked further in, the corridor branched off in several directions, each pathway labeled by floating holographic signs. They hovered in midair, glowing faintly blue, directing traffic to different sectors: "Communal Lounge," "Private Quarters," "Storage," and something labeled "Sustenance Synth."
The floor beneath my boots had an odd bounce to it, like walking on a membrane, and with each step, a faint ripple seemed to spread out from where I touched. It was alive somehow, or at least it felt like it. Thin black lines ran along the edges of the walls, pulsing rhythmically, syncing with the lights overhead. Power conduits, maybe?
Ahead, a large central room opened up—a common area, I assumed. The walls here were more rugged, a mix of stone and reinforced metal plates, like they hadn’t quite finished refining this part of the structure. There were alcoves dug into the walls, each one fitted with a sort of hammock suspended by thin energy fields. A few people lounged in them, their bodies bathed in soft green light, while translucent screens floated in front of them, scrolling with information I couldn’t make sense of. Some of them looked up briefly, their eyes glowing faintly with neural interfaces, before returning to whatever feeds they were monitoring.
I passed a table where three people were engaged in some kind of game. The board, if you could call it that, was a hovering matrix of cubes that shifted and reformed as they played. Their eyes darted between the changing shapes and a small, hovering sphere that seemed to represent some kind of scorekeeping entity. One of them nodded in my direction, acknowledging me, but they were too engrossed to say anything.
Further down, I caught sight of an oddly complicated version of a vending machine—a massive machine embedded into the far wall. It was sleek, a silver panel with glowing blue seams, offering up whatever passes for food down here. I could see someone punch in a code, and with a soft hum, a tray slid out with a shimmering, translucent substance that vaguely resembled food. The person grabbed it without a second thought, taking a seat at one of the nearby booths.
The private quarters, I assumed, were further down the next corridor. I hadn’t explored that far yet, but I noticed the doors here had no visible handles, just smooth surfaces with small touchpads glowing faintly beside them. A soft voice chimed from one of them as someone approached, scanning their hand to enter. Each door slid open with a faint hum and a brief rush of cool air before sealing shut again, leaving no trace of movement.
This was probably where the top twenty stayed. I kept my eyes glued on the door, reassuring myself that I’d one day be among them.
Everything here felt so functional. Cold, but efficient. The people moved with purpose, interacting only when necessary, their focus always on their tasks or their screens. No one lingered for conversation or idle chat. It was a place designed to keep people alive and working, nothing more, nothing less. A far cry from anything resembling comfort, but somehow, it felt secure. Hidden away from whatever was happening above ground.
Finally, I managed to find the bathroom further down the hall from the common area, and it didn’t pale in comparison to the rest of the lodgings.
The bathroom was sleek and compact, with dark gray alloy walls that reflected a faint blue glow from ceiling lights. A cylindrical shower pod with frosted glass and holographic controls dominated the room, offering customizable water settings.
The sink, seamlessly built into the wall, emitted a fine mist of water controlled by another hologram, while the mirror displayed vital signs when I approached. A sealed waste disposal unit sat discreetly in the floor, sanitized by advanced technology. Everything was streamlined, from the magnetic towels to the automated systems, focused entirely on function over comfort.
Finishing my business off, I rushed back to my room. It had already been close to an hour, and I couldn’t waste any more time being starstruck by the place.
A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Once inside, I barely had time to sit down before a loud, insistent pounding came from the door. Groaning, I got up and opened it, only to find a small, bald man standing there, fully dressed and looking incredibly displeased with everything in sight.
Without a word, he marched into the room and began rummaging under my bed, his tongue clicking in annoyance the whole time. After a few moments, he pressed down on a hidden floorboard, and to my surprise, my bed lifted from the ground, revealing a full-length mirror and shelves hidden beneath it.
The man pulled a small stool from seemingly nowhere and motioned for me to stand in front of the mirror. I quickly moved in front of the mirror, and to my great discomfort, the man removed all my clothes.
He traced his finger across all parts of my body, some of which I did not enjoy in the slightest, leaving behind traces of black ink.
He asked questions in a rapid-fire way, as if all the questions were one continuous word.
“What do you want to wear, what enhancement do you want, and what will your name be?”
“Uh, what?” I asked, still processing the bizarre situation.
“You heard me,” he snapped. “Hurry up. You’re fighting today, and we don’t have all day.”
My heart sank.
Fighting today? Already?
‘Infra,’ I called out in my head. ‘Any advice?’ I wanted to spend more time being stunned, but it seemed the man infront of me already had very minimal patience for anything.
I felt the sting of its words, the backhanded compliment wrapped in layers of sarcasm. Great, just what I needed—someone else pointing out my glaring lack of power.
I swallowed hard, trying not to let its condescending tone get under my skin. Helpful and hurtful—that summed up this entire conversation. My mind raced, trying to piece together something that wasn’t entirely humiliating. I needed a persona that wouldn’t scream weakness, but also wouldn’t draw too much attention—especially not with my current, less-than-impressive state.
The Goblin, The Keeper, and that barbarian in the Tusk mask—they had their personas figured out. The Goblin was some kind of magical monk, The Keeper, maybe a dark mage? The Tusk mask was definitely some kind of feral, nude barbarian. I had to pick something that wasn’t totally embarrassing but also not going to get me instantly destroyed.
It took a few minutes of sifting through my limited knowledge of history, legends, and old-world concepts before I finally settled on something halfway decent. To be completely honest, the thought of dressing up in a cool set of armour was more than enticing, but I couldn’t let my excitement cloud my judgement.
“All right, I got it,” I said, breaking the silence.
“Finally,” the man sneered, his eyes rolling slightly as he exhaled impatiently.
I bit back a sarcastic retort, instead muttering internally, Not one person in my life right now has a shred of kindness in them.
“I want a flexible, light suit of armor—something like one of those old-world paladins. The color doesn’t matter.” I paused, feeling the weight of my decision. “For the enhancement... I want a durability booster.”
Paladins were an old idea, remnants from the days long gone, but I didn’t care about the specifics. Their armor had seemed cool to me—functional and practical, which was exactly what I needed. I wasn’t going to last long in anything else.
“And your name?” The man’s voice carried a hint of boredom, as if my choice was already dismissed in his mind.
I hesitated, the name I’d chosen rattling in my brain, but I stuck with it, knowing full well it might not impress anyone here.
“The Saint,” I said, standing tall.
⥁
If I’d ever wanted proof that my sense of humor was out of touch with the world around me, the look on Goblin’s face when I told him my chosen title was more than enough.
When he returned from what he called “a top-secret establishment,” his first question was about my visit to the tailor—a little perverted man who apparently had a reputation. At first, Goblin acted like he’d never had the strange experience of being stripped down during a fitting session, but then quickly admitted he was messing with me.
Hilarious.
I then told him about my choice of armor and enhancement. His reaction was... indifferent. Not that I was expecting much, but it did sting a little that no one seemed to care about the niche reference I had worked so hard to come up with. I had been hoping for at least a raised eyebrow or some acknowledgment of my vast knowledge of ancient history. But no, nothing.
Then I told him about the name I’d chosen.
And that’s when he broke.
I had never thought I’d see Goblin lose his composure, simply based off the limited interactions we’ve had so far.
His normal side laughed in a regular way, but the burns and skin grafts on the other half of his face contorted and twisted as if the very idea of a “Saint” was so absurd that even his scarred flesh had to respond. The sound that came out of him... It was almost inhuman. Hoarse, scratchy, like a wounded animal, or maybe even some bizarre mating call. Either way, it wasn’t something a human should be capable of producing.
He laughed for minutes on end, his body shaking as he clutched his sides. Every so often, he’d let out a wheeze and mutter “Saint” under his breath, as if the word itself was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.
After what felt like an eternity of enduring Goblin’s strange mix of mockery and hilarity, a knock followed by the door opening sounded out. It was the woman from yesterday, looking no different, carrying a briefcase.
With not even a single word, she motioned for me to follow her, and turned around before I could even ask where we were going. Her expression was as cold and distant as ever, but as we made our way back through the maze of tunnels, I could have sworn I heard her chuckle quietly to herself and whisper the word “Saint” more than once.
We eventually arrived at a dingy, run-down changing room that screamed neglected budget. The Underground had to be raking in cash every night, but clearly, none of it went toward their fighters’ change room. She set the briefcase down on a chipped bench and turned to me.
“The fight will be one long round of twelve minutes. There are no ties, so if both parties are still standing at the end of the twelve minutes, both fighters will receive three free blows to determine the winner. If you’re still standing after that, well...” she shrugged, her lips curling slightly in what could have been a smile, “it won’t matter.”
I nodded slowly, letting her words sink in. It wasn’t much, but it was all I needed to know. That last part stung a bit more than it should have. What the hell does she mean “it won’t matter,”? I’m more than capable of surviving a fight. I think.
“You must wear your mask at all times,” she continued, her tone turning sharp and matter-of-fact. “If your mask comes off, the fight will be called off immediately. If you try to remove your opponent’s mask on purpose, you forfeit, and you’ll be suspended for two weeks.”
I blinked, processing the strictness of that particular rule. “What happens if both of us are still standing after the free hits?” I couldn’t hold back my frustration.
She paused, clearly unimpressed with my optimism. “I doubt that information will ever be useful to you.”
Lovely. More encouragement.
I bit back a sarcastic retort and nodded once more, signaling that I understood.
“Good,” she said briskly, turning on her heel to leave. “Get dressed and meet your opponent outside the double doors. He’s waiting.”
As soon as she was gone, the weight of the moment settled over me. My heart pounded louder in my ears, a mix of anxiety and adrenaline surging through me. The reality of what I was about to do hit me like a tidal wave. I was about to enter a fight—a real one. There was no walking away from this. Win or lose, I was going to face someone with far more skill, and maybe far more strength.
Forcing myself to calm down, I opened the briefcase and stared at the armor inside. The pieces were sleek, gray metal, light but strong, covering my chest, limbs, and shoulders. Black fabric wrapped around my torso and waist, adding a layer of mobility and comfort. A black cape fell from my shoulders, billowing slightly as I stood. The mask—a small gray helmet with a black circle painted on the front—was simple, almost minimalist. The colors—gray and black—contradicted the name I had chosen, but in a way, it felt right.
I stood in front of the dirty, cracked mirror and stared at myself for a moment. The Saint. It wasn’t flashy, but it felt solid. Grounded.
After a few deep breaths and a couple of quick slaps to my cheeks, I ran through the double doors, stepping into the open arena.
The stands were mostly empty, much to my relief. The fewer people who saw me get destroyed, the better.
I stretched, trying to shake off the nerves as I stepped into the cage. Across from me, my opponent stood in eerie silence. He was tall and lanky, wrapped in a long black robe with a beak-shaped mask covering his face. The way he stood there, still as a statue, sent chills down my spine.
A man dressed entirely in white approached me, his face expressionless.
“Do you understand the rules and regulations?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Good,” he said, then, with the same lack of emotion I’d come to expect from everyone here, added, “Don’t die.”
Great, I thought, more inspiring words.
I stood in the center of the arena, every muscle tense, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. The air was thick with anticipation, an oppressive silence settling over the battlefield as, not even two seconds after the match began, my opponent melted into the shadows.
His presence vanished like a ghost, leaving the space around me disturbingly empty. The arena, once filled with the murmur of the crowd and the echoes of previous battles, now seemed eerily quiet. My skin prickled with unease as every instinct screamed at me to move.
Without thinking, I bolted to the middle of the grounds, seeking the open space where I had fewer obstacles to worry about. My eyes darted back and forth, scanning every inch of the dimly lit battlefield.
The iron cage around us glinted in the low light, casting long, jagged shadows that twisted across the ground. My hands rose instinctively into a defensive stance, fingers twitching in anticipation. I could feel the adrenaline rushing through me, heightening my senses, but my heart hammered harder, a constant reminder that I was far from safe.
A faint sound broke the silence—the subtle scrape of a boot against the dirt floor. Instinct took over. I spun around, my body coiling like a spring as I launched a quick jab toward the noise. My fist sliced through the air, but it connected with nothing. My breath hitched in my throat as I blinked in confusion.
"Where is he?" I muttered under my breath.
Before I could recover, a crushing blow landed against my jaw from the side. The world spun as my head snapped back, the force of the punch rattling my brain. I staggered, blinking rapidly to clear the blur from my vision. Pain throbbed along my jawline, but I forced myself to focus. I needed to stay sharp, or I wouldn't last much longer.
"Focus," I told myself through gritted teeth, shaking my head to clear the haze. I planted my feet firmly into the ground, the gritty earth crunching beneath my boots. The solidity of the ground beneath me helped center my mind as I took a deep breath, raising my hands once more. I could feel my muscles coiling again, ready to spring.
Another sound reached my ears, this one more deliberate—footsteps, louder this time, as if taunting me. My opponent was toying with me, and it worked. My pulse quickened as I spun again, this time dropping low to the ground. My leg shot out in a swift, tight arc. I felt the satisfying impact as my opponent's legs were swept out from under him, his body crashing to the ground with a heavy thud.
"Now!" I growled to myself.
I surged forward, pushing off the ground with everything I had. My body moved with explosive speed, springing into the air as my fist drew back, ready to deliver a punishing blow. The wind whistled in my ears, and for a split second, I felt the thrill of victory.
But my opponent was quicker than I anticipated. He rolled out of the way just as my fist came down, and instead of meeting flesh, my knuckles slammed into the earth. The impact sent a shockwave through the arena floor, a sharp crack echoing through the space as the ground beneath me fractured. The missed strike left a bitter sting in my chest, a physical reminder of my error.
I clenched my teeth, fury building inside me. I couldn’t afford any more mistakes, but before I could even process my next move, my opponent was already moving again. He had barely hit the ground when he started to rise, his robes swirling around him like a dark cloud. I lunged forward, desperate to keep him from disappearing again, my fingers curling around the fabric of his cloak.
I dug my fingers in, letting out a low growl as I planted my feet and hauled him upward. His body lifted off the ground, and I could feel the weight of him in my grip. My muscles strained with the effort, every ounce of my strength focused on the task of slamming him back into the dirt.
But in a split second, everything changed. He twisted in midair, his body contorting with an agility that caught me off guard. With a brutal torque, he latched onto my arms and used the momentum of his spin to flip me over. The world turned upside down as I was wrenched off my feet, hurtling through the air like a ragdoll.
The arena walls rushed toward me, the unforgiving stone looming larger by the second. My back slammed into the far end of the cage with bone-rattling force. Pain exploded through my body as rubble scattered in all directions. For a moment, the impact left me breathless, the world around me reduced to a blur of pain and noise.
I struggled to get to my feet, my limbs heavy and uncooperative, but before I could fully rise, my opponent was on me again. His fists struck like lightning, each blow faster and more precise than the last. One punch cracked into my ribs, the pain sharp and immediate, while another snapped my head to the side. I could taste blood in my mouth, the metallic tang mixing with the dust from the shattered arena floor.
I gritted my teeth, refusing to go down without a fight. Each strike fueled my determination. I rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding another devastating hit, and launched myself off the ground in one swift motion. The sudden movement gave me a moment’s respite as I thrust into the air, scanning the arena from above.
My eyes narrowed as I searched for him, desperate to find some opening, some weakness. He was too fast, his movements too fluid, and I knew I couldn't drag this fight out any longer. Power surged through my arms, heat building as I prepared for my next attack. This time, I would strike before he had a chance to react.
But before I could act, the air around me shifted.
"Shit."
I barely had time to register the crushing force before it slammed into my back, driving me down toward the earth with terrifying speed. I twisted my neck, catching a glimpse of him as he loomed above me. His black cloak billowed out like the wings of a predator, and his masked face, beak-like and unnerving, was the last thing I saw before the ground rose up to meet me.
With a deafening crash, I hit the earth. Pain radiated through my entire body, every bone rattling from the impact. My vision flickered in and out as I lay there, gasping for breath. The taste of blood filled my mouth again, this time more pronounced.
But my opponent wasn’t finished.
He seized my head with both hands, the rough fabric of his gloves pressing into my scalp. Then, with brutal efficiency, he slammed my face into the broken ground—once, twice, three times. Each impact sent a fresh wave of agony through me, my vision blurring further until the world around me dissolved into darkness.
A horn blared out in the distance, cutting through the haze of pain, signaling the end of the fight. I could barely make sense of the noise, but through the fog of my fading consciousness, I heard the steady beat of my heart.
Against all odds, I was still alive.
As darkness closed in around me, one thought crept into my mind: despite everything, maybe people had been more encouraging than I realized. Maybe.