The house of Red, the infamous Arena was a building most people walked past without a second glance—a dilapidated structure tucked away in a forgotten alley.
It looked just like another rundown building in the wrong part of town. But Raphael knew better. Beneath its old exterior was something far more sinister—a gateway to the underground, where rules no longer applied, and survival was the only currency.
Raphael slipped into the alley. The narrow passage was barely wide enough for him to squeeze through, He approached a rusted iron door, hidden behind a stack of abandoned crates.
He tapped his knuckles against the door in a specific rhythm—two quick knocks, followed by a pause, then three more. A heavy silence followed, and for a moment, Raphael wondered if he had gotten it wrong. Then, with a metallic screech, the door slid open just enough for a pair of eyes to peer out.
"Password?" The voice asked
Raphael made sure his face was completely by the mask. "No Gods, No Kings," he whispered.
The eyes stared at him for a moment longer before the door swung open with a groan. Beyond it lay a narrow stairwell, descending deep into the earth, lit only by dim red lights that flickered endlessly. The temperature dropped instantly as Raphael stepped inside, the door slamming shut behind him, cutting off any trace of the outside world.
The stairwell seemed endless, spiraling downward into the belly of the city. Each step echoed in the confined space, and the walls felt like they were closing in on him the further he went. He had been here before. He knew what awaited him at the bottom.
At last, the House of Red's true form was seen . It was a massive underground arena, carved out of stone and reinforced with iron beams. The floor was covered in sand, stained with the blood of countless fighters. Around the perimeter, men and women from all walks of life gathered—businessmen in expensive suits, street thugs, and mercenaries alike—united by one thing: their hunger for violence.
In the center of the room was the cage, a rusted, monstrous steel structure. Inside, two fighters were already engaged in a brutal bout, their bodies crashing against the cage as the crowd roared in approval. The sound was deafening, a mix of cheers, curses, and the sickening thud of fists on flesh.
This was the house of Red—the place where dreams came to die, and legends were born. Here, no one cared about lineage or martial forms. The only thing that mattered was whether you could survive. And tonight, Raphael was ready to prove that he could do more than survive.
Raphael's masked face turned toward the cage. He didn't want to draw attention, but it was hard to avoid the curious glances from some of the high-rollers seated around him. This section was meant for the wealthy, the powerful, the ones who ran the underground fights from the shadows. Raphael had no business being there, but his desire to observe, to study the competition, kept him in place. He knew he couldn't stay long.
As if to confirm his suspicions, a man wearing a tattered worker's uniform approached him. His rough face twisted with irritation as he glanced at Raphael, clearly out of place.
"Hey, you," the worker grumbled. "Fighters ain't allowed up here. What the hell are you doing in the VIP section?" He glanced around, lowering his voice further. "If you came to fight, you're in the wrong place. The Fighters' waiting room is that way. Get moving before you get yourself thrown out."
He didn't want trouble before his fight, but he also couldn't afford to leave without seeing the competition. Still, the worker wasn't finished.
"Who the hell brought you up here anyway?" the man continued, shaking his head. "These idiots are gonna get me in trouble. You don't belong up here."
Just as Raphael opened his mouth to respond, ready to quietly excuse himself, a commanding voice was heard
"Leave him."
Both Raphael and the worker turned toward the source of the voice. An elderly man in a sharp, tailored suit sat a few rows back, his green hair slicked back. His presence alone seemed to radiate authority, and the worker's demeanor shifted instantly.
"Sir?" the worker stammered.
"I said, leave him," the old man repeated, his voice calm but laced with an unspoken warning. He looked directly at Raphael, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "He's with me."
Raphael was momentarily stunned by the lie. The worker swallowed, clearly nervous about challenging someone of the elder's stature
"My apologies, sir. I didn't realize…" the worker mumbled, bowing his head slightly before scurrying off, disappearing into the sea of spectators.
Raphael stood frozen for a moment, unsure of what to say. The old man leaned back in his seat, adjusting his cufflinks as if nothing had happened. Then, with a slight nod, he beckoned Raphael closer.
"You're welcome," the man said casually, his voice carrying just enough for Raphael to hear over the crowd. "Now, why don't you sit with me for a while? You're clearly not here just to watch."
Raphael hesitated, he wasn't sure who this man was or why he had intervened, but he could tell that the man was a big deal around here and he couldn't afford to anger a potentially important figure in a place like this. With a deep breath he stepped forward and sat in the seat next to the elder.
For a few minutes, they watched the fight in silence, the roar of the crowd drowning out any immediate need for conversation. Eventually, the older man spoke up. "That's quite the mask you've got there," he said. "Not many people around here wear one, no matter how big they are outside these walls."
He gestured subtly to the crowd, pointing out that none of the spectators—no matter their status—hid behind masks. The implication was clear: anonymity wasn't something the underground fighting world welcomed, and it made Raphael stand out in a way that could be dangerous.
Raphael didn't respond. His mind raced, calculating, a way to defuse the situation. If people found out who he really was, or if he offended the wrong person here, it wouldn't just be him paying the price. His family, vulnerable as they were, would be at risk. For the powerful people here, eliminating threats was as effortless as swatting a fly.
Noticing the tension in Raphael's posture, the man chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Relax, kid," he said, a wry smile on his face. "You're not the first to come here thinking you need to hide."
Raphael remained silent But the man didn't seem to mind. Instead, he sighed and glanced at the ring below. "You know, I've got a bit of a problem myself," he continued, his voice dropping into a confessional tone. "Gambling. Can't seem to stop. Lost more money than I care to admit, but I keep coming back." He gestured toward the fighters below. "Take tonight, for instance. I've got a million riding on one of those guys down there"
Raphael blinked, his gaze shifting to the fighters the man had pointed out. The man smirked and leaned in closer. "Tell you what—let's have a little wager of our own. You pick which one's going to win this fight. If you're right, I'll make sure no one bothers you about the mask. But if you're wrong..." He paused for dramatic effect. "You take it off right here. Deal?"
Raphael's heart pounded in his chest. He turned his focus to the cage below, where the two fighters circled each other like predators.
The one in red shorts, looked like the obvious choice at first glance. He had the build of a powerhouse—broad shoulders, thick legs, and arms that looked like they could break through walls. His movements were sharp and controlled, each strike heavy with intent. He was a classic bruiser, built for brute force and endurance. He'd already bloodied his opponent's nose and forced him on the defensive, driving him back with punishing blows.
The other fighter, dressed in blue, was leaner, quicker, but he looked like he was struggling to keep up. His strikes were more precise, but they lacked the raw power of his opponent. His breathing was shallow, and the sweat pouring down his face made it clear he was tiring. The crowd favored the man in red, the obvious victor, and the odds were clearly stacked against the guy in blue.
But Raphael didn't just look at the surface.
As he analyzed the two fighters, he began to notice something. The man in red was overcommitting. His strikes, while powerful, were sloppy with fatigue, and his footwork had grown lazy. He was throwing everything he had into each punch, hoping to end the fight quickly. But he was running out of gas. The man in blue, on the other hand, was conserving his energy, letting the other guy tire himself out. And despite his outward appearance, his stance remained tight, his movements calculated. He was waiting.
Raphael's eyes narrowed. The tide of the fight was about to shift.
Finally, Raphael turned to the man beside him. "Which fighter did you bet on? " he asked
The man grinned. "The one in red. He's a beast, right?"
Raphael gave a small nod, then turned his attention back to the ring. "You're about to lose a million Bucks."
The man raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by Raphael's words
Before The man could respond, the fight took a dramatic turn. The man in red, overextended on a wild punch, left himself wide open. The fighter in blue seized the moment, ducking under the swing and delivering a devastating elbow to his opponent's jaw. The crack echoed through the arena, and the red-clad fighter staggered.
Raphael didn't need to see the rest. The man in red crumpled to the mat seconds later, the referee rushing in to stop the fight as the crowd erupted in shocked gasps.
The man beside Raphael sat in stunned silence for a moment. "Well, I'll be damned," he muttered under his breath, clearly not believing what had just happened. He turned to Raphael with an incredulous smile. "I guess you get to keep that mask after all."
Raphael thanked the man and stood up, ready to leave. The man, still reeling from his unexpected loss, glanced at him curiously. "Leaving already? " he asked.
Without turning back, Raphael replied, "I'm fighting next."
The man blinked in surprise, processing the statement. Raphael began to walk away but not long after he paused. Slowly, he turned his head over his shoulder, his dark mask hiding any hint of emotion. "If you want to make your money back," Raphael said in a calm voice, "stake everything on me."
The man stared at him for a moment, unsure whether to take the young fighter seriously or not. But there was something about Raphael—something in the way he carried himself.
As Raphael walked away toward the waiting room, the man couldn't help but smile to himself. "That kid..." he muttered, his hand already reaching for his phone to place a new bet.