Vale's scarred fingers dug into Rhys's neck, forcing his head down. The grip wasn't gentle—it wasn't meant to be. "See that?" Vale's breath was hot against his ear. "That's where nothing belongs."
Seven levels of combat pits carved through the heart of the Obsidian Vault like a demon's spine. Each ring deadlier than the last, a descent into calculated savagery. But it was the bottom ring F-Tier—that caught Rhys's attention.
No spectacle here. Just a concrete circle stained dark with old blood, chain-link barriers that rattled with every impact, and fluorescent lights that buzzed like angry wasps. The kind of place designed to remind you exactly how worthless you were.
"Now..." Vale twisted Rhys's head upward, muscles straining. "That's what real power looks like."
The contrast hit like a blade between the ribs.
Each ascending tier pulsed with deadly technology, rising to the S-Tier coliseum that crowned the structure. Crystalline arrays generated shimmering containment fields, their patterns hauntingly familiar. The same corrupted geometry that had trapped him, transformed into entertainment.
But it was the spaces between those patterns that made something stir in the back of his mind. A distant howl, growing clearer with each pulse of the crystals.
Vale shoved him away. "Rich bastards pay thousands to watch A and S-Tier fights." He spat on the observation window, the glob sliding down like tears. "Us? We're just the warmup act. Something to laugh at while they wait for the real show."
Through thick glass, Rhys studied the elite in their private boxes. Federation officials with tailored suits worth more than an F-Tier fighter's life. Corporate executives whose augmentations glowed beneath designer skin. Even Guild representatives, trying to appear discrete while they watched contained fusion users battle.
All of them looking down. Always down.
Perfect, the Wolf's voice whispered, closer now than it had been in weeks.
The speaker crackled: "Prisoner 3479, report for processing. First bout in fifteen minutes."
Vale's hand clamped down on his shoulder, fingers finding pressure points with practiced ease. "Time to show everyone what a fusion reject can do." His grin was all predator. "Don't worry—I'll make it educational."
The processing room reeked of blood and cheap antiseptic, a combination that made Rhys's stomach turn. Not from fear. From memory. A bored medic checked his vitals while a guard tapped data into a tablet.
"F-Block standard rules." The guard's voice was as dead as his eyes. "No weapons. No serious maiming. Fight ends at surrender or unconsciousness. Medical modification is prohibited for F-Tier matches." He glanced up. "Try not to die. Paperwork's a hassle."
They stripped him with mechanical efficiency, scanners humming as they searched for hidden advantages. The arena gear they provided was basic: loose pants, no shirt, hands wrapped in tape that had seen better days. His holding cell was barely large enough to pace in, its bars offering a clear view of other F-Block fighters preparing.
Some shadowboxed, muscles rippling under prison ink. Others prayed to gods that had abandoned them long ago. Most bore the marks of previous bouts—fresh bruises, old scars, spirits crushed by endless fights for others' entertainment.
But Rhys's attention kept drifting upward, mapping the crystal arrays that grew more sophisticated with each tier. Not just in the S-Tier arena, but throughout the entire structure. Remnants of ancient technology, repurposed and corrupted.
They don't even understand what they've built their bloodsport upon.
"Two minutes to first bout," the speaker announced. "Vale versus 3479."
In the opposite cell, Vale rolled his massive shoulders. Prison fights had sculpted his frame into a weapon, each scar a testament to survival. He caught Rhys staring and mimed slitting a throat, taking pleasure in the way his opponent flinched.
Rhys looked down at his own body—lean, unmarked save for the dead fusion scars, appearing weak next to Vale's bulk. The perfect canvas for what was to come.
"Thirty seconds."
Guards approached with stun batons crackling blue death. Vale bounced on his toes, radiating eager violence. Other F-Block inmates pressed against their cell bars, hungry for the show.
Rhys closed his eyes. Breathed deep. When he opened them again, something had shifted in his expression. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But it made the nearest guard take half a step back before he could catch himself.
"Release and escort," the speaker commanded. Cell doors slid open with pneumatic hisses that echoed like sighs.
Vale emerged like a caged beast finally freed, playing to the scattered F-Tier audience. Rhys shuffled out hesitantly, shoulders hunched, eyes darting everywhere and nowhere. One guard muttered "fusion burnout" to another. The words carried just far enough.
Yes. Watch nothing. Fear nothing.
The walk to the arena floor was a performance in calculated weakness. Vale strutted, claiming his territory. Rhys stumbled twice, each movement a study in barely contained anxiety. By the time they reached the fighting circle, whispers had already started in the cheapest viewing section.
"Face your opponent," the arena official ordered from behind his protective barrier. Vale turned with practiced intimidation, a predator sizing up prey. Rhys twitched, his gaze skittering past Vale to fix on something no one else could see.
"Ready positions."
Vale dropped into a fighter's stance, hands raised with brutal efficiency. Rhys hugged himself, rocking slightly.
In the premium boxes far above, a few elite viewers glanced down between A-Tier bouts, their expressions mixing amusement and disdain at the primitive spectacle below. One Guild representative made a note on his tablet without really watching.
Perfect.
"Begin!"
Vale charged like a bull, looking to end it quick. Rhys's eyes widened with genuine fear as he scrambled backwards. His foot caught on nothing and he sprawled gracelessly.
The audience laughed.
But in that fall, his fingers traced patterns against the concrete. Patterns that matched the pulse of crystals far above. The first threads of a web only he could see.
Rolling away from Vale's stomp, Rhys pushed himself up with frantic energy. His movements were pure panic, no trace of his Hunter training visible. When Vale's massive fist clipped his shoulder, he spun completely around before stumbling into the chain-link barrier.
"Stop embarrassing yourself," Vale growled, advancing with cruel confidence. "At least try to fight back."
Rhys pressed against the barrier, trembling. His eyes locked on something above Vale's head, seeing patterns in the arena architecture that no one else noticed. A bubble of laughter escaped him—high, broken, and deeply unsettling.
Vale hesitated for just a fraction of a second.
The punch that followed was clumsy but lucky, catching Vale's nose with enough force to snap his head back. Blood sprayed across Rhys's chest. The audience's laughter died.
Vale roared and grabbed him by the throat, lifting him off his feet. "You little—"
Another laugh burst from Rhys's compressed throat, even more unhinged than the first. His legs kicked uselessly as Vale squeezed. But his eyes... his eyes had fixed on the crystal arrays far above, and for just a moment, they held something that made Vale's grip loosen slightly.
The moment passed. Vale slammed him down onto the concrete. Once. Twice. Three times until Rhys stopped moving.
"Winner: Vale," the official announced as medics rushed in. "Time: two minutes, seventeen seconds."
Vale stood over his fallen opponent, breathing hard. He spat blood, then turned to acknowledge the smattering of applause from the F-Tier audience.
But something made him look back.
Rhys lay crumpled on the concrete, blood trickling from his split lip. But he was smiling—a small, secret expression meant for no one. Above him, the crystal arrays in the S-Tier arena pulsed with power as fusion users clashed. Patterns of light rippled through the structure, following channels built into the Vault's very bones.
Channels that, just for a moment, seemed to ripple in time with Rhys's broken laughter.
The Wolf's distant howl grew stronger.
The show had begun. And in the spaces between certainties, in the cracks where power thought itself absolute, something stirred. Something that remembered what it was to be a Hunter. Something that knew the truth about nothing.
After all, the most dangerous prey is the one you think you've already killed.