The underground fight circuit isn't just a hidden corner of society—it's an empire built on sweat, blood, and the greed of men who profit from pain. Beneath the city's surface, in basements, abandoned factories, and forgotten warehouses, the circuit thrives. It operates without mercy and without oversight, a lawless arena where power and survival are all that matter.
Unlike the glamour of professional arenas, the underground circuit is raw and unforgiving. Fighters aren't polished athletes—they're survivors. Ex-soldiers, disgraced professionals, debtors, and desperate dreamers all clash under the dim glow of flickering lights. But here, brute strength isn't enough. It takes cunning, resilience, and a willingness to endure punishment to earn a place in this brutal hierarchy.
The circuit is divided into tiers, controlled by ruthless promoters like Marco DeLuca. Marco is one of many, but his reputation as a kingmaker precedes him. His events are the most profitable, attracting both the city's wealthiest elite and its most downtrodden gamblers. In Marco's world, every fight is a spectacle, and every fighter is a pawn in his game of high-stakes profit.
1. The Recruitment: Fighters are drawn from the fringes of society—men and women with nowhere else to turn. To enter, they must pass a brutal "entry bout," proving they have enough grit to survive. Winning a fight doesn't guarantee respect, but it buys a temporary seat at the table.
2. The Tiers: The circuit operates like a pyramid. At the bottom are rookies, scrapping for recognition and survival. Above them are the veterans, seasoned fighters who've climbed through sheer willpower. At the second top are the champions, feared and revered, and the highest rank in the underground circuit, the legend ranked fighters, nobody has the guts to even talk back to them, earning the largest cuts of the bets and the attention of influential patrons.
3. The Betting System: The heart of the circuit isn't just the fights—it's the money they generate. Every bout is a gamble, and the odds are manipulated by the promoters to maximize profit. The wealthiest spectators have the power to influence matchups, stacking the deck to ensure a spectacle.
4. The Code: Despite its lawlessness, the circuit has rules:
· No weapons in the ring. Only fists, feet, and strategy.
· Referees exist, but their job isn't to ensure safety—it's to declare a winner.
· Fighters must sign a blood contract before entering a match. No withdrawals, no excuses.
Each fight draws a crowd as varied as the fighters themselves. The outer edges of the ring are filled with the rowdiest spectators: working-class gamblers clutching crumpled bills and shouting at the fighters. Further back are the shadowed figures of wealthy patrons, sipping expensive whiskey as they make discreet bets through middlemen.
For the spectators, the fights are entertainment. For the fighters, they're a lifeline.
For most fighters, the circuit isn't a choice—it's a last resort. They fight to pay off debts, escape their pasts, or carve out a shred of dignity in a world that's stripped them bare. But the circuit takes more than it gives. For every fighter who rises to fame, a dozen are broken—physically, mentally, or both.
There's no glory in losing, and even victory comes at a cost. Fighters earn a percentage of the bets placed on their matches, but the lion's share goes to the promoters. Injuries are common, and medical care is a luxury few can afford.
And yet, for all its brutality, the circuit offers something no other place does: a chance.
In the underground circuit, the weak are devoured, but the strong can rise. To the desperate, that sliver of hope is worth the risk. But those who step into the ring must accept one truth above all:
Once you fight, you belong to the circuit. And the circuit doesn't forget.
The underground circuit was a cavern of chaos. Packed bodies surrounded a makeshift ring, shouting and jeering as two men battled it out. Blood smeared the canvas under their feet, and the overhead lights flickered with each swing. The smell of sweat, smoke, and stale beer lingered in the humid air.
Ethan Cruz leaned against a rusted steel pillar at the edge of the crowd. His hood was pulled low, hiding his face, but not the bruises he'd collected over his last few fights. His knuckles throbbed under the thin wraps he hadn't bothered to remove after his latest attempt at training.
His eyes weren't on the fighters. They were on Marco DeLuca, the promoter perched on a platform near the ring. Marco was surrounded by his usual entourage—men in cheap suits who liked to look tough but wouldn't last a round in the ring.
Ethan's jaw clenched as the crowd roared. One fighter fell, his head snapping back as he hit the ground. The ref counted him out while the other fighter raised his fists triumphantly. Marco smirked, barely paying attention as cash changed hands around him.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the fight.
Ethan pushed through the crowd, ignoring the elbows and muttered insults that followed him. He reached the edge of the platform, looking up at Marco.
"DeLuca!" His voice cracked slightly, but he forced himself to sound confident. "I need to talk to you."
Marco glanced down, his cigar shifting in his mouth as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Cruz," he drawled. "Didn't expect to see you back here. Thought you'd given up after your last little... disaster."
Ethan ignored the laughter from the nearby suits. "I want another shot," he said. "One fight. Just one."
Marco raised an eyebrow, amused. "You?" He chuckled, leaning back. "Kid, you couldn't beat a fucking punching bag if it fought back. Why would I waste a slot on you?"
"Because I can win," Ethan said, his voice firm. "I just need the chance to prove it."
Marco's smirk widened. "Win? You don't even know what that word means. Face it, Cruz—you're dead weight. Nobody's betting on you, and I'm not running a charity."
The humiliation stung, but Ethan refused to back down. "Please," he said, his hands balling into fists. "I'll do whatever it takes."
Before Marco could respond, another voice cut in.
"He's not wrong, you know."
It was calm but sharp, slicing through the noise of the crowd like a blade. The people nearby turned, their murmurs growing as they spotted the speaker.
A woman stepped forward, her dark jacket blending into the shadows. She was short, with a lean, wiry frame that hinted at hidden power. A baseball cap shaded her face, but her sharp eyes gleamed beneath the brim.
Ethan didn't recognize her at first, but the murmurs around him filled in the gaps.
"That's Sophia Reyes."
"She's a fucking champion ranked. What's she doing here?"
Sophia ignored the whispers, her gaze fixed on Ethan. She tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable.
"Marco's right," she said, her tone casual but cutting. "You're a mess. No technique, no discipline. Just a guy throwing punches and hoping one lands."
Ethan's face burned. He opened his mouth to protest, but she held up a hand.
"But," she continued, her eyes narrowing, "even a mess can be turned into a weapon. If someone knows how to do it."
Marco laughed, shaking his head. "You want to waste your time on this loser, Reyes? Be my guest. But if he bombs his next fight, he's out of my circuit for good."
Sophia didn't look at Marco. Her gaze stayed on Ethan, measuring him.
"Fine," she said finally. "But don't expect me to go easy on you."
Sophia then takes Ethan to her gym,
Her gym was tucked away in a forgotten corner of the city, hidden behind a crumbling warehouse. The sign above the door had long since faded, and the windows were covered with grime.
Inside, the gym was as rough as its exterior. The equipment was old and battered: heavy bags patched with duct tape, a worn-down speed bag hanging lopsidedly, and a rusted pull-up bar in the corner.
Ethan looked around, his skepticism obvious.
"This is it?" he muttered.
Sophia shot him a glare that could have frozen fire. "You're not here to admire the scenery," she said, tossing him a pair of gloves. "Put these on."
Ethan fumbled with the gloves as Sophia walked to the center of the room. She cracked her knuckles, rolling her shoulders as she turned to face him.
"Let's see what you've got," she said.
Ethan hesitated. "You want me to fight you?"
Sophia raised an eyebrow. "Fight? No. Survive? Yes."
She didn't give him a chance to respond.
The first blow came faster than Ethan could react. Sophia's fist slammed into his gut, knocking the wind out of him. He stumbled back, gasping, but she didn't let up. Her movements were precise, relentless. Every time he tried to swing, she sidestepped effortlessly and countered with a jab or a kick that left him sprawling.
By the end of the session, Ethan was on his knees, drenched in sweat and struggling to breathe.
"You're reckless," Sophia said, pacing around him. "You fight like a man who's already lost. That's why you keep losing."
Ethan glared up at her, his pride stinging more than his bruises. "You don't know what I've been through."
Sophia stopped, her expression unreadable. "I don't need to," she said. "The ring doesn't care about your sob story. It only cares if you can win."
After the brutal sparring session, Sophia leaned against the wall, watching as Ethan struggled to wrap his mind around what had just happened.
"Do you even know who I am?" she asked suddenly.
Ethan hesitated. "I've heard your name. People said you were... one of the best."
Sophia snorted. "I was the best," she said. "Undefeated. Until I wasn't."
She didn't elaborate, but the bitterness in her tone spoke volumes.
Ethan frowned. "What happened?"
Sophia's eyes darkened. "I got cocky. Thought I was untouchable. But no one stays on top forever. One mistake, and it all came crashing down."
She pushed off the wall, her expression hardening. "I'm not here to tell you my life story, Cruz. I'm here to make sure you don't repeat my mistakes. But if you're not ready to put in the work, don't waste my time."
That night, Ethan lay in his small apartment, staring at the ceiling. His body ached from head to toe, but his mind was sharper than it had been in weeks.
Sophia's words echoed in his head: "The ring doesn't care about your sob story. It only cares if you can win."
For the first time in a long time, he felt something stir inside him—a flicker of hope.
He reached over to the gloves Sophia had given him, running his fingers over the worn leather. Tomorrow, he would prove to her—and himself—that he had what it took, to win.