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Chapter 13 - Chapter 13: The Shifting Reality

The cold night air bit at his skin as the protagonist stepped out of the underground arena, his muscles sore and his mind a chaotic swirl of confusion. The overwhelming weight of what had just happened was still sinking in. The fight. The crowd. Min Jun. The brutal, raw combat. It all felt like a fever dream, an echo of something unreal that he couldn't quite wrap his head around.

He didn't even know how he'd ended up here, let alone why he was still standing. The underground arena had felt like a place where rules didn't exist, where the only truth was survival. And yet, there was more to it than that—something beneath the surface, something that didn't quite match up with what he knew about the world.

As he walked down the dark, cracked alley, the dull throb of his body's injuries reminded him that he'd survived by sheer instinct, by adapting in the heat of the moment. He should have been dead. But he wasn't. And that left him with only one question: Why?

His breath came out in clouds as the night deepened around him. The city's low hum was the only sound he could hear now, but it felt distant, like a soundtrack to a reality that didn't belong to him. His thoughts drifted back to the fight—how Min Jun had looked at him after the blow, that predatory grin stretching across his face.

What was that grin about?

The sudden shift in Min Jun's demeanor unsettled him. It wasn't just about the fight anymore. It wasn't just about who won or lost. There was something deeper, something about the way Min Jun reacted—something that didn't sit right. And the crowd's response? They'd been like wolves, craving blood, but it felt... orchestrated. Like they'd been waiting for something, a shift that was about to come.

No. This isn't just a fight club. It's a game.

As the protagonist walked, he tried to make sense of his surroundings. The city looked familiar in some ways—streets he recognized, neon signs flickering in the distance—but something about it felt off. The buildings were older, more worn, as if they had seen more years than they should have. The streets were dimmer, the air heavier.

Was it possible he'd been knocked out? Maybe it was some kind of dream or illusion? A part of him wanted to believe that, but the pain in his body, the blood caked on his skin, told him otherwise. This wasn't some fantasy. He had been in the arena. He had fought—and he had won. Barely.

He stopped at a street corner, his mind racing through every possibility. The world around him seemed to pulse, as if it was alive, and that unsettling feeling clawed at the back of his neck.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. The screen flashed to life, and he froze.

Unknown caller.

The hairs on his neck stood on end. Who could be calling him now? He almost didn't want to answer, but something urged him to. Maybe it was just the need for some connection, something familiar. Maybe it was a way to bring order to the chaos swirling in his mind.

He answered.

"Hello?"

A low, distorted voice came through the speaker, crackling as if it had been altered or warped. "You've made it. Barely."

The words sent a shock through his system, his heart racing as he took a step back. The voice was calm, unnervingly so. Too calm for someone who was on the other side of the phone, hidden in the shadows.

"Who is this?" he demanded, his voice trembling slightly. His instincts told him this wasn't a coincidence. It was connected to what was happening, to everything that had led him here.

"You'll learn soon enough," the voice replied. "But don't think for a second that this is over. The arena was just the beginning. Things are... changing."

His mind reeled, but before he could respond, the line went dead.

The beginning?

His grip on the phone tightened, his knuckles white. The words were simple, but they echoed in his mind with terrifying implications. This wasn't just some underground fight club. This was something bigger, something deeper. And now, he was part of it—whether he liked it or not.

Before he could process what had just happened, a figure emerged from the shadows ahead of him. The silhouette was tall, its form imposing as it stepped forward, and the familiar glow of streetlights caught the edge of a jagged blade.

Not again.

The figure didn't speak, but their presence was enough to send a surge of adrenaline through his veins. He didn't have time to think—his body was already moving. He ducked, narrowly avoiding the swing of the blade, the cold steel slicing through the air inches from his neck.

The fight, it seemed, was far from over.

The moment stretched, his thoughts rushing through his mind faster than his body could react. He couldn't let this go on. Not like this. His survival instincts kicked in, and his hand found the closest object—a broken piece of a nearby crate—and in one fluid motion, he swung it at the attacker. The blow caught the figure off guard, knocking the weapon from their hand and sending them stumbling back.

His pulse was pounding in his ears, and his chest heaved as he took a step back, eyes scanning the figure before him. Whoever they were, they were not done. Not by a long shot.

"Who are you?" he demanded, his voice hoarse, demanding an answer.

The figure slowly straightened, their eyes gleaming under the dim streetlight. The silence between them was heavy, charged with a threat that hung in the air like a blade, poised to strike.

"We'll see if you're truly ready for what's coming," the figure said, their voice low, almost taunting. "You've made your first mark. But you'll need more than a lucky punch to survive what's next."

The words hit like a hammer, and as the figure turned and disappeared into the shadows, the protagonist stood there, heart racing, feeling the weight of those words settle over him.

This wasn't just a game. It was a war. And he had just stepped into the arena.