The crowd was deafening.
Thousands of voices roared together, fists pumping in the air. Their chants of "Draven!" shook the very walls of the arena.
Under the blinding lights, Draven Faulx stood in the center of the ring. His hands rested lazily at his sides.
Across from him, a mountain of muscle snarled. Sweat dripped from his brow, his fists raised desperately to intimidate the man before him.
But…
It wasn't working.
Draven shook his head and sighed.
'Another one. Just like the last. Big, loud, predictable.'
The bell rang, and the man charged, swinging a forceful blow with enough force to shatter a brick wall.
Draven didn't bother dodging. Instead, he caught the fist mid-swing with one hand, stopping it cold.
The arena fell silent for a heartbeat.
Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, Draven sent the man crashing into the cage wall like a broken doll.
The chain link rattled loudly under the impact.
Draven looked down at his fallen opponent, barely breaking a sweat. Another supposed "unstoppable challenger" reduced to nothing in less than a minute.
He raised his fist out of habit, but there was no triumph in his eyes—only boredom.
'This is pointless.' The fight was over in seconds.
The referee rushed to raise Draven's hand and announced the victory.
After that, Draven headed straight for the locker room.
---
Draven changed his clothes, and let the silence wash over him.
The cheers outside were muffled now, a distant echo of a life that used to thrill him and now suffocating him.
He stared at his reflection in the mirror—dark eyes, short black hair, and a face that looked far older than twenty-seven.
The same face that had been plastered across billboards and screens for years.
The face of a champion.
'Champion of what? Fighting guys who don't stand a chance?' Then he yawns, "What a joke."
The door creaked open, and her manager, Grace, poked his head in.
"Draven, the press is waiting. They want to know how it feels to defend your title again."
"Tell them I feel nothing," Draven said with a fox smile, grabbing his jacket.
Grace frowned. "Come on. Just give them a few words. Play the game just as usual."
Draven lifted her chin. "Just charm them with your beauty, just as you always do to me, Grace."
Before Grace could reply, Draven walked out, leaving her blushing.
"He got me again!" she said with a giggle.
---
The streets were alive with neon lights and the hum of traffic, but Draven barely noticed.
He straddled his sleek black motorcycle. Without a second thought, he twisted the throttle and shot down the road, the wind tearing at his clothes.
For a moment, he felt something close to freedom.
The speed, the danger—this was the only thing that came close to making him feel alive.
He pushed the bike harder, the engine screaming as he weaved through traffic.
As he rode further, he speeded toward the city outskirts where the roads were empty.
The concrete jungle gave way to open fields, then towering trees that loomed over the winding road like guardians. The air was cooler here.
Draven grinned to himself, leaning into the curves of the road.
"Ah. This is what I need."
But the feeling didn't last.
Up ahead, something strange appeared in the middle of the road.
At first, he thought it was a heat mirage, the kind that dances on asphalt under a blazing sun. But as he got closer, he realized it was something else entirely.
A void.
It hovered above the road, a swirling mass of darkness that consumed the light around it.
"What the hell is that?"
The void pulsed, growing larger with every second.
Instinctively, Draven hit the brakes. The tires screeched, the bike skidding on the asphalt as he tried to stop.
But the pull of the void was too strong. The closer he got, the more it dragged at him, like a black hole drawing him in.
He gripped the handlebars tighter. The bike's engine roared, the tires struggling to hold in the ground. But it was no use.
The void's pull intensified, and the place around him seemed to warp and twist.
In a final, desperate move, Draven jumped off the bike. He hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop on the side of the road.
The motorcycle, however, wasn't so lucky. It was dragged into the void, disappearing without a trace.
Draven scrambled to his feet, his heart hammering. The void was still there, swirling and pulsing like a living thing. And it was coming for him.
"Oh, come on!"
He turned to run, but his feet wouldn't move. The pull was too strong.
"Not like this," he growled, planting his feet and bracing himself.
But the void didn't care. It reached out, tendrils of darkness wrapping around him, dragging him toward its center.
As the void swallowed him, Draven felt a strange calm wash over him.
The fear, anger, and boredom faded. In its place, a single, deep voice echoed in his mind.
"Prove yourself, Chosen One. Or die."
Then the world went black.
…
…
…
When Draven opened his eyes, he was no longer on the road.
He stood in a vast, endless expanse of white.
In the distance, a figure approached—an old man looking wise. He had a long silver beard and a staff that seemed more for show than support.
"Welcome, Draven Faulx," the old man said.
Draven narrowed his eyes, his fists instinctively tightening. "Who are you? And where the hell am I?"
"I am Mr. Goodness," the man replied with a smile. "A guide of sorts. As for where you are—let's just say this is the in-between. A place where decisions are made."
Draven scoffed. "Decisions? What kind of decisions? And how do you know my name?"
Mr. Goodness tilted his head, studying Draven like a puzzle.
"Your reputation precedes you, Chosen One. A man bored of his strength, lost in his victories… You've spent your life conquering, yet you've found no purpose in your conquests…"
"That's too deep old man." Draven's lips twisted into a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "You think you know me?"
Mr. Goodness raised a brow, his faint smile unwavering. "Do you know yourself, Draven? Or has your strength blinded you to everything else?"
That was enough for Draven.
In a flash, he lunged forward, his fist flying toward the old man's face. But Mr. Goodness moved like a shadow, sidestepping with ease.
Before Draven could react, the old man's staff hooked around his wrist, twisting him off balance and sending him stumbling back.
"Tsk, tsk," Mr. Goodness said. "Impressive speed, though predictable. You're used to opponents who telegraph their moves."
Draven's grin widened. "As I expected, you're not just an ordinary old man."
Without hesitation, Draven spun low, sweeping his leg in a sharp arc to knock the staff away.
Mr. Goodness shifted, vaulting over Draven with surprising agility, landing lightly behind him before planting the staff again into the ground.
"That's a bad habit Draven, attacking an old man." Mr. Goodness said after a soft chuckle.
Draven twisted on his heel, driving an elbow toward Mr. Goodness's chest. This time, the old man caught his arm mid-strike. The grip was like iron.
For a moment, Draven's confidence wavered as he felt the strength in the old man's grip.
A grip that can crush his bones instantly.
Draven pulled back and created distance. "Who really are you? And why am I here?"