The underground arena was quieter than normal. The crowd wasn't cheering. They weren't jeering either. Instead, they waited and watched.
They all knew who was the champion.
The man who faced Asher was at least twice his size. Thick muscles coiled around his frame like steel cables, and scar tissue peppered his skin from previous fights. He was built like a fortress. His knuckles were calloused, his posture casual — like someone who'd fought a hundred times and never lost.
But it was not his physique that caught Asher's eye. It was the faint glimmer of a sigil on his neck.
This was no mere fighter.
He was an Awakened.
The tournament master stepped forward, Grimm. He didn't even have to quiet the crowd — they were already paying attention.
"Kid, I hope you know what you're doing," he added. "This ain't your last fights."
Asher said nothing. He did not take his eyes off his opponent.
The man cracked his knuckles. "You're the little rat that's been darting in and out of my fights, huh? His voice was deep, amused. "I almost feel bad."
"Then don't," Asher replied, calm.
The champion grinned. "Cocky. I like that. But listen, kid, I do not hold back. You sure you wanna do this?"
Asher didn't respond. He simply raised his fists.
The crowd murmured. Some shook their heads. Others grinned, already knowing what was coming.
Grimm exhaled. "Alright. Your funeral." He lifted his hand.
"Begin!"
The champion moved instantly.
It wasn't normal speed — it was something beyond a normal human's reflexes.
The man moved in one step, clenched his fist and threw it forward like a cannonball.
Asher hardly had time to dodge. He turned his body, allowing the punch to graze his shoulder instead of absorbing it full force. Yet the raw force of the impact blasted dust off the cage floor.
That's would have laid out if it hit him clean.
No—he would have died.
The champion wasn't about to give him a chance to shake off the effects. He stepped out again, body fleet and precise, menacing, overwhelming.
A jab. A hook. A low kick.
Asher ducked, parried and danced, but he was merely postponing the inevitable. He was too slow. His body was too weak.
The crowd could see it too.
"It's over."
"The kid's dead."
"Shame. Thought he had something."
Asher clenched his jaw.
His body was outmatched. His opponent had better reflexes, stronger muscles and supernatural stamina.
But Asher wasn't after brute force.
He was looking for a pattern.
His opponent's moves were efficient but predictable. Each assault a familiar rhythm. An opening. A split-second when his feet moved a millimeter an inch too wide.
It wasn't much. But it was enough.
The champ had swung again — a right hook. Predictable. Asher distracted it as if he couldn't duck in time.
The champ smiled wide, swinging at full strength.
Asher dropped low at the last second.
The great fist sailed above his head.
And that was all he needed.
Asher leaned all the way in, turning his entire body into a single, targeted thrust.
His fist slammed squarely into the champion's open ribs.
A clean, perfect hit.
The crowd gasped. The champion tripped for a final time.
Pain flashed across his face. He lurched backward, one hand pressed against his ribs. He appeared genuinely struck for the first time since the fight started.
"You little—"
He lunged forward again; this time Asher was prepared.
He wasn't just dodging now. He was countering.
A step off that leads to a palm strike. A duck into a knee to the gut. One to a sharp elbow into the jaw.
The champion grunted in pain.
It was working. But it wasn't enough.
His opponent was still quicker, still stronger, still grittier.
And Asher's body was beginning to malfunction.
His vision blurred. He was breathing too superficially. He burned with every muscle in his body.
His mind screamed at him.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough.
He clenched his fists.
He had been powerful once. A feared sorcerer across the dungeons of Eldoria. He had encountered gods, monsters and abyssal horrors.
He would not lose to a brute.
His heart thudded inside his chest.
Now, for just a second, it sparked something in him.
A memory. A feeling.
Power.
The mana core presumed lifeless within him pulsed.
The champion lunged — another punishing blow, meant to finish.
Asher's body acted on reflex.
He wasn't thinking anymore.
He saw it.
A vision, a piece of his former self, a motion, a technique, a spell made of pure combat."
Not magic. Something new.
His foot turned, his body kinking at an impossible angle, sliding like water, but hitting like steel. His fist lunged at them, cloaked in the barest glimmer of power.
He struck.
A single, vicious shot to the champion's solar plexus.
The brute's eyes widened.
His body froze.
There was a full second of silence throughout the entire underground arena.
Then, with a resounding crash, the champion fell.
The crowd was stunned. No one spoke. No one even breathed.
Then, slowly, a murmur ran through the chamber.
"Did he just—?"
"The champion is down…"
"That kid just took down a damned Awakened—
The silence shattered.
There was carnage in the underground pit.
Some cheered. Some screamed. Some started to place frantic bets on whether Asher would make it through the night.
But Asher didn't care.
His vision swam. He had a hard time getting his breath. His entire body seemed to be coming apart at the seams.
But below the exhaustion, below the pain …
He felt something else.
Something awakening.
Not quite mana. Not exactly like this world Awakening System.
Something entirely new.
Grimm stepped closer, gazing at him with unmasked curiosity.
"You do spring some surprises, kid," he muttered. "Guess I have no choice now."
He threw an iron-like card to the ground infront of Asher.
A Hunter's registration pass.
"As promised," Grimm said. "You're in."
With shaking hands, Asher grabbed the card.
His initial intrusion into the system of this world.
And the start of something much bigger.