Chapter One: A Fight, A Struggle, and a Secret
The underground training hall of the Fighting Club echoed with the sounds of fists colliding with flesh, grunts of exertion, and the occasional cheer from the gathered students. Unlike other school activities, the Fighting Club wasn't for everyone—only those willing to trade blows, push their limits, and prove their strength.
At the center of the mat, two figures stood facing each other.
On the left, Quinn wiped the sweat from his brow, rolling his shoulders as he steadied his breath. Across from him, Damien, his closest friend and the club's strongest fighter, cracked his knuckles, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Still standing, huh?" Damien teased.
The instructor, an older Awakened who volunteered to train students, raised a hand. "Final round. Begin!"
Damien moved first, lunging forward with a sharp jab. Quinn ducked, barely avoiding the strike, and retaliated with a swift right hook. Damien blocked, but the force made him slide back.
"Not bad," Damien admitted.
They exchanged blows—jabs, counters, kicks—each attack precise and powerful. Unlike their previous fights, Quinn wasn't completely overwhelmed. He had trained hard and honed his skills, and it showed. He was holding his own.
But Damien was still faster. Still stronger.
A feint. A weight shift. A sudden roundhouse kick.
Crack!
The hit landed against Quinn's ribs, sending him stumbling back. Before he could recover, Damien closed the distance, grabbed him, and with a sharp twist, threw him onto the mat.
Thud!
The instructor raised a hand. "Match over! Winner: Damien."
The small crowd clapped as Damien extended a hand. Quinn exhaled sharply, then took it, pulling himself up.
"You're getting better," Damien admitted. "I almost thought you had me."
Quinn rolled his eyes. "Almost doesn't count."
Damien chuckled, patting his shoulder. "Once I officially become Awaken, we should spar again. I'll be even stronger by then."
That stung more than the kick to the ribs. Quinn clenched his fists but forced a smirk. "Yeah. Lucky you. You'll be fighting possessed, making money, moving up in the world..."
His voice trailed off.
Meanwhile, he'd still be here. Struggling.
Damien's expression softened. "Look, when I make it big, I'll help you. I promise."
Quinn scoffed. "Easy to say."
The instructor called for the next fight, and the two left the mat. As the club session wrapped up, Quinn grabbed his bag and headed for the exit.
He had a shift to get to.
---
The streets of the low level city were a far cry from the bright academy grounds. Here, the sidewalks were cracked, the neon signs flickered, and the air smelled of oil and smoke.
As Quinn walked, he passed bars with loud music, shady shops, and groups of people lingering in alleyways, eyes scanning for opportunities—legal or not.
This was home.
A place where strength ruled. Where power was the only way up.
He stepped over a puddle of something questionable, his breath fogging slightly in the cool evening air. His ribs still ached from the fight, but that was the least of his worries.
His sister was at home, probably counting money to make sure they had enough for next week's food.
That thought pissed him off.
Fifteen minutes later, he reached his workplace—a run-down two-story building nestled between a mechanic's shop and a liquor store. Faded letters on a crooked sign read:
The Black Hounds Union
To outsiders, the Black Hounds were just another private group—a team that fight the possessed, hired to handled protection and combat-related requests. But those who lived in the district knew the truth.
They wanted more.
The city had no A-rank or S-rank Awakened, meaning no official guilds. The Black Hounds wanted to change that. If they could produce an Awakened strong enough, they could register as a guild, dominate the competition, and rise to number one in the city.
But to do that, they needed power.
And tonight, Quinn was about to learn just how far they were willing to go.
The interior of the Black Hounds' base was just as rough as the outside. The walls were cracked, the floorboards creaked, and the dim yellow lights flickered every now and then.
A few members lounged on the couches in the corner, playing cards, while others leaned against the walls, drinking and talking in low voices.
Quinn kept his head down. Cleaning here wasn't the worst job, but it wasn't safe either. He had learned to stay quiet, do his job, and never ask questions.
But that night, something changed.
As he scrubbed the floor near the boss's office, voices leaked through the slightly open door.
"We have it, boss. Just like you ordered."
Quinn slowed his mopping.
A pause. Then a deep, gravelly voice. "You're sure?"
"Yes, sir. The artifact is in our hands."
His breath hitched.
Artifact?
"Hmph." The boss sounded unimpressed. "It's just a wooden box with runes. What makes you think it's valuable?"
"Sir, they say it holds power beyond imagination. Some believe it was created by the gods themselves."
A long silence. Then, the boss spoke again.
"Then find a way to unlock it. And make it fast."
Quinn's grip tightened on the mop handle, his heartbeat hammering in his ears.
A god-made artifact? Power beyond imagination?
For the first time in his life, he saw a way out. A way to change everything.
And he was going to take it.
Quinn forced himself to keep cleaning, keeping his movements slow and steady despite the pounding in his chest. If he reacted—if he looked up or even hesitated too long—someone might notice.
The conversation continued, but he barely heard it over the rush of thoughts flooding his mind.
A god-made artifact. Power beyond imagination.
How much power? Enough to Awaken someone? Enough to turn a nobody into something more?
Enough to change everything?
He finished mopping and quietly left the hallway, moving toward the back exit. He could still hear the Black Hounds talking, but he didn't dare stay longer. If they caught him listening in, his life wouldn't be worth much.
Outside, the night air was cold against his skin. He took a slow breath, forcing his heart to calm.
His mind raced the entire walk home.
Quinn's home was a small, cramped apartment on the fourth floor of a deteriorating building. The stairwell smelled of damp concrete, and the flickering hallway light barely worked.
He unlocked the door carefully, stepping inside.
A single battered couch, a rickety table, and a tiny kitchenette made up most of the space. In the far corner, behind a curtain they used as a makeshift divider, his sister, Emily, lay curled up under a thin blanket, asleep.
He exhaled quietly, setting his bag down before collapsing onto the couch. His ribs ached from the fight earlier, but he barely noticed now.
His mind was elsewhere.
The artifact.
If the Black Hounds figured out how to unlock it, they would keep the power for themselves. And once they had it, they'd control the low district completely. Quinn had seen how they treated people weaker than them.
He couldn't let that happen.
And more importantly—this was his chance.
He needed to steal it.
But how?
The Black Hounds weren't idiots. The artifact was likely locked away, guarded, and maybe even studied by the higher-ups. He'd need a way to get close without drawing suspicion.
He glanced at the old clock on the wall. His next shift was in two days. That gave him time.
Time to plan.
Quinn leaned back, staring at the cracked ceiling above him. His hands curled into fists.
For years, he had struggled. He had fought. And it was never enough.
But this time…
A slow, determined smirk crossed his lips.
This time, he wasn't leaving empty-handed.