The three of them, once again cloaked in their now-familiar anonymous black robes and simple masks, located the establishment Seraphina had spoken of. The sign above the rather unassuming, slightly grimy shopfront read, in bold, unapologetic letters: The Gauntlet.
Ethan Atherton rested his chin on his hand, looking at the surprisingly public entrance with a thoughtful frown. "Can this… this kind of illicit place still be so open and aboveboard in its advertising?"
Marcus, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. "What else would you expect, Ethan? People open these places to make money. If it's too hidden and potential customers can't even find it, how can they possibly make any profit?"
Ethan conceded with a nod. "Makes sense when you put it that way. I actually can't refute that logic."
Seraphina, adjusting her own mask, added, "It's probably best if we all come up with a codename, a fighting alias, to use when we register and fight here. After all, most of the people who frequent this place are ruthless, desperate individuals. If your real identity is discovered, especially if you start winning and accumulating resources, you might find yourself in a lot of serious trouble outside the ring."
Marcus grinned, puffing out his chest. "I've already thought of mine! It's perfect! My codename will be… Muscle Man!"
Ethan groaned. "Seriously, Marcus? Can't you pick something just a little bit more cultured, or at least less… on the nose?"
Marcus flexed impressively under his robe. "Nope! I think this one suits me very well. It's direct, it's honest, it's me!"
Ethan sighed. "Alright, man, as long as you're happy with it. Seraphina, have you thought of yours yet?"
Seraphina nodded, a small, almost shy smile playing on her lips, though it was hidden by her mask. "Of course. I actually thought of it on the way here. My codename will be Violet."
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Violet, huh? As in the flower? Symbolizing eternal beauty, that sort of thing? I didn't realize you were so deeply into traditional floral symbolism and aesthetics, Seraphina."
Seraphina's face, Ethan imagined, turned slightly red under her mask. "W-what's wrong with a girl liking beauty a little? It's a perfectly respectable flower. And what codename are you planning to use, Mr. Critic?"
Ethan grinned. "Mine… I think I'll be Kid Hacker." He tapped the side of his head. "Because you'll never know what form I'll transform into next, and you'll never know who, or what, I'll be in the next moment. Constantly switching it up, like hacking the system."
Marcus chuckled. "Heh, pretty fitting for you, actually, Ethan. Well then, no more delays! Let's hurry up and get inside." He, with his usual boisterous energy, directly took the lead and walked towards the entrance. Ethan and Seraphina followed closely behind.
As they walked, Ethan leaned towards Seraphina and whispered, "Eternal beauty and love, eh? I have to say, Seraphina, this sudden, almost public display of affection via codename choice almost choked me to death with secondhand sweetness."
Seraphina's masked face, he was sure, flushed an even deeper shade of red. "What on earth are you talking about, you idiot! I just happen to like the flower! It has absolutely nothing to do with him," she hissed, subtly gesturing towards Marcus's oblivious back.
Ethan just grinned innocently. "Oh? I didn't say it had anything to do with him either. Just an observation about flowers."
Seraphina sputtered, "You… You're impossible!"
Marcus, hearing their hushed argument, called back over his shoulder, "What are you two muttering about back there? Arguing already? Hurry up, let's go!"
"Coming!" they both called out, quickly catching up.
After entering the unassuming storefront, they still needed to descend a long, dimly lit flight of stairs that spiraled deep underground. Opening a heavy, soundproofed steel door at the bottom, a wave of immense, almost physical noise rushed out to meet them – the roar of a crowd, the clash of impacts, the thumping bass of some aggressive music. One couldn't help but marvel at just how good the soundproofing of that large steel door actually was, to contain such a cacophony. The three of them, blinking in the sudden assault of noise and dim, smoky light, arrived at a reinforced counter to register.
The person responsible for reception there was an extremely coolly dressed, surprisingly beautiful woman with sharp eyes and an even sharper haircut. She regarded them with an air of bored professionalism. "Welcome, esteemed guests, to the ring of reckoning. Please pay a non-refundable deposit of 50,000 credits each, for… insurance and administrative fees. And then, state your respective codenames for the roster."
The three of them handed over the money. Ethan, not having that much liquid cash on him after their recent expenditures, found Marcus readily lending him the required amount with a grin.
Ethan spoke first, his voice slightly distorted by his mask's modulator. "Kid Hacker."
Marcus, puffing his chest again, declared proudly, "Muscle Man! Still Muscle Man, and always will be Muscle Man!"
Seraphina, her voice a soft, modulated tone, simply said, "Violet."
Even after hearing two such… unique and somewhat strange codenames, the receptionist's expression didn't change in the slightest. She was clearly used to all sorts. Instead, she calmly used a small, integrated computer terminal to record their details. "Okay, registration processed. Could the esteemed guests please place your dominant hands on the bio-scanner instrument next to you? We need to accurately check your precise psionic ranks so that we can arrange suitably fair opponents for you in your matches."
The three of them tested their ranks one by one. All were confirmed as Rank One, Level Six. Among them, Ethan had, of course, just broken through to this level, Seraphina had evidently broken through some time ago during her own private Aura channeling, and Marcus was already some significant distance into solidifying his Level Six power.
The receptionist nodded. "Alright, esteemed guests, your ranks are confirmed. We will arrange opponents of similar rank for you, typically fighters between Rank One, Level Four and Rank One, Level Six. However, due to privacy regulations and the nature of this establishment, we have no way to confirm your respective psionic types or specific abilities beforehand. If you, who might be support-types or less combat-oriented psionicists, are unfortunately matched against dedicated combat-types, you might… find yourselves at a disadvantage and lose the match." There was one more crucial thing she didn't explicitly say, but her cool, appraising gaze implied it: if a support-type or an unprepared fighter was matched against a brutal combat-type, they were very, very likely to die.
Ethan nodded gravely. "We understand the risks, thank you for the information."
The receptionist gave a curt nod. "Okay, these are your three fighter ID cards. After any match, if you win, you can rely on these cards to claim your prize money from the cashier. Do you need me to register the three of you as an affiliated group? This way, when matching opponents, the system can try to avoid scheduling battles among the three of you, unless specifically requested for a team match or a challenge."
"Yes, please register us as a group," Seraphina confirmed.
After the group registration was completed, they took their new ID cards and examined them closely. The cards themselves looked very ordinary, made of some durable black plastic, with only their chosen codenames starkly written on them in bold white letters.
The receptionist then continued her explanation. "In this place, before each individual match, you will need to pay an entry fee of 100,000 credits. If you lose the match, this 100,000 entry fee will not be refunded. If you win, however, we will not only refund your 100,000 entry fee, but we will also give you half of the 100,000 paid by your defeated opponent as your base prize money. Additionally," she added with a slight smirk, "you will also receive a thirty percent share of the total on-site betting money that was wagered on your specific match."
Ethan's eyes widened under his mask. "So that means a single win nets you at least 50,000, plus a potentially huge cut of the bets! That's… a lot."
The receptionist simply replied, "Yes. Fortunes can be made, and lives lost, with equal ease here."
After Seraphina and Marcus quickly registered for a 2v2 team match later in the schedule, just to try it out, the three of them then went together to observe the ongoing matches on the fighting stages below. This sprawling underground fight club had a total of three large, bloodstained fighting stages, surrounded by tiered viewing areas packed with a raucous, jeering crowd. Random matchmaking for new fighters, they learned, would also happen here, announced over a crackling loudspeaker system.
They were currently watching the brutal action unfolding on Stage Number One. Below, a fire-type psionicist and a hulking beastification-type psionicist were engaged in a fierce, desperate combat. The fire-type psionicist could release powerful, searing fireballs to attack from a distance, but the other beastification-type psionicist had transformed into a massive, bear-like creature; his defense, bolstered by thick hide and dense muscle, and his raw physical strength were clearly top-notch. The fireballs, while explosive and hot, seemed to only scorch the bear-man's fur a bit, doing little significant damage.
Seraphina leaned closer to them, her voice low. "Who do you think will win this one?"
Marcus squinted, analyzing the fight. "Of course, it's going to be that bear-guy. The fireballs are barely tickling him, just scorching his fur a bit. If that fire-user didn't have those speed-enhancing psionic gear boots he's wearing, he would have been caught and crushed long ago." Psionic gear, Ethan recalled, referred to specialized weapons or equipment created by skilled psionic refiners using rare materials and complex techniques. Unlike psionic armor, which was a relatively common defensive item, psionic armor could generally only defend and had no other active function. But every piece of true psionic gear, like enchanted weapons or artifacts, had its own unique special use or enhancement. For example, the sleek, glowing shoes worn by that agile fire-type psionicist were clearly a piece of speed-type psionic gear, allowing him to barely stay out of the bear-man's reach.
Ethan nodded in agreement with Marcus's assessment. "I think so too. That fire-type psionicist's innate talent is probably not very high, or his rank isn't consolidated enough. The fireballs he releases should theoretically have the greatest raw attack power among his abilities, but as it stands now, his elemental attacks are basically unable to seriously harm his opponent. He's just delaying the inevitable."
Sure enough, not long after Ethan's observation, the fire-type psionicist's psionic power was clearly exhausted. He could no longer conjure and release his fireballs, his movements becoming sluggish. With a roar, the beastification-type psionicist seized his chance. With a single, brutal slap of his massive paw, the fire-user was literally turned into meat paste on the arena floor, a horrifying, graphic end. His pair of glowing psionic shoes, now ownerless, was callously kicked aside by the victorious bear-man, who then roared his triumph to the cheering crowd before casually scooping up the shoes as part of his spoils.
Ethan, Marcus, and Seraphina, witnessing this brutal, instantaneous death, were so frightened and shocked they instinctively closed their eyes, though the gruesome image was already burned into their minds. Seeing monstrous beasts fight and die in the wild was one thing; seeing humans fight with such savagery, ending in such a final, brutal way, was an entirely different, far more disturbing experience. Witnessing the Direwolf's pathetic, crushed state earlier that day had made them feel somewhat uncomfortable, a little queasy perhaps, but it hadn't created any deep psychological barriers or revulsion. But now, what they were seeing, in vivid, horrifying detail, was a fellow human being directly, casually, beaten to death, annihilated by another. This kind of visceral, psychological shock was on a completely different, far more profound level.
Bleargh~
Marcus, his face pale green, couldn't hold it in any longer and wretchedly vomited into a nearby overflowing trash receptacle. The other people in the crowd around them didn't even glance his way; they were clearly already desensitized, completely used to such gruesome sights and their aftermath. Ethan and Seraphina weren't much better off. Right now, their faces were ashen white, their breathing ragged and shallow, and they were both forcibly, desperately, suppressing the violent urge to vomit themselves.
Ethan, trying to steady his own reeling senses, patted Marcus's trembling shoulder. "It's… it's okay, Marcus. Take it slow. You'll… we'll get used to it after seeing more. We have to." He wasn't sure if he was trying to reassure Marcus or himself.
At that precise, terrible moment, the booming voice of the arena announcer, amplified by crackling loudspeakers, shouted for the next combatants, his tone dripping with false enthusiasm. "Next up, for your bloody entertainment! Please welcome to the glorious Stage Number One… from the depths of anonymity… Kid Hacker! And his opponent, a veteran of the ring… the lethal Blitz!"
Simultaneously, a large screen above the fighting stage flickered to life, displaying their respective records.
Blitz: 13 matches / 7 wins / 6 losses.
Kid Hacker: 0 matches / 0 wins / 0 losses.
Ethan's blood ran cold. "Oh, crap. It's… it's my turn already. Right now." He tried his best to make his voice sound relaxed, even confident, but the distinct lack of actual confidence, the tremor of fear, still betrayed him.
Marcus, looking up from the trash can, his face still pale, managed a weak, "Ethan, man, if it's really not possible, if you're not feeling it, then let's just forget it. We can leave."
Seraphina, her own face drawn and worried, quickly added, "Yeah, Ethan, he's right. This is… this is too much for us, too soon. We don't have to do this."
Ethan took a deep, shuddering breath, then another, trying to adjust his breathing, to calm the frantic hammering of his heart. He then said, his voice surprisingly firm, his eyes hardening with a desperate resolve, "No. This is a hurdle I absolutely must overcome. Our current resources, our family backgrounds, they can't compare to those geniuses in the big cities, those prodigies like Iris Thorne. If I want to even stand a chance of winning against them, of achieving our goals, I must be a bit tougher on myself! I have to face this."
With that, his decision made, he squared his shoulders and walked towards the bloodstained entrance of the fighting stage without looking back at his worried friends.
And on the fighting stage, already waiting there for him, looking a bit impatient and sizing him up with cold, appraising eyes, was a thin, wiry middle-aged man with a cruel smirk – Blitz, the veteran fighter.
Shiny stones motivates me to throw CHAPTERS so throw them on these fic