People entered the arena to win.
Everyone did.
Except me.
I entered so that no one would die.
Ironic, isn't it?
While the crowd demanded blood, I kept running from it—
but everything I ran from kept dragging me to the center of the ring.
My name is Creed Hale.
And this is the day I first heard something break.
Grit Arena stood in the middle of the city, a steel dome drowning out sunlight.
Everything was engineered to crush the fighter:
lights, acoustics, the echoing floor…
When I stepped in, the ground sounded hollow.
Tok.
Tok.
Tok.
The crowd wasn't shouting.
The crowd was waiting.
Which was far more dangerous.
Opponent: Kaine "Hollowstep" Mercer
On the far side stood a man.
Not tall, not muscular… but dangerous for a simple reason:
He wasn't moving. At all.
Fighters always twitch—
shoulders, breath, eyes, something.
He didn't.
The announcer echoed:
"Next match: Creed Hale versus Kaine Mercer."
Kaine lifted his head.
His eyes were motionless, like a drained lake.
He approached slowly and said one sentence:
Kaine:
"I don't fight.
I just push aside whatever falls in my path."
No threat in his tone—
but the scent of death was casual around him.
Before the bell rang, I steadied my breath.
The bell struck.
People expected Kaine to attack.
He didn't.
He just walked.
A step, then another.
Each one a drumbeat:
Tok.
Tok.
Same distance.
Same timing.
This wasn't a fight.
It was a ritual.
Kaine suddenly raised his hand.
Not fast.
Just… perfectly timed.
He hit me exactly when my guard lowered.
Warm blood slid from my nose.
I didn't feel pain—
I felt analysis.
Strike force: moderate.
Angle: nearly perfect.
Real danger: rhythm.
Every hit aligned with his breath.
I threw a left hook; he tilted his head a millimeter.
He wasn't even looking at me—
he was listening to my steps, lungs, muscle tension.
This man wasn't a fighter.
He was a metronome.
While exchanging strikes, he whispered:
Kaine:
"You're avoiding pain."
Creed:
"You think you're clever?"
Kaine:
"No. I just read you."
Creed:
"Read what?"
Kaine:
"Not your punch.
Your heart."
That line froze me for half a second—
And Kaine used that half-second to slam a liver shot into my side.
Breath gone.
Knees weak.
When pain hits me, my mind doesn't slow.
It accelerates.
A single second divides into frames:
Kaine's step:
Tok.
His breath:
Hh.
The twitch in his pupils:
shk.
Those three signals aligned into one truth:
Break his rhythm, and he breaks.
When he stepped left, instead of backing up, I moved forward—
directly into him.
We collided.
My shoulder slammed into his chest.
Kaine's rhythm shattered.
His eyes widened—
first human expression I'd seen on him.
I whispered:
Creed:
"Try reading me now."
Kaine lifted his right arm.
I memorized the angle.
He shifted his stance.
I killed the rhythm.
Before he could strike: I planted my elbow into his sternum, stepped up, and kicked behind his neck.
CRACK.
Kaine dropped to his knees.
His breathing faltered—
for the first time.
He didn't want the finishing blow.
I didn't give it.
The arena froze.
Why didn't I end him?
They couldn't comprehend.
The announcer roared:
"WINNER: CREED HALE!"
But I only looked at Kaine.
He lifted his head, still eerily calm:
Kaine:
"You broke my rhythm…"
Creed:
"There's a lot left in me to break."
Kaine:
"Then prepare to shatter."