Ironhaven Megacity, Undercity Sublevel 7 – Cage Arena Five days after the tournament
Ebon was just about to slip away from Doc Harlan's clinic when the bookie's runner found him. The old medic was still inside, methodically wiping blood from his tools, the faint smell of antiseptic saturating the air.
"Rematch circuit tonight. Low stakes, winner-takes-all. Five hundred entry, three thousand pot. They want the 'black-veined kid' on the card. Word's out you're healed enough to stand."
Ebon glanced at Doc. The older man shrugged, his augmented arm whirring softly.
"You still owe me for the serum and stitches. Three thousand covers it, buys medicine for the little ones too. Your call."
Ebon's jaw tensed. Lena's fever had worsened over the past few days. The cheap Undercity antivirals weren't touching it. Real core-derived medicine costs more than it ever has.
"I'm in."
***
The arena was even more crowded than during the finals, bodies pressed together in the stale, recycled air. Word traveled fast in the tunnels—everyone wanted to see if the black-veined kid who'd shattered Klane was really back on his feet.
Ebon stepped into the cage, squinting against the harsh white glare of the floodlamps. He hadn't bothered with a shirt—just fresh bandages around his ribs, the black veins crawling across his skin for everyone to see. They twisted from his chest to his forearms, looking practically alive. The crowd's reaction was a low, uneasy murmur, equal parts fear and anticipation.
Across the mat stood his opponent—"Grinder" Hale. Heavy-set, around twenty-four, with skin that looked like it had been tanned and hammered, akin to armor. Physical Spectrum Forged, C-rank, fists like sledgehammers. He'd spent years slugging it out in the low circuits, always just a little too slow, a little too ordinary to make it out.
Grinder grinned across the mat. "Heard you got lucky against Klane. Let's see if that luck holds, freak."
The referee gave the signal.
Grinder charged like a bull.
Ebon met him head-on.
He dodged the first punch, but the second caught his shoulder—pain shot through him, sharp and hot. The black veins flickered, and suddenly the ache faded, taken over by a peculiar numbness. Ebon lashed out with a quick one-two, more out of habit than hope.
Grinder laughed. "That all?"
Ebon clenched his right fist.
Pain lanced up his arm.
Something shifted under his skin. Obsidian plates slid over his knuckles, and then four short diamond spikes punched through, wet and gleaming, locking into place.
The crowd went dead silent.
Grinder's eyes widened.
Ebon stepped inside, found an angle, and threw a vicious hook.
Spikes caught Grinder under the ribs.
Grinder's tough skin split open, dark blood welling out and running down his side. He staggered, eyes wide with shock.
He swung wildly. Ebon ducked, came up with an uppercut.
Spikes drove into Grinder's jaw.
There was a sickening crack as teeth shattered. Grinder collapsed, hitting the mat with a heavy, final thud.
It was over in less than half a minute.
The referee raised Ebon's hand.
The silence broke — cheers and shouts
"Black-veined Thorne!"
"Grinder didnt even last a minute!"
Ebon swayed as the spikes slid back beneath his skin, pain pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Blood trickled onto the mat, but the black veins stitched the wounds closed almost as fast as they opened.
He scooped up the purse—three thousand creds, more than he'd seen in months—and made for the exit, ignoring the stares that followed him.
A man waited just outside the gate.
The man waiting outside wore a spotless jacket, the Apex Guild insignia glinting on his collar. Mid-thirties, hair trimmed to regulation, and bore a civil smile that never reached his eyes. The soft radiance circling him marked him as A-rank—Spatial Spectrum, if Ebon had to guess.
"Impressive," the scout said.
"Name's Carver. Apex has been watching you, and I must say, you're quite the fighter."
Ebon didn't slow down, just kept moving. Carver fell in beside him and matched his pace.
"That power of yours — unique. Physical Spectrum, but nothing like it in our database. We can offer registration. Proper scans, training in the Spires. Real food, clean air. Protection for anyone you care about."
He paused.
"A future, Mr. Thorne. Apex takes care of its own. We control the best rifts, the best tech. You'd never fight for scraps again."
Ebon stopped. Turned slowly.
The black veins on his neck pulsed.
Carver extended a sleek black card with the Apex holo-seal.
Ebon looked at the card, then at Carver, weighing the offer like a rotten piece of meat.
"Apex," he muttered softly, voice cold.
"The same Apex that lets kids die of rift-fever down here while you hoard core medicine upstairs? The same Apex that sends teams to drag fighters out of the cages when they won't sell?"
Carver's smile didn't waver. "Business is business. The world's broken. We make it work."
Ebon's hand curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. Fresh blood welled up where a spike pressed against the skin, just beneath the surface.
"I don't sell."
Carver tucked the card away. "Everything has a price. Even monsters."
He turned and vanished into the crowd.
Ebon watched Carver vanish among the crowd, then turned away, slipping deeper into the maze of tunnels. The black market clinic wasn't far, but the shadows grew more oppressive tonight.
Lena needed the medicine tonight. No delays, no excuses.
Tomorrow, Apex would be back. They always were.