The pesky lights burned hotter than the sun itself.
They rained down from above mercilessly, blinding an underground arena like some noise and color, thus making it a sauna. The roar of the crowd, thousands of voices crashing together into something animal. Pure hunger, not excitement.
They weren't coming out to fight tonight.
They came for blood.
At the center of the ring stood two men that could not be more opposite.
On one side was the champion: big, cool, and terrifyingly calm. He was the heavyweight boxing champion of the world. A genius with fists so big, they could decide wars, redraw borders. In this world, strength is power while influence is power. The strongest rules all.
And on the other side
A failed businessman.
Izan Coro stood stiff under the glare of the lights, borrowed gloves dangling limp by the sides. His body was soft where it ought to be hard and tense where there is no need for tension. He has never been in a real fight. Has not thrown a proper punch. Has never known what it is to be hunted in a ring.
The crowd knew it. So did the champion. The one person who truly knew it was Izan.
This was not a match.
It was punishment.
The whispers spread faster than locusts once someone gave a name to the phenomenon: rivals, debts, betrayals. But men in Koraza never fell quietly. When a person climbed too high without the strength to ward off such nasty falls, the supposed downing had to be public and violent.
The truth got clearer with time.
Izan Coro wasn't facing off against the champion.
He was being presented to him.
The referee raised his hand, stopping just a bit too short of the whole thing. Even he understood what was to happen. But rules existed only to create an alibi for outcomes already decided.
The bell rang.
The champion took off immediately.
There was no signal. There was no hesitation.
A straight right exploded through the air like a cannon shot.
Izan didn't even raise his guards.
The impact detonated against his face. Pain exploded before thought could exist. The world twisted sideways as his feet left the ground entirely. For a single, weightless moment, he was flying.
Then he was gone.
His body slammed out of the ring and into the concrete below with a sickening crack. The sound silenced the crowd for half a heartbeat, just long enough for them to register the violence they'd paid to witness.
The blood pooled beneath his head.
And the referee started to lean over the ropes.
"One…"
Izan couldn't hear him.
His vision swam in darkness commingled with flashes of light and memory. The roar came back, louder and uglier: not cheers,laughter.
"Two…"
The first chair had just been thrown.
It struck him against the ribs with a hollow clang, the pain becoming a distant and unreal sensation. Another blow followed, then another.
"Three…"
The crowd poured over like a flood bursting a dam. Metal bats. Broken seats. Boots. Hands. Rage without direction.
This was never about justice.
This was entertainment.
The count went on out of mere habit, meaningless against the chaos.
Izan felt bones crack. Something tore. They were all on top of him, stealing the air from his lungs. Each breath became a war he was losing.
And still the champion remained in the ring.
Watching.
And as the world began to fade, Izan's mind slowed, not into fear but something colder. Clearer.
So this is how it ends.
He had played their games. Trusted their deals. Believed influence could replace strength. Believed intelligence alone was enough in a world ruled by fists.
He was wrong.
Inside his collapsing mind, a single thought refused to die.
If there is another chance…
Not to survive.
Not to escape.
But to repay.
If there is another life waiting for me, Izan swore silently, I will pay the devil a hundred lives over for this betrayal.
The noise quieted.
The pain receded.
The lights dimmed.
And Izan Coro closed his eyes.
There was no pain. Izan noticed this was the first thing he did. There was no crushing weight on his chest. No broken bones crying for attention. No burning lights banging in his skull. Just… nothing. A vast, unfamiliar absence. Then came breath. Air in his lungs, too readily. Too cleanly. He took a hard breath in, choking as he felt his body go from instinct to instinct as opposed to memory. His eyes flew open. Darkness. Not the thick, choking black of death, but the soft kind. The kind shattered by the flickering shadows and the faint orange glow of a dying fire. Above him, the ceiling was low, the wooden beams creased by age and smoke. He brushed rough cloth against his skin, thin, worn. He was lying down. That's wrong. The last thing he remembered was concrete. Blood. The sound of metal cracking against bone. A count that never mattered. Izan sat up abruptly. His very body responded in an instant, too fast. No stiffness. No agony. He didn't feel like he was failing with his rib cage, his heart slammed against it. It was strong. Young. He looked down at his hands. They were smaller. Lean. Scarred in parts he didn't recognize, yet missing wounds he remembered well. No broken knuckles from bad deals. No old cuts from shattered glass. The skin was rough, yes, but it was not ruined. His breath caught. After a moment, he got off the narrow bed and stood slowly. The floorboards groaned beneath his weight. Of less weight than he'd assumed. A cracked mirror rested against the opposite wall. Its surface shadowed, fractured at the edges, but enough reflecting reflected. Izan froze. The face in the mirror looking back at him was not his. The man who had died beneath the ring lights was older, worn by years of failure, sleepless nights, quiet fear. This face was much younger. Early teens. Sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes with something raw and untested. But when those eyes widened,the fear was his,he staggered backward, breathing shallowly. "No," he said quietly. The voice that left his throat was a different one. Lighter. Stronger. He pressed his trembling fingers against his chest. A heartbeat answered. Fast. Real. I died. The memory struck all at once. The straight right. The flight. The concrete. The crowd. His stomach twisted violently. He fell to his knees and expelled dry air as his hands dug into the floor. Not pain had crushed him now, but understanding. He had died, And yet,"I'm alive?" I came out a little fragile, as though saying them up too close might raze everything. A sound came from outside. Footsteps. Up he staggered to his feet to the doorway. There she was. A dark-haired woman in her late thirties huddled on top of a small fire. She looked tired,she had wrinkled skin of more than old age, hands scratched and coarse from labor to exhaustion. The house, if you could call it that, was barely standing, with its walls cracked and its roof sagging. And yet she smiled. The instant she saw him, her face flooded with relief. "I was sure you were going to die," she declared, her voice breaking as she ran toward him. "For a couple of seconds I actually thought I'd lost you." She placed him in a embrace. "My son… they went overboard this time." Her anxiety gave way to anger. Izan stood frozen. My son. He swallowed. What … what is the year? She stiffened and then leaned back slightly, studied his face. "What do you mean?" "Please," he said gently. "Year 812," she said, concern growing even worse. "Izan, are you feeling all right?" Same name. Different life. He asked more questions, where they were, how long he'd been unconscious, what had happened. In answer to each question, her worries worsened as she thought he'd forgotten. The fire faded. Then came the knocking. Heavy. Aggressive. Before either of them could answer, the door was kicked open. Three men stepped inside. Thugs. Their clothes were worn dirty but reinforced and their weapons hung loosely at their sides. Their eyes scanned that room with practiced disdain. "Time's up," said one of them. "Where's our money?" The woman stiffened. "P-please… I don't have it yet." "A whole gold coin," sneered another. "Not even asking much." A gold coin. Izan instantly calculates. One hundred silver coins. Ten thousand bronze. Two silver coins earned the average person a month. Before she could say a second thing,Smack. One of the men hit her on the face. She collapsed to the floor. "What you mean you don't have the money?" the thug mocked. Another raised his fist. Izan moved. Stepping between them he caught the man's arm mid-swing. The impact rippled through his bones. The thug froze. So did Izan. The grip felt natural. Too natural. Slowly, Izan lifted his head. Dark eyes met the man's. "Don't," Izan said quietly. The room went silent.