The air in the "Black Market District" was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco and ozone. I pulled my hood lower, my face hidden behind a simple, featureless ceramic mask I'd bought for two coins.
In this place, names didn't matter. Only strength did.
I walked toward a rusted iron door guarded by two massive men in tactical gear. They didn't even look at my ID; they only looked at the "Entry Fee" in my hand.
"Welcome to the Pit, kid," one of them grunted, pushing the door open. "Try not to die in the first ten seconds. It ruins the betting odds."
The roar of the crowd hit me like a physical wave. In the center of the room was a sunken concrete arena, stained with years of dried blood.
[Ding! New Location Detected: The Pit.]
[Objective: Win your first match.]
[Reward: 500 Abyss Coins, +5 Strength.]
I walked to the registration desk. A woman with cybernetic eyes looked me up and down. "Name?"
"Ghost," I said, my voice muffled by the mask.
"Class?"
"F-Rank Scavenger."
She paused, then burst out laughing. "A Scavenger? In the Pit? Look, Ghost, we usually feed F-ranks to the hounds for entertainment. You sure about this?"
"Put me in," I said calmly.
Ten minutes later, I was standing in the arena. Opposite me was a man twice my size, his skin covered in jagged scars. He was a D-Rank Hunter known as 'The Mangler.' He wielded a spiked club that looked heavy enough to crush a car.
"An F-rank?" The Mangler spat on the ground, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory red light. "The organizers are getting lazy. This won't even be a warm-up."
The buzzer rang.
The Mangler moved with surprising speed, his club whistling through the air as it aimed for my skull. I didn't move. I didn't dodge.
CLANG!
The sound wasn't of bone breaking, but of metal hitting solid rock. The club bounced off my shoulder, the vibration nearly shaking it out of The Mangler's hands.
[Passive Skill: 'Iron-Hide' activated.]
[Damage Nullified: 100%]
"My turn," I whispered.
Before he could swing again, I stepped into his guard. My fist, powered by the Dragon-Blood Physique, buried itself into his gut.
CRUNCH.
The Mangler's eyes bulged. His armor shattered like glass. He didn't even scream; the air was knocked out of him so fast he simply folded in half, flying backward until he slammed into the concrete wall of the arena.
The silence that followed was even louder than the previous cheering.
I looked down at my hand. Not a single scratch.
[Ding! Match Won.]
[Extracting attributes from 'The Mangler'...]
[Acquired: +12 Strength, +8 Agility.]
I looked up at the VIP booths, where the wealthy gamblers were frozen in shock. "Next," I said, my voice echoing through the silent hall.
The referee, a scarred veteran who had seen thousands of deaths in this pit, stood frozen. His whistle hung limply from his lips. He had expected to be scraping a boy's remains off the floor; instead, he was looking at a human-shaped tank.
"Winner... Ghost!" the referee finally croaked.
The crowd erupted. It wasn't just cheering; it was a riot of disbelief.
"I bet five thousand on the Mangler! That kid cheated! Check him for illegal stimulants!" one gambler screamed, tearing up his betting slips in rage.
"Cheated? Did you see that punch?" another countered, eyes wide with awe. "He didn't even use mana. That was pure, raw muscle. Who the hell is this guy?"
I ignored the noise. My focus was on the blue screens flickering in my vision.
[Extraction Complete.]
[Strength: 45 -> 57]
[Agility: 32 -> 40]
[New Trait Acquired: 'Vicious Strike' (Small chance to inflict internal bleeding on hit).]
I could feel my muscles tightening, my senses sharpening. Every point in Agility made the world seem a fraction slower, more manageable. This was the true power of the Sovereign System—why train for decades when you could simply take what you needed from the fallen?
Up in the highest VIP box, behind one-way reinforced glass, a woman in a crimson dress swirled a glass of expensive wine. Her eyes never left my figure as I walked toward the exit.
"An F-rank scavenger, they say?" she whispered to the shadows behind her.
"That's what the academy records show, Lady Isabella," a deep voice replied. "But no F-rank can shatter a D-rank's ribcage with a casual jab. He's hiding something—either a forbidden relic or a dormant bloodline."
Isabella smirked, her eyes glinting with greed. "Whatever it is, I want it. Or better yet, I want him. Keep an eye on 'Ghost.' If he survives his next match against the 'Executioner,' invite him to the Crimson Fang manor. We don't let talent like that wander the streets for long."
I felt a prickle on the back of my neck—the 'Dragon's Pressure' reacting to a distant gaze. Someone was watching. Someone powerful.
Good. Let them watch. The more they looked, the more they would realize that the predator they thought they were tracking... was actually the one hunting them.
I walked into the darkness of the tunnel, my mind already calculating how many more 'Manglers' I would need to harvest before I could face the man who destroyed my family.