Gripping the cheap hockey mask I bought off a crackhead for five bucks, I take a slow breath before slipping it on. The plastic's scuffed, smells a little off—but it'll do.
I start toward the bar on the corner.
There's a tightness in my chest I can't ignore.
I've never been in a real fight before. Not like this. I know how to throw a punch—bare minimum—but that's about where my "martial arts experience" begins and ends.
…Not exactly reassuring.
I push through the bar doors anyway.
The place is loud, dim, and smells like alcohol soaked into the walls. I walk up to the counter and place the flyer down. The bartender gives me a once-over, eyes lingering on the mask, then smirks slightly before holding out his hand.
I pull out the cash—two fifty-dollar bills I picked up earlier—and hand it over. Entry fee.
He nods, then gestures toward a metal door tucked away in a corner.
I can feel the eyes on me as I walk over.
"Kid's gonna get himself killed down there."
"Ha. Scrawny little shit thinks he can survive the dome."
"Doesn't even know what he signed up for…"
I ignore them.
No—scratch that.
I use it.
The irritation, the doubt, the casual way they write me off—it all feeds into that familiar spark. Cursed energy begins to stir, flowing through my body, invisible but very much there.
By the time I reach the door, it's steady.
The bartender steps over, knocks twice, then mutters something under his breath. A second later—
*Clank.*
The door unlocks.
I step through without hesitation.
The staircase beyond is long. Longer than it should be. My footsteps echo as I descend, the noise of the bar fading with each step.
Gives me time to think.
Who am I fighting down there?
Regular people?
Or something worse?
Gotham's not exactly known for keeping things normal.
About twenty seconds in, the answer comes to me.
A roar.
Loud. Chaotic.
Then a scream—raw, sharp, cut short.
I pause for half a second.
Then keep walking.
The nerves creep in, twisting in my gut, but I shove them down hard.
*I am Naoya Zenin.*
The thought settles something in me.
By the time I reach the bottom, I'm steady again.
The space opens up into something massive.
A pit.
Roughly forty meters across, maybe ten meters deep. Surrounded by a packed crowd, all leaning over the edges, shouting, laughing, waiting for more.
In the center of it—
A giant.
Easily pushing seven feet, built like a wall, holding a massive wooden club like it weighs nothing.
At his feet is what used to be a person.
…Yeah.
That scream makes sense now.
"Oh! Look what we have here—fresh meat!"
The voice cuts through the noise, sharp and clear.
I turn toward it.
A woman steps forward from the crowd, microphone in hand. Tall—just a bit shorter than me. Long dark hair falling down her back, brown eyes, confident stance.
Attractive.
But the metal baseball bat resting on her shoulder makes one thing clear—she's not just here to look good.
"Based on the outfit, I'm guessing you're here to fight!" she continues, her voice booming through the space. "Another brave—or stupid—soul stepping into the pit!"
The crowd reacts instantly. Cheers, laughter, a few mocking whistles.
I don't react.
"Name?" she asks, tilting her head slightly as she looks me over. "We can't just keep calling you fresh meat. Not that it'll matter—our current champion, the Barbarian, is still undefeated!"
More cheers. Louder this time.
I glance down into the pit again.
The "Barbarian" casually rests his club on his shoulder, like he didn't just cave someone in.
…Yeah. That's a problem.
Still.
I look back at her.
"I'm here to fight," I say simply. "For money."
A few people laugh.
She smiles, clearly entertained, lifting the mic closer. "Straight to the point, I like it. But we still need a name."
I don't hesitate.
"XLR8."
Might as well.
The name lands. A few confused murmurs, some laughs—but it sticks.
She grins wider, clearly loving it. "XLR8!" she repeats, dragging it out for effect. "Alright then—let's see how fast you really are."
The crowd starts to stir again.
I roll my shoulders slightly, feeling the cursed energy settle under my skin.
Nervous?
Yeah.
But not enough to stop me.
Not anymore.
--
Sliding down into the pit, I barely spare a glance at the corpse being dragged off by two men. Doesn't matter who he was. Doesn't matter how he died.
My focus is on one thing.
The Barbarian.
My heart's pounding hard in my chest—but not from fear.
From excitement.
…Is that weird?
The anticipation, the rush—it's easily the most exhilarating thing I've ever felt. In this life or the last.
Sweat gathers at my temples. My hands clench, then unclench. Cursed energy responds instantly, flowing through me with ease.
Guess nervousness and bloodlust both count.
Good to know.
"STANDING AT 7 FEET TALL, 500 POUNDS—WE ALL KNOW HIM, WE ALL LOVE HIM! TWO YEARS UNDEFEATED—THE BARBARIAN!"
The crowd erupts.
He straightens slightly at the praise, rolling his shoulders, a cruel glint settling in his eyes as he locks onto me.
"AND STANDING ACROSS FROM HIM—OUR NEWEST VICTIM! XLR8! CAN THE FRESH MEAT TAKE DOWN THE CHAMP IN HIS FIRST MATCH?!"
…Yeah, I get nothing.
No cheers. Just a few laughs.
I don't care.
They can keep that same energy when I cave his face in.
"THREE!"
I shift my stance slightly.
"TWO!"
Cursed energy steadies.
"ONE!"
I exhale.
"BEGIN!"
He moves instantly.
Fast.
Way faster than I expected.
The Barbarian clears the ten-meter gap in two breaths, his size not slowing him down in the slightest.
I grin under the mask.
He's fast.
Too bad I'm faster.
Twenty-four frames map out in my mind in an instant. For a moment, I stop overthinking and let instinct take over.
Move.
I vanish.
Reappearing behind him in a blur, my hand already pressing against his back. The technique flows naturally—I apply the twenty-four frame rule to him.
He doesn't even come close to following it.
His body locks up completely.
There.
I don't hesitate.
Cursed energy floods into my leg as I pivot and drive a kick straight into his face.
The impact sends him flying, his massive body crashing hard into the wall of the pit.
"WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT—SEEMS LIKE HE MATCHES HIS NAMESAKE!"
The announcer's voice cuts through the noise, but I tune it out.
My eyes stay locked on him.
The Barbarian groans, shaking his head as he pushes himself up. There's more confusion than pain in his expression—but that doesn't last long.
His face twists.
Then he growls.
And charges.
Club raised high.
I smirk slightly beneath the mask.
Yeah.
Definitely all brawn.
I activate my technique again, mapping the frames cleanly this time. My body surges forward, closing the distance in a fraction of a second.
Ten meters—gone in less than a blink.
His club swings.
Wild.
Heavy enough that I feel the air shift as it cuts past me.
I duck under it just in time, my perception barely keeping up. If that had landed, it wouldn't just hurt—it'd end the fight.
My hand shoots out again, making contact.
The technique applies.
He freezes.
I pivot smoothly, putting my full weight behind the motion, and drive a kick straight into his groin.
The reaction is immediate.
A raw, pained screech tears out of him as his body unlocks, his entire frame jerking forward as he stumbles.
For a second, I think that's it. After all every man knows the agony of being hit in the family jewels
But…It's not.
He doesn't drop.
Doesn't even stumble
Instead, he plants his foot hard enough to crack the ground and forces himself upright, one hand clutching his groin, the other still gripping that massive club.
"…You've gotta be kidding me," I mutter.
He lifts his head slowly.
And smiles.
Not confused anymore. Not just angry.
Focused.
The crowd feels it too, their noise rising as he rolls his shoulders and squares up again, eyes locked onto me like I'm something to solve.
"…You're adapting," I realize. Of course I couldn't get a completely muscle brained first opponent
He doesn't rush.
He watches.
Waits.
I feel my cursed energy dip again, more than it should. Every activation is chewing through it way too fast.
"…Yeah, I'm leaking badly," I mutter under my breath.
If I drag this out, I'm going to lose. Simple as that.
The Barbarian steps in—then explodes forward, his club swinging not at me, but at where I *should* be.
I activate Projection Sorcery.
Twenty-four frames.
Straight path. Get behind him.
The moment I commit, I'm locked in.
I blur forward—
—and his club tears through the exact space my head used to be.
I reappear behind him as the sequence ends, heart kicking harder.
Too close.
"…He's reading the obvious routes," I mutter.
Straight lines. Efficient paths. That's what I've been using.
So stop being predictable.
He turns immediately this time, already mid-swing again, forcing me back.
I inhale slowly.
Fine.
Let's make it ugly.
Twenty-four frames.
Not straight. Not clean.
A jagged, awkward path—sharp angles, sudden direction changes, movement that makes no sense unless you already know it.
The moment I activate—
I'm gone.
My body snaps through the sequence exactly as planned, zigzagging in a way that looks completely erratic from the outside.
The Barbarian commits to a swing—
—and misses.
Completely.
I appear at his side at the end of the frames.
There.
My hand shoots out, making contact with his arm.
The technique applies.
He freezes.
Completely.
No resistance. No movement.
Just locked in place.
"…Got you," I breathe.
I immediately reach for his club—
—and almost fumble it.
"…What the—"
It's heavy.
Way heavier than I expected.
My grip slips for a second before I force both hands onto it, straining as I try to wrench it free from his frozen grasp.
"…Why is this thing so damn heavy—"
I plant my foot and pull harder.
It finally tears free.
The moment it does—
His body unlocks.
And I'm still mid-adjustment, trying to get the weight under control.
"—Shit."
He swings.
I barely manage to stumble back, the club dragging my arms down as I try to lift it properly. The swing misses by inches, but the air displacement alone throws me off balance.
I grit my teeth, forcing the weapon up. Cursed energy roaring as I use reinforcement.
"…Okay… this is not ideal."
Too heavy. Too awkward. I'm not used to this at all.
And my cursed energy is still leaking.
I can't afford to mess around.
He charges again.
I exhale sharply.
One more.
That's all I need.
Twenty-four frames.
Short. Direct. Close in just enough.
I activate—
My body snaps forward along the path.
I appear right in front of him. He reacts his hand reaching for my neck. But I'm faster.
My hand connects.
The technique applies.
He freezes.
Perfect.
I don't hesitate this time.
I tighten my grip on the club, ignoring the strain in my arms, and swing.
It's not clean.
Not controlled.
But it lands.
A heavy crack echoes as the club connects with his head.
His body stays upright for a split second longer—held in place by the technique.
Then it releases.
He drops.
Hard.
The pit goes quiet.
Then the crowd erupts.
I stand there, breathing heavier now, the club hanging in my hands as my arms ache from the weight.
I look down at him.
He's not moving.
Not getting back up.
"…Huh."
I wait a second.
Nothing.
He's dead.
My first kill.
I stare at the body, expecting something to hit me.
Shock.
Guilt.
Anything.
But there's nothing.
No shaking. No tightness in my chest.
Just… nothing.
"…That's weird," I mutter.
I glance at the blood on the club, then back at him.
Still nothing.
"…Am I a sociopath or something?"
The thought lingers for a moment before fading.
The crowd is still going crazy.
I exhale slowly, letting the club rest against my shoulder—though even that takes effort.
What sticks instead—
"…I almost ran out of cursed energy in one fight," I mutter.
That's a problem.
A serious one.
Because next time—
If I slip up even once,
I won't get another chance.
The crowd doesn't die down.
If anything, it gets louder.
Chants, shouting, people slamming their hands against the railing above—it all blurs together into one constant roar.
I just stand there for a second, the club still in my hands, looking down at the body.
Then I let it drop.
It hits the ground with a heavy thud.
"…Well," I mutter, rolling my shoulders slightly. "That worked out."
My arms are still sore from swinging that thing. My cursed energy feels… low. Not empty, but definitely not where it should be after one fight.
Yeah.
I seriously need to fix that fast.
"WE HAVE A WINNER!"
The announcer's voice cuts through everything as she steps closer to the edge of the pit, mic in hand, clearly enjoying herself.
"IN HIS FIRST MATCH—HE TAKES DOWN THE UNDEFEATED CHAMPION! XLR8!"
The crowd eats it up.
Now they're cheering.
I glance up at them, unimpressed.
"…Switch up is crazy," I mutter under my breath.
A couple of guys jump down into the pit, dragging the Barbarian's body away like it's just part of the routine. No ceremony. No pause.
Just business.
Figures.
I make my way toward the exit, climbing up the side with a bit more effort than I'd like to admit. My body's not exhausted, but it's definitely feeling it.
By the time I pull myself up, she's already waiting for me.
Up close, she looks the same—confident, composed, bat still resting on her shoulder like it belongs there.
"…Not bad," she says, eyeing me with clear interest now. "Didn't think you'd last more than thirty seconds."
"Yeah, I got that vibe," I reply flatly, pulling the mask up just enough to breathe properly.
"So where's the money?"
She pauses.
Then smiles.
"…Straight to business, huh?"
"I'm not here for fun," I say. "I'm here to get paid."
That gets a small laugh out of her.
"Fair enough." She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a folded stack, tossing it to me.
I catch it, already counting.
"…Two thousand five hundred?" I look up at her. "You serious?"
"That's the standard payout."
"You had me fighting a seven-foot monster with a tree trunk for two grand?" I deadpan. "That doesn't sound a little off to you?"
"He was the champion," she shrugs. "Not my fault you decided to jump into the deep end on your first night."
"…Yeah, and I won," I point out.
She studies me for a second, then smirks.
"You did."
A brief pause.
Then she leans in slightly, voice dropping just enough to feel more direct.
"Show up again next time," she says. "Win like that again—and I'll make sure your payout reflects it."
I hold her gaze for a second.
We both know what that means.
More money.
Bigger fights.
More risk.
"…Fine," I say finally, folding the cash and tucking it away. "But if you throw me in there with something worse, the price goes up."
She laughs. "Confident. I like that."
"Not confidence," I shrug slightly. "Just common sense."
I step past her, already heading for the stairs.
Behind me, the crowd's still going, the next fight probably already being set up.
As I start walking up, I roll my shoulders again, feeling the lingering strain—and the drop in my cursed energy.
"…Yeah," I mutter to myself. "That was way too inefficient."
I can't keep fighting like that.
Not here.
Not in Gotham.
—
Up above, tucked into the crowd, a man watches quietly.
Unlike the others, he isn't cheering.
Doesn't react when the Barbarian falls.
Doesn't care about the spectacle.
His attention stays locked on one thing.
The masked fighter walking away from the pit.
"…Interesting," he murmurs.
Fast.
Unpredictable.
And just reckless enough to be useful.
He reaches into his jacket, pulling out a phone.
A brief pause.
Then he dials.
"Yeah," he says once the line connects. "I think I found someone worth your time."
His gaze flicks back toward the stairs.
A faint smirk forming.
"Yeah… a meta."
—
And down below, completely unaware—
I keep walking.
Counting money in my head.
Planning the next step.
Money first.
Everything else later.