Meldenma rode her bike through the nearly empty streets, the last shades of dusk melting into darkness. By the time she reached the city's edge, it was already night. Before heading home, she stopped briefly to grab some groceries—just the essentials. Once home, she dropped the bags on the floor without a glance. The house was neat, everything perfectly in place—except the scattered grocery bags lying untouched.
She lay down on her bed, closed her eyes—not to sleep, but to escape, even if just for a moment. But peace didn't come. She couldn't rest. Something inside her churned—restlessness... or maybe it was anger.
As soon as darkness took full hold of the city, she stepped out again—this time on foot.
The city was always more alive at night. Most people finished their tasks by day, and the night was their time for indulgence. But Meldenma had different plans.
Tonight, she wore a long, deep-black coat that flowed down to her ankles, hiding a tight top and flexible pants—tailored for silent movement and quick attacks. Her high boots tapped rhythmically on the pavement as she walked deeper into the sleeping city.
After several turns, she reached a forgotten edge of the city—a massive junk zone where discarded machines and broken Celestes were dumped like trash. No one came here. No one cared to. It was a wasteland of cold metal.
She moved through the towering heaps of broken steel like a ghost, silent and focused. And then—she stopped.
Among the wreckage, she spotted it.
The torn remains of A5.
You didn't need to be an expert to see—this wasn't the work of the crusher. Celer had already done his job. Thoroughly. Brutally.
Meldenma stared at the remains for a long moment, her voice low, edged with venom.
> "Five years… he served this city. Chased orders like a damn dog behind his Duces. And yet… they didn't even bother to destroy him properly. Just dumped him here… like scrap."
She inhaled deeply, but it wasn't peace she sought—it was control.
Then she moved forward again, her steps steady and cold.
She finally reached a secure gate. A card scanner awaited. She pulled out her access card and swiped it without hesitation. A second scanner emerged—retinal. She leaned in, and the machine scanned her eye.
A beep.
A green light.
And slowly, the heavy steel gate began to open.
As the heavy gate creaked open, Meldenma wasn't surprised to find a familiar face waiting on the other side.
It was the same guard—Black—the one she had spoken to outside the arena earlier that day, seated casually in the dimly lit control room.
Black (smirking):
> "Didn't expect to see you at the arena today. If you wanted to watch the fight, you should've shown up earlier."
Meldenma (with a dry smile):
> "Change of plans. Last-minute. Anyway—thanks."
Black:
> "Mm-hmm… So, who do you wanna fight tonight?"
Meldenma (coolly):
> "Someone untouched. Fresh. Not tired out from earlier rounds."
Black chuckled and nodded toward a dim hallway.
Black:
> "Then go for the guy in the weapon room—Jax. Skinny dude, always looks half-dead or high. He's new here, showed up a few months ago. Doesn't come often… just when he needs to let off steam."
Meldenma turned toward the shadowy figure inside the weapon room.
He looked frail, messy hair falling into his dull eyes, like he hadn't slept in days—or maybe just didn't care. He was examining weapons without urgency, like nothing in the world really mattered.
Meldenma (coldly):
> "I meant a fighter. Not some drugged-up junkie."
Black (shrugging):
> "Don't judge too fast. That 'junkie' might surprise you. He's got fight in him—when he decides to show up."
Without a word, Meldenma stepped past him and walked directly toward the weapon room. Her eyes locked on the boy named Jax.
Meldenma (firmly):
> "Will you fight me?"
Jax (without looking up):
> "I only spend money on girls when they're lying next to me in bed."
Her jaw tightened, but her voice stayed calm.
Meldenma:
> "Win this fight, and you get 500,000 N credits. All yours."
Jax slowly turned, eyes narrowing as a crooked grin spread across his face.
Jax (laughing):
> "Forget the money. I'll bet on you. If you lose, you sleep with me—for a whole month. Anytime I'm pissed, bored, or just feel like it... you're mine. Hell, starting tonight."
There was silence for a moment. Then Meldenma nodded.
Meldenma (cool and sharp):
> "Fine. But I have conditions."
Jax (mocking):
> "Damn. You're really betting that big, fat ass of yours? Gutsy. I like it. Say the terms.
Meldenma:
> "No knives. No heavy weapons. Only simple tools."
Jax (scoffing):
> "What now—you want me to fight you with spoons and forks?"
Meldenma:
> "Exactly."
Jax paused. Then let out a wild laugh.
Jax:
> "Alright, I'm in. First round—just us. No patience, no games.
"Meldenma nodded and strode to the weapon table. Her eyes scanned quickly, and she started choosing her tools — precise, deliberate, every movement radiating confidence.
Across the room, Jax moved toward the other side, hunting for something heavy, long, and metallic. His smirk never faltered; he was enjoying this just as much as she was.
Meanwhile, Black guided the remaining fighters to the edge of the arena. His voice boomed over the crowd, announcing the names of the first-match combatants. As the names were called, spectators began placing their bets — but here, the stakes weren't measured in money.
Instead, each person risked a task they had previously mastered. The harder the task, the more weight it carried. Even the lowest tier, 100,000 N, was astronomical for outsiders. Securing such a bet meant completing the most challenging tasks, demanding skill, brains, and nerves of steel.
Only 100 spectators per match could place bets, and each person could wager only once per day. The system was brutal, strategic, and utterly unforgiving — every bet carried both prestige and peril.
As Meldenma and Jax sized each other up across the room, the crowd's tension surged. Every hand hovering over a task, every pair of eyes fixed on the two fighters — it was more than a fight. It was a battle of skill, wit, and stakes higher than anyone outside the arena could imagine.
Melma steps out of her weapon room like a shadow sliding into light. She walks toward the fighting zone—calm, controlled. The crowd leans in. Across the hall, Jax emerges from his room and doesn't take his eyes off her. He moves with that bored menace he always wears.
For a moment the entire place freezes: both fighters came out empty‑handed. Hands hover over bets. Confusion ripples through the stands.
A voice cracks from the crowd, sharp and angry. "This is stupid—no proper weapons? This isn't a real fight!" He stands, ready to storm off.
Black's silhouette tilts toward the announcer's platform as the hush falls. His voice cuts through the murmur, low and official
"Change for tonight. Heavy weapons are banned. This match will use simple tools only. Quiet now—watch the fight, or take your task and go."
The man mutters and starts to leave, but another spectator—an old regular—grips his sleeve and hisses, half warning, half amusement.
"You're new here, aren't you?"
"How do you know?" the first snaps.
"That girl—Melma? She's not just the best in this ring. She's at the top of the points list for every hard task. People stake the biggest wins on her name. Sit down. Watch."
Reluctantly, the man returns to his seat. The chatter dies again, replaced by a different kind of silence: tightly wound, electric.
Melma and Jax step into the ring. The moment their feet cross the boundary, light crawls along the rim—thin, humming, deadly. A mechanical voice warns once; then the field is live. If anyone crosses out, the boundary hits them with a shock that knocks them out cold. Run to escape and you forfeit; push someone out and you're disqualified. The rules are simple and cruel.
They stand opposite each other—no heavy steel, no obvious advantage—only their chosen simple tools, their reputations, and a roomful of people who've bet their hardest tasks on the outcome. The air tastes like copper and waiting.