"Gooooood morning, everyone! It's officially Draft Day, and the world has never been more excited!" the announcer's voice boomed through the sunlit hall.
All around them, prospects clustered in small groups, poring over the stat sheets freshly printed on parchment‑smooth paper. Cobre Zalas—towering, golden‑haired, dragon‑tailed—strode over to where Shade Shaid leaned against a marble column.
"You won your match yesterday, Shade," Cobre said, eyes glinting. "How's your review sheet looking? What's your overall?"
Shade sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his ear. "I wish they'd just print the overall on the paper. Now I have to do math."
"Math's my specialty," Cobre offered with a grin. "Let me see." Shade handed over his sheet, and Cobre's sharp gaze scanned the rows.
Speed: 8 /11
Strength: 10 /11
Durability: 9 /11
Fighting Skill: 11 /11
Intelligence: 5 /11
Strategic Insight: 7 /11
Endurance: 11 /11
Stamina: 11 /11
Will Power: 11 /11
"You've got an overall of eighty‑three," Cobre announced.
Shade's lips curved into a small smile. "Hey—that's pretty high."
"Not high enough." Cobre shook his head. "The Top Ten all sit above ninety."
Shade raised an eyebrow. "What about yours?"
Cobre produced his own sheet:
Speed: 7 /11
Strength: 10 /11
Durability: 10 /11
Fighting Skill: 9 /11
Intelligence: 7 /11
Strategic Insight: 8 /11
Endurance: 10 /11
Stamina: 10 /11
Will Power: 10 /11
"Eighty‑one," Cobre said lightly.
Shade laughed. "Yours is worse than mine!"
"I never claimed to be better." Cobre shrugged.
At that moment, Shi Ji hobbled in on crutches, bandages crisscrossing his torso, and Akarui Nintai followed with a bandaged head. Both clutched their own review sheets.
"Oh, you're alive," Cobre quipped at Shi Ji.
"Yeah," Shi Ji muttered, bitterness in his tone. "You did a number on me."
Akarui approached Shade with a crooked grin. "I never got to congratulate you on beating me, Shade."
Shade blinked. "Uh… thanks?"
"Come on, you two—let's see those papers!" Cobre insisted, reaching for Shi Ji's sheet before he could react.
Shi Ji's numbers were stark:
All categories: 1 /11
"A nine overall?" Cobre exclaimed. "Record‑breaking… abysmal."
Shi Ji's face reddened.
Akarui revealed his own stats:
Speed: 11 /11
Strength: 8 /11
Durability: 7 /11
Fighting Skill: 10 /11
Intelligence: 10 /11
Strategic Insight: 10 /11
Endurance: 7 /11
Stamina: 5 /11
Will Power: 8 /11
"Seventy‑six," Akarui announced. "Better than some."
All around, prospects reacted—some cheered, others hung their heads, a few scowled.
"And as expected," Akarui added, nodding toward the edge of the room, "Nalcolm made history."
Nalcolm Signa was quietly reading his own sheet:
Speed: 11 /11
Strength: 11 /11
Durability: 11 /11
Fighting Skill: 11 /11
Intelligence: 12 /11
Strategic Insight: 12 /11
Endurance: 11 /11
Stamina: 11 /11
Will Power: 11 /11
An overall of 101.
Shade whistled softly. "Seriously? He must be unstoppable."
"I hate that he's real competition," Cobre admitted. "My only hope is he gets drafted on my team."
"Same," Akarui grinned.
"Drafts start soon," Cobre said, hefting his crutches. "I've got to suit up. See ya, losers." With a dismissive wave, he limped off.
"I should do the same," Akarui said, wandering away.
Shade turned to Shi Ji. "Need help putting on your suit?"
Shi Ji shook his head, shoulders slumped. "Why bother? I'm the lowest overall. Nobody will draft a nine."
"Never say never," Shade encouraged.
Shi Ji's gaze dropped. "It was over before it began."
A heated voice cut through the murmurs: "What do you mean I'm the only casualty causer? If Faulty Tilt can't handle deaths, why even have fights?"
Shade and Shi Ji looked up to see a tall, muscular man with amber eyes and lavender‑streaked hair pacing with a phone at his ear. His tag read Rockie Crepollo.
Rockie snapped his phone shut. "That's just how I fight." He spotted Shade. "Hey, long time!"
They exchanged a quick dap.
"How's your paper?" Shade asked.
Rockie revealed his sheet:
Speed: 8 /11
Strength: 11 /11
Durability: 10 /11
Fighting Skill: 11 /11
Intelligence: 7 /11
Strategic Insight: 3 /11
Endurance: 11 /11
Stamina: 9 /11
Will Power: 11 /11
"Eighty‑one," Rockie said. "You?"
"Eighty‑three," Shade replied with a grin.
"I'd expect nothing less from the star pupil." Rockie patted Shade's back.
Shi Ji joined them hesitantly. "Hi."
"Rockie, meet Shi Ji," Shade said. "Shi Ji, Rockie—childhood friend, never fought."
"Nice to meet you," Shi Ji mumbled.
Rockie studied him. "You're the one who flunked every test, right?"
Shi Ji's cheeks burned. "Y‑yeah."
"You're a good guy, but Faulty Tilt's no place for you—especially with fighters like me around."
Before Shi Ji could reply, Rockie snapped his fingers. "Shoot—I left my church shoes in my luggage! Catch you later!" And he was gone.
"What's his deal?" Shi Ji asked.
"Rockie Crepollo?" Shade shook his head. He's nicknamed Raw Death. "Three thousand fights, zero losses. Most opponents accidentally die—he's basically blessed by Fate. Some say he transfers his death luck onto them."
Shi Ji swallowed hard. "That sounds… dangerous."
"He's a top pick. I've never seen him lose."
Shi Ji's crutch dug into the marble floor. "I hope I never have to fight him… if I even get drafted."
"Confidence, buddy," Shade said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Stats aren't everything."
Shi Ji managed a small nod. "Maybe you're right."
Shade grinned. "I've got to suit up. Good luck!" And with that, he dashed away.
I do need help with this suit… Shi Ji thought, eyes on his crutches as he watched Shade disappear.
Meanwhile, back at his hotel room, Rockie rifled through his wardrobe, humming to himself.
"Dress clothes are so damn uncomfortable! How long do I even need to wear this?" Rockie muttered to himself as he settled in his hotel room. He drew out a pristine pair of church shoes, their polish gleaming in the lamplight.
"This better be quick..." he sighed.
Without warning, the door creaked open. Rockie spun around to find six men clad in stark white uniforms, each gripping a different melee weapon.
"Who are you guys?" Rockie asked, brow furrowing.
The tallest of the group, brandishing a spiked baseball bat dripping with fresh blood, stepped forward and leveled his weapon at Rockie.
"You are to exit the draft," the Bat Wielder intoned. "Or we'll make you."
Rockie scoffed. "Six guys with melee weapons, threatening me? Whose brilliant idea was this?"
"The great draft prospect Qiwee Sousa's," the Bat Wielder replied. "We remove all his competition."
Rockie's lips curled into a grin. "You idiots just told me your boss's name."
"It's not like you'll survive to tell anyone," spat the Bat Wielder—and charged.
Rockie sidestepped easily, the bat's heavy spikes whooshing past.
"Sloppy," Rockie chided. "Qiwee Sousa must really think you can stop born fighters." He raised his fists.
The Bat Wielder swung again; Rockie ducked, pivoting to face him. As the others surged forward—a knife-wielder and a crowbar-swinger—Rockie danced back with balletic grace. The spiked bat came down again; Rockie ducked, springing to the attacker's side. A single, bone‑shattering hook tore through the bat's handle and smashed into the man's jaw. The weapon splintered; the man's skull fractured in a grueling spray of blood and bone. Before he even hit the floor, Rockie followed up with another savage jab that ripped the jaw from his face, and a third strike that sent the head flying backwards, where it lodged in the knife-wielder's skull, erupting it in crimson fragments.
The knife man lunged blindly; Rockie's fist slammed into his temple, crumpling his neck forward until spine met sternum. No sooner had the crowbar wielder swung than Rockie slipped beneath the blow, drove his fist through the man's chest, withdrew it, punched again through his abdomen, and finished with an uppercut that cleanly severed head and neck from torso—sending them arcing into the ceiling.
Only three attackers remained, pale with terror. Rockie's calm voice cut through the silence. "I've never lost a fight—or let an opponent survive one. You want to go next or run?"
Emboldened—or perhaps desperate—a brass‑knuckles fighter lunged. Their fists collided; Rockie's punch shattered the man's arm at the elbow. With a casual backhand, he snapped the man's neck so violently the head twisted nearly 180 degrees before falling.
"Nice work dying for a stranger," Rockie said, peering at the axe‑wielder. The axe came down in a lethal arc; Rockie stepped aside, then ducked the second strike and drove a punch into the man's throat, puncturing it. He crumpled to the floor, gurgling.
Only one remained: a trembling machete‑holder whose eyes filled with tears. Rockie's tone softened. "You saw what happened. Do you want to die too?" The youth seemed to close his eyes and rush forward, swinging madly. Rockie evaded each slash until, finally, he landed a crippling blow in the man's gut, splitting his torso from his legs in a horrifying heave of sprayed entrails.
Silence blanketed the room. Rockie surveyed the carnage, unruffled. "Dammit, my suit's ruined."
Far away, in Shi Ji's quarters, the injured prospect wrestled with his own draft attire, utterly oblivious to the massacre unfolding elsewhere.
Shi Ji hunched over on the thin mattress, every muscle protesting. "Why am I even here?" he whispered to himself, voice ragged. "I'm hurt and exhausted… I should just go home."
The door swung open without warning. A man dressed head‑to‑toe in white filled the frame, a polished pistol gleaming in his hand.
"Oh, it's you—the weak fish guy," the stranger sneered, voice deadpan.
Shi Ji's heart thudded. "Who… who are you?"
The pistol man stepped inside, cold eyes unflinching. "My identity isn't important. What matters is that I know you've been thinking about dropping out of the draft. Hurry up and do it."
Shi Ji's voice trembled. "Why… why do you have a gun?"
"Because I'll use it if you linger in this room any longer. Move." The demand hung in the stale air like a warning.
Trembling, Shi Ji whispered, "I… I don't want to…"
The man's lips curled. "I heard you mumbling about going home just moments ago. What changed your mind?"
Shi Ji pressed his back into the wall. "I'll leave on my own terms—not because someone tells me to."
The man chuckled harshly. "That's idiotic. Fine—just die."
A deafening boom ripped through the room. Instinct propelled Shi Ji sideways, and he slammed behind the bed just as a bullet carved through the space he'd occupied.
"You can't hide forever!" the pistol man barked.
Heart pounding, Shi Ji crouched low, breath shallow. Is this it? he wondered, every nerve screaming. Through the narrow gap, he heard the intruder's furious footsteps.
Suddenly, a grunt sounded, followed by a heavy thud. The pistol man let out a strangled cry—then silence. Moments later, a stunned voice echoed down the corridor.
"Shi Ji! Are you okay?"
Peeking around the mattress, Shi Ji's relief was palpable as he recognized Shade, who stood panting, fist still clenched from the attack. The man in white lay crumpled against the far wall, unconscious.
"Yeah… I'm fine," Shi Ji rasped.
Shade's eyes darted to the fallen stranger. "I heard the shot. What happened in here?"
Shi Ji shook his head, disbelief still on his face. "I… I have no idea."
Shade offered an arm. Gently, he hoisted Shi Ji to his feet and steered him toward the door. "Come on. We need to move."
"Where are you taking me?" Shi Ji asked, wincing.
"My gut says this building's not safe. I've heard whispers—people disappearing. We can't stay put."
They hurried down the dim hallway, adrenaline lending urgency to their steps. At the far end, they nearly collided with Rockie, his clothes and knuckles slick with blood that wasn't his own. In his grip was a grisly trophy—a severed head—which he dropped instantly upon seeing them.
"Shade!" Rockie panted, rushing forward. "Some bastard's goons are roaming the halls, killing prospects!"
Shade's eyes widened. "That's insane."
Rockie nodded grimly. "They're sabotaging the draft. I took out a few of the goons, but…"
"Any prospects hurt?" Shade demanded.
They burst into the nearest room and froze: a prospect lay lifeless on the floor. After checking another, and another, they discovered a trail of bodies stretching down the corridor.
"Damn it," Shade cursed. "They've already gotten so many…"
Rockie's shoulders slumped. "It's a tragedy."
Shi Ji glanced at the clock on the wall. His breath caught. "Guys… the draft—it's already started!"
In the grand auditorium, hundreds of anxious faces glowed under the stage lights. At the mic stood the league's frail commissioner: Craw Wine. Bald and bearded only by age's wrinkles, one eye hidden behind a patch, he shuffled his letters.
"Welcome, everyone," he croaked. "I am Craw Wine, commissioner of the Faulty Tilt. I hope you're all as excited as I am—today is draft day!"
Cheers rippled through the crowd.
Elsewhere, Akarui Nintai lingered in a narrow corridor packed with nervous draftees. Across from him stood a lean youth with messy mint‑green hair and restless brown eyes. His nametag read Qiwee Sousa.
Qiwee's gaze was cold. There are still plenty of prospects left, but only a handful of real threats. Thanks to me, the draft pool's been thinned. He smirked inwardly. That Nintai fellow… he knows exactly what I did. The way he watches me—I can tell.
Akarui blinked, snapping his focus back.
This little mental standoff won't work on me, Akarui. Qiwee's thoughts crackled. Just staring isn't going to accomplish anything.
He turned and strode toward the bathroom, glancing back once to see Akarui still watching. The older boy simply blinked and exhaled, then began walking the other way.
That's right… run while you— Qiwee paused, swinging the door open. Akarui stood directly in front of him.
"How did you—?" Qiwee stammered.
Without warning, Akarui's fist shot forward. Qiwee reeled back, crashing into a stall wall.
"Aah…" Qiwee's hand flew to his nose, blood seeping through his fingers.
"So," Akarui drawled, stepping closer, "did you really tell your lackeys to flaunt your name? This pathetic scheme was bound to flop. Trying to murder all the strong prospects—of course they survived, and now they're hunting you."
Qiwee pushed himself upright, rage flaring. "And what of it? You don't have the guts to kill me before draft day! Getting blood on your hands now would ruin your reputation, Nintai!"
Akarui cracked his knuckles. "Do you think I care about reputation in a league of murderers and criminals?" He squared his shoulders. "You wiped out dozens of innocent prospects, but by the looks of it, you don't belong here either. You rely on an army of lackeys instead of your own skill."
Qiwee sneered. "Don't underestimate me, you mediocre punk—"
"Based on your stats," Akarui interrupted, brandishing a sheet of paper, "you're a 40 overall. Killing other forty‑overalls won't boost your draft stock. Honestly? You should just kill yourself now."
The stats read:
Speed: 4/11
Strength: 3/11
Durability: 5/11
Fighting Skill: 2/11
Intelligence: 6/11
Strategic Insight: 6/11
Endurance: 4/11
Stamina: 3/11
Will Power: 7/11
"Shut up!" Qiwee barked.
Akarui's expression twisted in shock. "Wh-what the—"
Qiwee threw back his head in manic laughter. From his pocket, he produced a pistol and leveled it at Akarui's chest. "I may have the proficiency of a weakling, but my inherited gimmick? One of the strongest."
Akarui's eyes went wide. "You wouldn't dare—your reputation—this is a theater full of people—"
Qiwee's grin widened. "I planned ahead. The commissioner will drone on for two hours—and they'll replay last year's finals. Creativity like Kreat Alt's –"
Suddenly, gunshots rang out from the auditorium. Akarui's gaze flicked toward the distant roar.
"These aren't live rounds," Qiwee crowed. "They're blaring from the speakers!"
"Smart," Akarui admitted grudgingly—just before Qiwee emptied the magazine into his chest, hammering the trigger long after the bullets stopped. Akarui collapsed, crimson pooling beneath him, oozing into the hallway.
Qiwee stepped over the spreading stain, slipped his pistol back into his pocket, and melted back into the corridor as if nothing had happened.
Shi Ji, Shade, and Rockie burst into the waiting hall, hearts still pounding from their rescue mission.
"Where is that bastard?" Rockie barked, scanning the crowd.
Shi Ji rubbed his aching side. "Do you even have a clue what he looks like?"
Rockie shook his head. "Not a one. But surely he'd be smarter than to keep wearing his name tag—right?"
Their footsteps echoed down the corridor until they froze at a dark stain spreading from a bathroom doorway.
"Holy shit," Rockie muttered. "He's dumb enough to leave a crime scene behind?"
Shade approached cautiously, peering into the small room. "Who…?" His breath caught. There, half‑hidden in the shadows, lay Akarui Nintai—limp, pale, and soaked through with blood.
"Akarui!" Shade plunged forward, wading through the crimson pool to find a pulse.
"He's alive," Shade gasped.
A raspy cough answered him. Akarui's lips parted. "G‑green… haired… b‑bastard…"
Rockie's jaw clenched. "Save your strength, man!"
Shi Ji stepped closer, every joint protesting. "I can help."
Rockie scoffed. "What, you? You're beat to hell yourself."
Shi Ji's eyes blazed with determination. "I won't just stand here and watch him die."
In one fluid motion, he spat a fine mist of water over Akarui's body. The droplets pooled on flesh and fabric alike, glimmering in the overhead light.
Shade whirled around. "What did you—?"
Shi Ji swallowed. "It's healing water. Part of my bloodline's legacy: water that burns, and water that mends. I've barely learned to control it—my healing isn't perfect. It only closes wounds and dulls pain."
Rockie's lips twitched. "No wonder you lost to that dragon guy—you tried to scorch him with a band‑aid."
Shi Ji winced. "Y‑yes."
Rockie snorted. "What were you thinking?"
Akarui coughed again, blood flecking his chin. "Th‑thank you… If you hadn't arrived…" His eyelids fluttered.
Shade cradled him gently. "Lean on me." Lifting Akarui onto his shoulders, he started down the hall.
"So you were ambushed by the man himself," Shade murmured.
Akarui groaned, voice faint. "He… paralyzed me… then shot me…"
Rockie's brow furrowed. "Sounds like a gimmick."
Akarui's head lolled. "I've… lost so… much blood…"
Shade's grip tightened. "Stay with us!" But Akarui's consciousness slipped away and his body sagged.
"Shi Ji!" Shade set Akarui against the wall and crouched beside him.
Shi Ji's gaze flicked from his friend to the retreating shadows. "You two go on without me. I'll keep him alive with my water—long enough for medics. Go find our culprit!"
Rockie didn't hesitate. "On it!" He darted off, Shade close behind.
Lean and silent, Qiwee Sousa pressed himself against a wall in the far hallway. Akarui Nintai warned me I'd be hunted, he thought, heart pounding. Maybe dumping that entire magazine into him was overkill. His fingers found the cool steel of the pocket knife in his pocket.
Footsteps thundered closer. Qiwee peeked around the corner and saw Shade and Rockie barreling at him.
Shade's voice split the air: "Qiwee… SOUSA!"
Before he could react, Rockie lunged. Qiwee kicked off the wall, slipping through their grasp. But as he sprinted past Rockie, Qiwee locked eyes with him—and with a flick of his wrist, triggered the same paralyzing gimmick that had felled Akarui.
Rockie froze mid‑stride, limbs stiff as stone. Shade tripped over his companion's rigid form and tumbled, cursing.
"Dammit! He got me too!" Rockie snarled. "Finish this, Shade!"
Shade sprang to his feet and resumed the chase.
Twists and turns blurred into a labyrinth of tile and steel. Qiwee's breath came in ragged gasps as he barreled down a dim stairwell. At the bottom, the corridor opened into a cavernous chamber—wrecking balls dangling from above, swaying like ominous pendulums.
Shade skidded to a halt at the stairwell's mouth. "What is this place?"
A few yards away, Qiwee slowed, pocket knife already in hand, eyes glittering.
"As if I knew," he taunted.
Shade squared his shoulders, adrenalized. He slid into his fighting stance, every muscle coiled, ready for the final confrontation.
Between them, the pendulums creaked ominously, as if the chamber itself were holding its breath.