Cold.
Not the cold of a winter night, not the kind that bites your skin. This was different. It lived inside me, heavy and endless, like a grave dug too deep. For so long—too long—there was only that emptiness.
Then came the crack.
A jagged line of red split the darkness. Symbols I didn't recognize crawled across the frost-covered glass in front of me, burning themselves into my skull.
Cryo-asset 2213-E.D.
Containment unstable.
Release protocol initiated.
E.D. Elias Drexler. My name. My prison. My curse.
The pod hissed open. Frost shattered. Steam billowed out like smoke from a dying machine. I tumbled forward, half-naked, drenched in coolant that clung to my skin like oil. My chest convulsed, lungs clawing for air. The taste hit me like poison—metal, rust, acid. My body shuddered as if trying to reject the air itself.
I coughed, gagged, tried to rise. My right arm jerked violently. Flesh tore open, revealing pistons and cables that twitched like tendons. A faint red glow pulsed under the skin. Horror should've consumed me, but instead something deeper whispered: You always knew.
Boots scraped against steel. Voices cut through the haze.
"Asset's awake," one rasped, metallic through a broken mask.
"Finally," another laughed, harsh and eager. "The Vault spits out its monster."
Monster. The word slid into me too easily, as though it had been waiting.
I tried to speak, but blood spilled from my mouth—blood that shimmered faintly red. That made them pause.
"He's got the Core," one muttered, greed in his voice.
Chains snapped around me, sparking electricity that tore through my nerves. I convulsed, too weak, too broken to resist. They dragged me through tunnels that stank of oil and mold, their flickering lights throwing shadows across walls scrawled with graffiti that glowed under ultraviolet.
THE RATS DON'T KNEEL.
BLOOD IS FREEDOM.
THE HOLLOW CROWN SEES ALL.
Every step echoed with a roar that grew louder, swelling until it shook the walls. A thousand voices. Hungry. Mad. I knew that sound—it wasn't celebration. It was bloodlust.
The tunnel opened. Neon light stabbed into my eyes.
The arena unfolded before me. A coliseum of steel and rust, its walls jagged, its bleachers crammed with masked faces. Their visors pulsed with shifting neon, a sea of colors screaming down at me. Smoke, sweat, and electricity thickened the air, making each breath heavy.
Screens flickered above, spitting betting odds in glitching text.
Iron Syndicate's Champion – 2:1.
Black Seraph Duelists – 5:1.
Vault Asset – 30:1.
That was me. A number. A gamble. Disposable.
"Degenerates of the Underhive!" a voice bellowed from the speakers, jagged with static. "From the Cryo Vault, from the wars you've forgotten—Elias Drexler, the Crimson Asset!"
The crowd roared, neon banners waving, chains rattling in mockery. Some spat, some laughed, some screamed for my death.
The shackles fell. My knees buckled. My chest throbbed, the glow under my ribs pulsing faster, brighter, as if it had been waiting for this moment.
Across the pit, the gates hissed open.
And they came.
The first was a mountain, his jaw fused with rusted steel plates. Sparks spat as he ground them together, a grotesque parody of teeth. His roar vibrated in my bones.
Behind him came three more: a thug with chainsaw arms sputtering flame, another dragging a spiked chain glowing faint acid, and a duelist with eyes glowing white, twin blades jutting from his wrists.
Four against one.
The crowd screamed for blood.
The giant charged. I staggered forward, my body moving before thought. My right arm split open with a shriek of tearing sinew and steel, flesh peeling back to reveal metal. The blade unfolded, humming faint crimson.
The monoblade.
I swung.
The giant's jaw shattered in sparks. His body collapsed, twitching in the sand.
The crowd gasped, silence hanging for a heartbeat.
Then the chainsaws roared. The thug screamed, slamming both spinning arms at me. Sparks exploded as they clashed with my blade, the vibration rattling through my bones. He pressed me down, sneering as he ground his saws against me. My knees buckled.
My chest ignited.
The Core pulsed, veins glowing beneath my skin like molten rivers. Strength surged, alien but intoxicating. I shoved harder than I should've been able to, and the saw buckled. My blade pierced his chest, splitting him open. His scream vanished beneath the crowd's roar as neon blood sprayed across the arena.
The chain lashed my throat, dragging me down. The thug yanked, choking me, grinning wide as I clawed for breath. My vision blurred red.
The Core answered.
Heat exploded from my chest, crimson light spilling across my body. Steam hissed from my skin. I grabbed the chain, ripped it apart, and dragged him forward. My blade cleaved him from groin to skull, spraying neon blood that hissed as it struck the steel.
The last duelist froze. His glowing eyes flickered with fear. He turned, bolting for the gate. The crowd booed, but I didn't hear them.
I chased. Too fast. Too strong. My blade pierced his spine, driving him into the steel. He convulsed once, then went still, blood dripping down the gate in glowing rivers.
The arena went silent.
I stood in the center, chest burning like a furnace, blade dripping neon blood, eyes glowing crimson. Thousands stared, their neon masks flickering. For one perfect second, the world held its breath.
Then a voice screamed: "EXILE!"
Another picked it up. Then another.
"EXILE! EXILE! EXILE!"
The chant thundered, shaking the ground, a storm of voices rising into something greater than the arena itself.
I stood there, bathed in blood and neon, steam rising from my wounds.
And for the first time, I understood.
I wasn't their prisoner.
I wasn't their entertainment.
I was their monster.
The chanting didn't stop.
It rolled through the arena like thunder, each voice adding weight until the walls shook with it. "EXILE! EXILE! EXILE!" My name—no, not my name. A curse. A crown.
I stood in the pit, blade dripping, chest glowing like a furnace. The blood at my feet shimmered neon red, mixing with the rain that leaked through the broken ceiling above. Steam hissed, rising around me like smoke from a fresh forge.
The crowd wasn't cheering for a man. They were screaming for a monster they had created in their minds.
And part of me—an ugly part—felt alive in their worship.
From the bleachers, I saw masks tilt, eyes glowing neon, gangs chanting with frenzy. Iron Syndicate thugs slammed their fists together, roaring approval. Black Seraph fanatics raised their arms in mock prayer, as though my slaughter was a ritual blessing. Even the Krieg Rats, usually skulking in shadows, shrieked with nervous laughter, already whispering my name.
Not all were celebrating. In the corporate box high above, glass tinted blue with neon glare, figures watched in silence. I didn't need to hear them to know the taste of their thoughts—calculations, bets, threats.
On one holo-screen, numbers shifted rapidly as wagers recalculated. Longshot odds collapsed. My name—"Vault Asset"—flashed, then glitched, replaced by a single word in angry red text: EXILE.
Somewhere far away, across the neon towers that scraped the poisoned skies, I knew others were watching. The roar of this crowd wasn't staying in this pit—it was bleeding into every bar, every brothel, every alley where VoidNet's screens streamed the fight.
A name was being born, and it wasn't mine anymore.
The floodlights dimmed. The announcer's voice cracked, shaken despite the static that masked him. "And thus…the Vault gives you your champion. The Crimson Exile!"
The arena howled.
I staggered back, chest heaving, my monoblade dripping with gore. My body trembled not from fear, but from something worse—hunger. The Core inside me wasn't quiet. It pulsed, wanting more, whispering promises in the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Guards poured in, armored men with stun prods and crackling chains. The crowd booed, throwing cans and broken bottles at them. They didn't matter. All eyes were on me.
I almost smiled. Almost.
The chains wrapped me again, sparking against my skin. I didn't resist this time. Not because I was weak—but because I wanted to see where this path led.
As they dragged me out, the chant still thundered.
Exile. Exile. Exile.
The sound followed me through the tunnels, echoing off graffiti-stained walls, searing itself into my skull.
But not all echoes were the same. Somewhere deeper in the noise, whispers bled through. Voices that didn't chant—they calculated, plotted, feared.
"They'll never control him."
"Exile will burn the underhive down."
"The Core is unstable."
"He belongs to Aegis. Or no one."
I didn't know who spoke. Gang leaders in hidden boxes, corporate watchers through VoidNet feeds, cult zealots with their prayers tuned to neon static. But they had all seen it now.
The Vault Monster had woken.
And the world would never bury me again.