"It started a long time ago," Odd said, his voice quiet but steady. "When I was just a kid."
He stared at the ceiling, but his eyes were seeing something else. Somewhere else. A different time.
Lucius remained silent, listening.
"I was born in 2045. Generation N2, technically, though I was right at the tail end of it. The world was still adjusting to NovaBreeds after the war cooled down and around when the stalemate happened. Things were... complicated."
Odd shifted slightly, wincing at the pain in his ribs.
"I grew up in a broken home. Poor. Real poor. The kind where you learn to count pennies before you learn to read. My father left when I was four. Went out to buy cigarettes one day and never came back. Classic story, right?"
He let out a bitter laugh.
"So it was just me, my mother, and my little sister. Sarah. She was two years younger than me. Sweetest kid you'd ever meet. Always smiling, even when we didn't have enough to eat."
His expression softened at the memory, then hardened again.
"My mother did everything she could. Worked two, sometimes three jobs. But it was never enough. We lived in this tiny apartment in the worst part of the city. The kind of place where you heard gunshots at night and learned not to look out the window."
Odd's jaw clenched.
"My mother had a brother. My uncle. He was... not a good man. Never had been. But when you're desperate and broke, and someone offers to help? You don't ask too many questions. He supported us financially. Gave us money for rent, for food. Not out of kindness—he made sure my mother knew she owed him. Reminded her constantly. Every time he came over, it was 'remember what I did for you' and 'you'd be on the streets without me.' That kind of thing."
His hands clenched into fists.
"I was twelve when my powers manifested. It happened during a fight at school—some older kids cornered me, tried to take what little money I had. I was getting beaten pretty badly, and then... something changed. My body went soft, like rubber. Their punches didn't hurt anymore. Just bounced off. I slipped away from them and ran."
Odd took a shaky breath.
"My mother was terrified when I told her. This was when the whole superhero thing was getting really popular—organizations recruiting NovaBreeds left and right, promising glory and purpose. But my mother saw through it. She knew what it really was. Exploitation. Using kids as weapons. She made me promise to keep it secret. To never use my powers where anyone could see. And I tried. I really tried."
His voice went cold.
"But my uncle found out. Caught me using my abilities to reach something on a high shelf when I thought I was alone. He saw dollar signs. Started talking about how valuable I could be. How someone would pay good money for a NovaBreed kid. My mother tried to stop him, told him absolutely not, that she'd never let him take me."
Odd stopped, swallowing hard.
"He got angry. Started yelling about how ungrateful she was. How he'd done everything for her and this was how she repaid him. One thing led to another, and he... he killed her. Right there in our apartment. Hit her so hard she didn't get back up. Sarah was screaming. I was frozen. Couldn't move. Couldn't think."
The room was silent except for the steady beeping of medical equipment.
"My uncle grabbed both of us. Tied us up, threw us in the back of his truck. He knew a guy, he said. Someone who paid well for NovaBreed kids. And if I had powers, maybe Sarah did too. Two for the price of one."
Odd's voice was shaking now.
"He was driving like a maniac. Going way too fast on these back roads, heading out of the city. Sarah was crying. I was trying to get free from the ropes, but I couldn't. My powers—the softening—they weren't helping. I needed something else. Something harder."
He closed his eyes.
"I managed to get one hand free. Just one. And I was so angry, so terrified, so desperate. I reached through the gap between the front seats and I hit him. As hard as I could. Right in the side of the head."
"The truck swerved. He lost control. We went off the road at full speed, crashed through a guardrail, flipped three times before we hit a tree. The impact was... I can't even describe it. The sound. The feeling."
Odd's voice broke.
"My body turned solid right before impact. The hardening. Like stone. It saved my life. But Sarah didn't have powers. She was just a normal kid. And the crash... my uncle died on impact. Sarah died before the ambulance arrived. And I survived without a scratch."
He couldn't continue for a moment, tears streaming down his face.
"The city took me after that. Put me in an orphanage for 'specially gifted' children. That's what they called us. Gifted. It was one of those places where superhero organizations came to recruit. They'd come through, test the kids, see who had useful powers. If your abilities were combat-oriented or flashy, you got recruited. Training programs, sponsorships, the whole package."
Odd's expression was bitter.
"But gel production and manipulation? Defensive. Support-oriented. Not flashy. Not marketable. So I got passed over. Again and again. Just another kid with useless abilities, taking up space. There was discrimination. From the other kids, from some of the staff. The ones who got recruited would lord it over the rest of us. Tell us we were worthless. That we'd never amount to anything."
He shifted in the bed.
"I blamed myself for Sarah's death. Every single day. If I hadn't hit my uncle, if I'd just waited for a better opportunity, if I'd been smarter... maybe she'd still be alive. That guilt ate at me for years. At sixteen, I couldn't take it anymore. The discrimination, the memories, the guilt. I ran away and ended up on the streets."
"And when you're a homeless teenager with no education, no job skills, and no family... you do what you have to do to survive. I became a thief. My powers made it easy. I could squeeze through gaps normal people couldn't, slip out of grips when I got caught, harden myself if things got violent. I wasn't good at it at first—got arrested a few times, spent some nights in jail."
His jaw clenched.
"That went on for a few years. Small-time stuff mostly. Burglaries, pickpocketing, whatever paid. I wasn't proud of it, but I was surviving. That's all that mattered. Then I got caught on a bigger job. One of the heroes—some flashy guy with super strength—beat the hell out of me and dragged me to one of the special prisons. The NovaBreed detention facilities."
Odd's expression darkened at the memory.
"Those places were... brutal. They treated us like animals. Dangerous animals that needed to be contained. I spent three years in there. That's where I got the nickname 'Odd.' Some guard started calling me that because of how my powers worked—odd abilities, odd behavior, odd kid. It stuck."
His expression softened slightly.
"But that's also where I decided I was going to change. For real this time. I'd wasted so much of my life already. Sarah wouldn't have wanted this for me. My mother wouldn't have wanted this. So when I got out, I tried to go straight. Find legitimate work, build a real life."
"That's when I met Annie. She was working at a convenience store. Caught me one night, not stealing, just... looking at food I couldn't afford. And instead of calling the cops, she bought it for me. Said everyone deserves to eat."
A genuine smile crossed Odd's face.
"She was beautiful. Kind. Smart. Everything I wasn't. I came back the next night, and the next, and eventually I worked up the courage to actually talk to her. One thing led to another, and... she became the reason I wanted to be better. I told her everything. The theft, the arrests, the prison time. I thought for sure she'd leave. But she said everyone makes mistakes. What matters is what you do after."
His voice was thick with emotion.
"She believed in me when I didn't believe in myself. So I stopped. Cold turkey. No more stealing. I was going to go straight, find legitimate work, build a real life. But it wasn't that simple. My criminal record followed me everywhere. Every job application got rejected. Even the ones that didn't care about the record cared that I was a NovaBreed. The doors just kept closing."
"Annie became the primary provider. She was working as a bank teller, but she picked up two more part-time jobs to support us. I tried to help—manual labor, odd jobs, anything that would hire me. But it was never consistent. Never enough."
His jaw set.
"We got married despite all that. She said she didn't care if we were poor as long as we were together. And then Maya was born. Ten years ago. The moment I saw her—this tiny, perfect little person—everything changed. I wasn't just trying to survive anymore. I had someone depending on me. Someone I had to protect."
Odd's voice strengthened.
"I made a promise that day. No more crime. No more shortcuts. I was going to be the father she deserved. The kind of man she could be proud of. So I kept my head down, worked whatever jobs I could find, stayed clean. And two years later, Ruby was born. She looked just like Annie. Same smile, same eyes."
His expression crumpled.
"We were struggling. Bills piling up, living paycheck to paycheck. But we were happy. Annie and I, we made it work. The girls had food, had clothes, had a roof over their heads. It wasn't much, but it was ours."
Silence fell for a moment.
"Then Annie died."
Odd's voice broke completely. He had to stop, take several shaky breaths.
"She'd been hiding how exhausted she was. How much the three jobs were destroying her. She just kept pushing, kept working herself to the bone because she didn't want the girls to suffer. And one day she just... collapsed. Heart failure. The doctors said it was from chronic stress, overwork, lack of sleep. Her body just gave out."
Tears streamed down his face.
"I tried to keep things together after she died. Tried to raise the girls on my own while working. But I couldn't do it. Couldn't work enough hours to support us and still be there for them. Couldn't afford childcare. Couldn't afford anything. Child services came knocking. Said the girls were being neglected. That I was an unfit parent. No stable income, criminal record, couldn't provide proper care. They were right, technically. I couldn't give Maya and Ruby what they needed. Not by myself. Not legally."
His hands clenched into fists.
"They took my daughters. Put them in foster care. Said if I could prove I had stable employment and a safe home environment, I could apply to get them back. But how was I supposed to do that? Every legitimate job rejected me because of my record or my powers. I was trapped."
His voice dropped to barely a whisper.
"I almost went back to crime. Almost. I planned one last job—a big one. Something that would set me up for months, give me time to figure things out. I did all the prep work, had everything ready. But the night before, I went to the foster home where they were keeping the girls. Just to see them through the window. And I saw Maya reading to Ruby before bed. Just like Annie used to. And I remembered what I promised. What Annie believed I could be."
Odd's jaw set with determination.
"I couldn't do it. Couldn't go back to that life. Couldn't become the person Annie had saved me from being. There had to be another way. And three days later, the invitation arrived. Just appeared on my doorstep in a box. The invitation to the tournament, along with photos of my daughters and a very clear message: come fight, or something might happen to the people you care about."
He looked at nothing in particular, his eyes distant.
"But I didn't care about the threat. I cared about the prize. The winner's money. Enough to start a legitimate business, to prove to the city I could provide. Enough to get Maya and Ruby back. So I accepted. Because this is my only chance. My only way to be the father I promised to be. To give my daughters the life Annie and I dreamed of."
His voice was firm despite the tears.
"I know the risks. I know I might die here. But if I don't try—if I just give up—then I'm as good as dead anyway. And my daughters deserve better than a father who quit."
Silence filled the room.
Lucius had remained completely still throughout the entire story, his expression unreadable, his eyes focused on Odd. He hadn't interrupted once. Hadn't made a sound. Just listened.
Now, after several long moments, he finally spoke.
"You can still quit."
Odd's head snapped toward him. "What?"
"Withdraw from the tournament. Forfeit. Leave." Lucius's tone was matter-of-fact. "It's not too late."
"But the prize money—"
"Is meaningless if you're dead. You're not a natural fighter. Your abilities are defensive, not offensive. You barely survived your first match. The fighters in round two will be stronger. More experienced. More ruthless."
Odd's jaw clenched. "So what, I should just give up? Abandon my daughters?"
"You'll be abandoning them permanently if you die here."
"And what kind of life will they have if I'm alive but can't provide for them?" Odd's voice rose. "They'll grow up in foster care, or get adopted by strangers, or age out of the system and end up just like I did. I can't let that happen."
"So you'd rather die trying to prevent it."
"Yes! I'd rather die trying than live knowing I could have done something and didn't. They're my daughters. They're all I have left of Annie. I'm not going to fail them."
Lucius studied him for a long moment, something shifting in his expression.
"Even if the odds are against you."
"Especially if the odds are against me. Because that's when it matters most." Odd's voice was steady now, filled with conviction. "Annie believed in me when no one else did. She saw something in me worth saving. And if I quit now, if I walk away because it's dangerous or difficult or terrifying... then I'm proving everyone else right."
He met Lucius's gaze directly.
"I need to prove it to myself. That I can be the father Maya and Ruby deserve. That I'm worth what Annie sacrificed for me."
Silence stretched between them.
Then Lucius stood.
"Rest up. When you're recovered, I'll teach you how to make the best use of your abilities in fights."
Odd blinked in surprise. "Why would you do that? We might end up facing each other."
Lucius paused at the door, glancing back with an expression that might have been amusement.
"Says the guy who tried to save someone who tried to kill him."
He walked out, closing the door quietly behind him.
---
The corridor outside the medical area was quieter than usual. Most fighters were either in their quarters or waiting for the next match.
Lucius walked at a measured pace, his mind processing the conversation.
There was no falsehood in his story.
The thought came unbidden, simple and clear. Odd's conviction was genuine. His desperation was real. Everything he'd said carried the weight of truth.
Not all criminals are beyond redemption.
Lucius had seen enough of the world to know that. Had met enough people trapped by circumstances, by bad choices, by systems designed to keep them down.
But some are.
Plague. The name echoed in his mind. A man who'd tortured NovaBreeds for entertainment during the war. Who'd committed atrocities that would make even hardened criminals sick.
That one is beyond redemption.
Lucius checked the time as he passed a digital display in the corridor. 3:17 PM.
Diablo's fight was already over. Plague's match was starting in about forty minutes.
He needed to see it. Needed to confirm what he already knew.
Lucius made his way toward the arena viewing section.
---
The contestant viewing area was moderately full when Lucius arrived. Fighters who'd already won their matches sat scattered throughout the section, along with a few who hadn't fought yet and were studying the competition.
Lucius spotted Seung sitting in his usual spot—middle rows, good view of the arena floor. The executive was scrolling through his tablet, probably reviewing betting statistics.
Lucius made his way over and sat down next to him.
Seung looked up immediately, his expression brightening. "King! There you are! Where were you? You missed Fight 13—Diablo versus Andrew. It was epic! Absolutely brutal! Could've made some good money on it too, if I'd known which way to bet."
"I was visiting Odd."
"Oh." Seung's expression shifted to something more serious. "How is he? That fight yesterday was... intense."
"He's fine. Stronger than he looks."
Seung studied Lucius for a moment, then nodded. "Good. That's good. I hope he makes it through round two. Seems like a decent guy, all things considered."
"He is."
"Though I'm glad I didn't bet on Fight 13," Seung continued, returning to his usual chattiness. "I was sure Andrew would win—bigger guy, more aggressive fighting style. But Diablo? Man, that guy lives up to his name. Absolutely demolished Andrew. Fire everywhere, that demon transformation... it was insane."
Lucius nodded, filing away the information. Diablo had won convincingly, which meant he'd be advancing to round two as well.
The arena floor below was being cleaned and reset for the next match. Medical personnel were clearing away equipment, maintenance crews were smoothing the sand, checking the barriers.
The viewing screens positioned throughout the facility updated with the upcoming fight details:
FIGHT 14 - ROUND ONE
PLAGUE VS OLIVER SCOT
Seung leaned forward, studying the names. "Plague versus Oliver. You know anything about these guys?"
"Some."
"Care to share? I need to figure out where to put my money."
Lucius glanced at him. "The outcome should be fairly obvious. Even you must have heard about Plague."
"A little," Seung admitted. "But you know me—I can't just believe every rumor I hear. People exaggerate. Especially about fighters."
Lucius's expression remained neutral. "Plague is a Sentinel for the Big Boys."
Seung's eyes widened. "Wait, what? A Sentinel? Like, actual Big Boys hierarchy?"
"Yes."
"Then what the hell is he doing in the tournament?"
"He comes here occasionally. Not to win. Just to kill, torture, whatever his sick twisted mind comes up with. It's entertainment for him."
Seung looked disturbed. "That's... that's messed up. But if he's that strong, why hasn't he won before?"
"Because he doesn't care about winning. He forfeits if the match becomes boring, or if he's placed against someone else who works for the Big Boys—like Adam Mavrick. No point fighting your own people."
Seung processed this information, his expression shifting from curiosity to concern. "So we're about to watch a murder, basically."
"Essentially."
"And the Big Boys allow this? Just let their Sentinels come down here and slaughter tournament participants?"
Lucius leaned back in his seat. "The Big Boys have a complex structure. On the legitimate side, they're a corporate entity—sponsors heroes, has departments in the NovaBreed Containment Corp, operates legal businesses. Board of Directors, Vice Directors, regional management. Very official."
"And on the illegitimate side?"
"Completely separate hierarchy. The Overlord at the top—shadowy figure and or figures nobody's actually seen. High Commanders who report directly to the Overlord. Then Enforcers, who handle high-stakes operations. Sentinels like Plague, who are elite operatives. Field Commanders like Adam Mavrick, who manage ground operations. Then Lieutenants, Specialists, Agents. All of it hidden behind corporate legitimacy."
Seung whistled low. "And the tournament?"
"Serves multiple purposes. Trafficking auction, recruitment for the organization, entertainment for the criminal elite who attend. The Underground is prime Big Boys territory. They control everything here."
"That's... terrifying."
"That's reality."
Seung was quiet for a moment, absorbing the information. Then he looked at the betting interface on his tablet. "So I should bet on Plague."
"If you want to keep your money, yes."
The lights in the arena began to dim slightly, signaling that the pre-fight presentation was about to begin. The crowd's volume increased in anticipation.
The entrance to the medical clearance area opened, and Oliver Scot emerged first.
He was a large man—six-foot-three, heavily muscled, probably in his early thirties. His skin was dark, his head shaved, and he carried himself with the confidence of someone who'd been in plenty of fights and won most of them. He wore simple fighting gear—black shorts and a compression shirt. His hands were wrapped in tape, and his expression was focused, aggressive.
He looked like a brawler. Someone who relied on physical strength and durability to overwhelm opponents.
The opposite entrance opened, and Plague appeared.
He was ancient.
Plague had to be at least eighty years old, possibly older. Time had not been kind to him. He stood barely five-foot-eight, his body so thin and frail-looking that a strong wind might topple him. His skin was paper-thin, stretched tight over prominent bones, covered in liver spots and a roadmap of veins visible beneath the translucent surface. Deep wrinkles carved his face into a topographical map of cruelty and age.
His hair was pure white, wispy and sparse, combed back from a liver-spotted scalp. His ears were large and protruding, his nose hooked like a bird of prey. But it was his eyes that carried the real horror—milky with cataracts around the edges, yet the dark centers gleamed with a sharp, predatory intelligence. They were the eyes of someone who'd seen too much suffering and had long ago stopped caring. Or worse, had learned to enjoy it.
His hands were gnarled, knuckles swollen with arthritis, fingers bent at unnatural angles. Dark veins stood out prominently on the backs of his hands. His nails were yellowed and thick.
He wore a simple gray robe that hung on his skeletal frame like a shroud, tied at the waist with a frayed cord. The robe was old, stained, the hem tattered. His feet were bare, revealing gnarled toes and cracked, yellowed toenails.
He moved with the slow, deliberate shuffle of extreme age, each step careful and measured. His breathing was audible even from a distance—a slight wheeze that suggested damaged lungs. He hunched forward slightly, his spine curved with osteoporosis.
He looked like he belonged in a hospice, not a fighting arena. Like death had forgotten to collect him decades ago.
Oliver stood at his end of the arena, bouncing on his feet, rolling his shoulders, a grin spreading across his face. He was clearly thinking he'd gotten lucky. An old man. An easy win.
Plague shuffled to his position and stood perfectly still, his gnarled hands clasped in front of him, his rheumy eyes fixed on Oliver with that unsettling gleam.
"He looks like he's about to keel over," Seung muttered. "Are you sure about this?"
"Watch," Lucius said quietly.
Jamal's voice boomed through the speakers. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fight Fourteen of Round One! Oliver Scot, the powerhouse from Chicago, versus Plague, the returning veteran!"
Haurang provided calmer commentary. "Oliver Scot is making his tournament debut, bringing considerable physical strength and combat experience. Plague is a returning participant with... a unique fighting style."
The betting window opened. Seung pulled up the interface on his tablet.
The odds appeared on the screens throughout the arena:
PLAGUE - 97%
OLIVER SCOT - 3%
"Almost everyone's betting on Plague," Seung said. "That's... really lopsided for someone who looks like that."
"They know," Lucius said simply.
Seung placed his bet on Plague, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely confident.
The betting window closed. The countdown reached zero.
Jamal's voice exploded through the speakers: "FIGHT!"
The moment the word left Jamal's mouth, Plague's expression changed.
The vacant, elderly stare vanished. His milky eyes sharpened with focus. His lips pulled back in a smile that revealed yellowed, crooked teeth.
It was the smile of a scientist about to begin an interesting experiment.
Oliver charged forward, clearly intending to end this quickly.
He made it two steps.
From the sand at Oliver's feet, something emerged. Not bursting up dramatically, but rising slowly, deliberately. A beetle. But not a normal beetle.
It was the size of a dinner plate, its carapace gleaming black as obsidian. But as it fully emerged, its true horror became apparent. The beetle's back split open, and from within, dozens of tiny legs unfolded—not beetle legs, but something closer to spider legs, thin and jointed.
Oliver stumbled back, his confidence faltering.
Plague raised one gnarled hand slightly, and the beetle scuttled forward with disturbing speed.
Oliver tried to kick it away. His foot connected with the carapace—
CRACK.
Pain shot through Oliver's foot. The carapace was harder than stone. Oliver cursed, hobbling backward.
The beetle reached him and climbed onto his leg with those spider-like appendages. Oliver tried to shake it off, but the legs gripped with incredible strength, puncturing through his pants, into his skin.
Then it bit.
The mandibles opened and closed on Oliver's calf, not tearing, just... holding. Injecting.
Oliver screamed. Not from pain—not yet. From the sensation. Something was moving under his skin. Crawling. Spreading.
Plague hadn't moved from his position. He just watched with that clinical interest, his head tilted slightly like a doctor observing a patient's reaction to treatment.
More insects emerged from the sand. Not swarming—that would be too simple. Each one appeared with purpose, with intention.
A centipede, three feet long, segmented body gleaming. It approached Oliver slowly, almost lazily. When it reached him, it climbed up his other leg, wrapping around his thigh like a living rope. Its hundreds of legs gripped simultaneously.
Then it squeezed.
Just a little. Just enough to make Oliver aware of how easily it could crush bone.
A spider emerged next. Massive, the size of a small dog, its eight legs moving in perfect coordination. It circled Oliver like a predator assessing prey.
Oliver tried to move, to run, but the insects holding him tightened their grip. He pulled at the beetle on his calf, but touching it sent jolts of something through his nervous system. Not quite pain. Not quite numbness. Something worse—wrongness.
"What's happening?" Seung whispered, his face pale. "Why isn't he fighting back properly?"
"Venom," Lucius said quietly. "Probably neurotoxin mixed with something else. Plague isn't trying to kill him quickly. He's... testing."
The spider reached Oliver and rose up on its hind legs, front legs extended. Then it placed those legs delicately on Oliver's chest, like a doctor palpating a patient.
Plague spoke then, his voice thin and reedy with age, but carrying clearly across the arena. "Fascinating. Your heart rate is elevated. Fear response, certainly. But also the venom's effect on your cardiovascular system. Let's see how much your body can process before the real fun begins."
He made another small gesture.
The spider's legs pressed harder against Oliver's chest. Not stabbing, not cutting—just pressing. Feeling. Then its mandibles opened, and a thin proboscis extended, pressing against Oliver's sternum.
It began to drink. Not blood—something else. Cerebrospinal fluid, maybe. Or lymphatic fluid. The spider was sampling, testing, analyzing like a living syringe.
Oliver's screams turned to whimpers. His body was shaking uncontrollably now, whether from fear or the venom's effects, it was impossible to tell.
"The tremors are progressing nicely," Plague observed, speaking as if giving a lecture. "Next phase."
From the sand emerged wasps. Not the giant monstrosities one might expect, but normal-sized. Dozens of them. They flew in perfect formation, landing on Oliver's exposed skin—his face, his neck, his arms.
They didn't sting immediately. They walked across his skin, antennae twitching, examining. Then, with surgical precision, each wasp selected a spot and inserted its stinger. Not deep. Just beneath the skin's surface.
And they stayed there. Stingers embedded, injecting small, controlled doses of venom directly into nerve endings.
Oliver's screams reached a new pitch. His body convulsed, but the insects held him upright, wouldn't let him fall.
"Excellent nerve response," Plague said approvingly. "The compound is working faster than anticipated. Perhaps because of your muscle mass—more blood flow, faster distribution."
He shuffled forward a few steps, moving closer to observe, his rheumy eyes gleaming with fascination.
The centipede around Oliver's thigh began to move. Not squeezing harder, but shifting position. Its segments separated slightly, and from between them, tiny larvae emerged. White, wriggling things that immediately began burrowing into Oliver's skin through the holes the centipede's legs had made.
"No, no, god, please—" Oliver's words were barely coherent, his mind breaking from the sensation of things moving inside him.
"Subcutaneous exploration," Plague explained, his tone that of a teacher. "They're mapping your musculature. Fascinating creatures, really. They can sense the density of tissue, identify weak points. In nature, they use this to determine the best location for metamorphosis. Here, they simply report back."
The beetle on Oliver's calf released its bite and scuttled higher, joining the spider on his chest. Together, the two insects worked in coordination, the beetle's mandibles carefully—almost delicately—cutting through Oliver's shirt while the spider's legs held the fabric taut.
Once his chest was exposed, Plague nodded appreciatively. "Good. Let's test pain threshold variance."
The wasps on Oliver's face repositioned themselves. Several clustered near his temples, others near his ears. When they stung this time, they injected larger doses. Oliver's eyes rolled back, his body seizing.
But he didn't pass out. Plague wouldn't allow that. Whatever venom cocktail he'd designed, it kept Oliver conscious, kept him feeling everything.
"Consciousness maintained even under severe neural stress," Plague noted. "Excellent. The compound is working as designed."
The centipede unwound from Oliver's thigh and positioned itself at his feet. Then it began to wrap around his torso, spiraling upward like a living constraint. As it moved, its segments secreted something—a clear fluid that made Oliver's skin break out in blisters wherever it touched.
"Acidic compounds," Plague said. "Just strong enough to damage the epidermis. We're testing regeneration capability. How quickly can your body attempt to heal? And can it heal faster than the damage accumulates?"
Oliver was beyond screaming now. He made sounds—wet, broken sounds that barely qualified as human.
The spider on his chest adjusted position, then drove its mandibles into Oliver's shoulder. Not to tear or rend, but to grip bone. To hold him completely immobile.
More insects emerged. Ants, but each one the size of a thumb. They marched in precise lines toward Oliver's legs, and when they reached him, they began to climb. Each ant bit down on a different spot, creating a network of injection points.
"Neural mapping via distributed venom nodes," Plague explained. "Each ant is injecting a slightly different formula. I'm testing which combination produces the most interesting response."
Lucius watched with cold detachment. This wasn't a fight. It was vivisection. Plague was using Oliver as a living laboratory, testing theories, gathering data, satisfying some sick curiosity about how much the human body could endure.
This was what Plague did during the war. This was what he'd done to men,women and even children.
The fight—the experiment—continued for another minute. Oliver's body was a canvas of blisters, puncture wounds, and moving lumps where larvae burrowed beneath the surface. His mind had broken long ago, but his body remained stubbornly alive, kept conscious by Plague's precise application of venoms.
Finally, Plague made a dismissive gesture.
The insects released Oliver. All at once, they simply let go and withdrew, disappearing back into the sand as silently as they'd emerged.
Oliver collapsed like a puppet with cut strings. He lay in the sand, twitching, his eyes staring at nothing, drool running from his slack mouth.
He was alive. Technically.
"Adequate data," Plague said, his tone carrying mild satisfaction. "Neural tolerance threshold established. Venom efficacy confirmed. Consciousness maintenance successful across all test parameters."
The arena was silent except for Oliver's wet, labored breathing and the occasional twitch of his ruined body.
"Winner: PLAGUE!" Haurang announced, his voice hollow.
The crowd's reaction was muted. Even the most bloodthirsty spectators looked disturbed. This hadn't been entertaining violence. This had been something else. Something clinical and wrong.
Jamal tried to inject some energy into his commentary. "Well... that was certainly... Plague demonstrating why he has that reputation, folks. Absolutely methodical."
Plague turned and shuffled away without a glance at his victim, his gnarled hands clasped behind his back once more, his hunched form moving with that same careful, elderly gait. His expression had returned to that vacant, harmless look—just an old man taking an afternoon walk.
Medical personnel rushed onto the arena floor, surrounding Oliver's convulsing form. Even from the viewing section, Lucius could see their expressions—horror, disgust, professional detachment cracking at the edges.
Seung sat frozen in his seat, his tablet forgotten in his lap, his face ashen. "That was... I don't... what did we just watch?"
"An experiment," Lucius said quietly, standing. "Plague was testing venom combinations. Studying pain thresholds. Gathering data."
"But why? What's the point?"
"Because he can. Because he enjoys it. Because he's been doing it for decades and nobody's stopped him."
Lucius made his way toward the exit.
"Where are you going?" Seung called after him, his voice weak.
"I've seen enough."
Lucius moved through the corridor, his expression neutral but his mind processing everything he'd witnessed. Plague's insects weren't just weapons—they were tools. Precision instruments for inflicting suffering. And Plague himself was a scientist, methodical and curious, treating human subjects like lab rats.
Dangerous. Extremely dangerous.
If Lucius had to face him—and there was a chance he might, depending on how the brackets fell—the no-powers approach wouldn't work. Not against someone with that level of control and versatility. Plague could inject paralyzing venoms, maintain consciousness through torture, coordinate dozens of insects simultaneously with surgical precision.
This guy is definitely one to watch out for. If I'm keeping up the whole no-powers thing, I'll need to be very careful.
But more than that, Plague was exactly what Lucius had known him to be. Beyond redemption. A man who'd spent the war years torturing NovaBreeds, gathering data on their abilities, testing limits of suffering. A man who viewed other people as nothing more than interesting specimens.
One day, circumstances would align. One day, Lucius would have the opportunity and the justification.
But not here. Not in this tournament. Not when it would compromise the mission.
He had priorities. Find the boy. Gather intelligence. Get out.
Everything else was secondary.
Lucius made his way back to his quarters, his mind already shifting to tomorrow's schedule. Adam Mavrick's fight was at 1 PM. Field Commander, tournament champion three years running, multiple abilities. Another dangerous fighter worth observing.
After that fight, he'd start the real work. Information gathering about the executive areas. Finding Morrison. Making contact. Learning where the trafficked boy was being held.
Phase one was complete. The device was planted, the signal would go out soon. Communication with Green Gate would be established.
Phase two was about to begin.
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TO BE CONTINUED