Killian sat on the floor of his small room, legs crossed, eyes locked on the tournament ticket in his hand like it was some kind of cursed object.
The bold letters read:
REPUBLIC TOURNAMENT ENTRY TIME: 8:00 PM
He looked up at the little digital clock on his desk.
It was 7:30 PM as at the time he checked.
He blinked.
"…Half an hour," he muttered, tossing the ticket onto the bed like it offended him.
"What's the rush?"
He leaned back, humming some random tune, staring at the ceiling like he had all the time in the world. Then, out of nowhere a realization down on him that he had little to no time left.
"WAIT WHAT AM I DOING?!"
He sprang up like he'd been hit with a jolt of electricity.
"I've gotta get ready!!"
Killian scrambled to his closet and grabbed his trusty black polo shirt. It was a little faded, collar slightly torn, but it was his favorite. He yanked it on, found his black pants, then dove into a pile of junk in the corner of the room.
After a few seconds of chaotic searching, he finally pulled out a scruffy old bag with one strap half ripped. It had survived years of beatings just like him.
As he slung the bag over his shoulder, his stomach growled so loud it sounded like an animal had been hiding in there.
"Seriously? Now?!" he groaned, grabbing his stomach. "No time for snacks… Maybe they've got food at the tournament? Like… buffet for competitors? That's a thing, right? Right?"
With his stomach ignored for now, he tiptoed toward the living room. His grandma sat on the couch, eyes glued to her favorite soap opera. Killian paused at the hallway corner, thinking.
"She can't know I'm leaving," he whispered to himself. "She'll kill me before anyone else gets the chance."
He glanced at the front door, Then at the window.
The window it is.
He walked over quietly, slid it open, and muttered under his breath in a silly voice, "Ninja mode… activate."
With a ridiculous little crouch, he jumped out the window and landed in the backyard with a soft thud.
"Killian!"
Her voice hit him like a stun grenade. He froze mid movement and turned like a guilty cartoon character.
Grandma stood at the window, arms crossed. "Where do you think you're sneaking off to?"
Killian smiled like an angel caught stealing cookies. "Uh… fresh air?"
She shook her head, waving him off. "Just be careful, you hear me? And don't make me wait all night."
He gave her a salute. "No worries! Back before you can say uh whatever!"
Then he ran like hell.
After a while Killian jogged the last block, weaving through clusters of people like a rat dodging boots. By the time he reached the gates of the stadium at where the tournament was to take place he was already sweating not just from the run, but from the vibe.
The place was massive.
The Republic Tournament Stadium wasn't just a building it was a monster made of steel and lights. Giant screens on the walls flashed footage of past champions, dramatic slow mo punches, and explosions of energy that lit up the whole ring.
The streets around it were packed. Thousands of people flooded the sidewalks, buzzing with energy. Fans wore shirts with their favorite fighters' names. Vendors were selling glow sticks, snacks, steaks and overpriced energy drinks,There were camera drones flying overhead, capturing the scene.
Killian stopped just outside the entrance, his mouth hanging slightly open.
"Man… this is insane," he muttered, watching the crowd push past him like a wave.
He overheard people chatting as they passed,
"Did you hear about Boton? He's killing it this year."
"Pfft, Hina's got him. She's been training non stop for months."
Everyone was hyped,Everyone had a favorite.
But Killian didn't He barely knew who was competing.
He just shrugged and headed inside.
The inside was even crazier,Lights flashed, music blasted, and the roar of the crowd rumbled through the floor like a heartbeat. The whole stadium pulsed with life, with something deeper than excitement it was bloodlust.
At the registration desk, a large man with a face like a brick wall stared him down.
"Ticket," the man grunted, clipboard in hand.
Killian reached into his bag and immediately panicked.
"Crap… crap… where is it…"
He pulled out an old sandwich (why was that even in there?), a broken pen, and finally the crumpled ticket.
He held it up like it was made of gold.
The man took it without a word, scanned it, and nodded once.
"Name?"
"Uh… Killian."
"Alright. Go down that hallway, take a right, then keep going until you see Door 10. That's your prep room. Wait there 'til they call you."
Killian gave a thumbs up. "Got it. Right, then straight. Door 10. Easy."
He wandered through the hallway, turning left, then right, then… left again?
He stopped Looked around,Squinted at the tiny signs above the doors.
None of them said 10.
He spun in place. "This is ridiculous! Who designed this place, a blind squirrel?!"
The halls were like a maze sterile walls, buzzing lights, no sense of direction. Every door looked the same. Every hallway looked like a copy paste job from the last.
Then a voice came from behind.
"Lost, are we?"
Killian jumped like he'd just stepped on a live wire.
He turned to see a tall man approaching calm steps, confident posture. He wore white pants, no shirt, and a rope tied around his head like some kind of old school warrior. His muscles looked like they'd been sculpted by angry gods.
Killian immediately felt like a soggy toothpick in comparison.
"Uh… yeah," Killian said, scratching the back of his head. "I'm looking for Door 10."
The man chuckled. "Follow me."
As he walked past, he added, "Name's Prime, by the way."
"Oh Killian," he said, walking beside him. "So uh… what's with the whole shirtless vibe? You trying to show off, or did you just lose a laundry bet?"
Prime smirked without turning. "I fight better this way. Tradition."
"Right," Killian said, eyeing his own baggy shirt. "Guess I should've come shirtless too. Show off my ribs."
They turned one final corner, and there it was Door 10.
Prime pushed it open and stepped inside. The room was wide and clean, with a long glass wall that overlooked the main stadium floor below. Inside, several other competitors were already stretching, shadowboxing, or just pacing silently. You could feel the tension in the air.
Prime motioned toward the glass.
"Take a look."
Killian stepped up and peered down.
The crowd was roaring Two fighters were already in the ring.
Bright lights locked onto them. The whole arena fell quiet.
A booming voice echoed across the stadium:
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, LET THE MATCH… BEGIN!"
One of the fighters a slim man with wild eyes and a crooked smile raised both hands.
Then he vanished.
Just gone.
A split second later, he reappeared inches from his opponent. He grinned, raised his palm, and shouted:
"Wind Style: WIND RAZOR!"
From his hand, a slicing force exploded outward a blast of sharpened air invisible to the eye but loud like a whip crack.
The other fighter didn't even have time to scream.
Shhkkk!
Killian recoiled from the glass, face pale.
"Did he just—?! That guy is dead!"
Prime chuckled, dark and calm. "Welcome to the Great Tournament. Down there, people die, but you know we've got high tech in Republic city that helps fighters recover from hot injuries so there are really no limit as to fight , I hope You ready?"
Killian tried to smile, but it looked more like a pain grimace.
"Ready? Pfft. Yeah. Totally. Not freaking out at all. Not gonna puke or anything. Nope."
Prime clapped him on the shoulder like he was a buddy… or a funeral guest.
"You'll need that confidence."
Killian stared out the glass again, swallowing hard.
"…What did I get myself into?"