The smell of rust and sweat clung to the walls.
Somewhere deep beneath the city, a crowd howled — hungry for blood, desperate for escape. Neon lights flickered against cracked concrete, painting the faces of a thousand onlookers in shades of red and blue.
Welcome to The Pit.
A voice blared through the loudspeakers, distorted by static:
"Rookie match! No enhancements allowed! Bet lines open — one minute to start!"
The announcer's words echoed down the narrow hallway where Kai Renshou sat alone on a cold metal bench. He was barefoot, his black training pants torn at the knees. His hands rested calmly on his thighs — unbandaged, unarmed, unshaken.
He closed his eyes and listened.
The thudding footsteps above, the roar of the spectators, the faint hiss of gas pipes somewhere overhead.
Every sound was a rhythm — and Kai breathed in time with it.
When the guard came to fetch him, he didn't look up right away.
"Time's up, kid. You ready?"
Kai nodded once, standing in silence. His joints cracked as he rolled his shoulders back.
He didn't wear gloves. Didn't wrap his hands. Didn't need to.
The arena was circular — a concrete cage ringed by reinforced glass. Drones floated above, broadcasting every punch and scream to the gamblers on the upper decks. The crowd erupted when Kai stepped into the light.
"Who's that? The barefoot kid?"
"Some street rat from Sector 12."
"He's dead. The other guy's juiced."
The other fighter — a hulking man with veins glowing faint blue — stepped forward, cracking his neck. The Serum X injection in his bloodstream pulsed like lightning under his skin. He grinned, showing metal-capped teeth.
"You sure you don't wanna level the field, rookie?"
"I fight clean," Kai said quietly.
The bell rang.
The giant charged like a bull, swinging a glowing fist. Kai's body moved before thought — a low spin, the heel of his foot snapping upward in a perfect arc. The kick caught the man's wrist, redirecting the blow sideways with surgical precision.
The crowd gasped.
Another punch came — faster, heavier. Kai sidestepped, hands deflecting just enough to turn the force away. Then his leg whipped out again — one kick, two, three, each faster than the last. The final strike crashed into the man's jaw like a hammer.
The Serum user staggered. For a heartbeat, silence filled the arena.
Then Kai's foot slammed into his chest — a final, devastating roundhouse that sent him crashing into the wall.
The entire ring went still.
The crowd erupted.
"Winner: Kai Renshou — no enhancement detected!"
As the medics dragged the unconscious opponent away, Kai stood motionless. The crowd chanted his name — some in awe, some in disbelief.
"Ironfoot! Ironfoot! Ironfoot!"
He didn't smile. Didn't raise his arms.
He only looked down at his bare feet — red with the man's blood — and muttered to himself.
"Power doesn't need poison."
Then he turned and walked back into the shadows, the noise fading behind him.
In the dim locker room, Vira Nox watched from a flickering screen. Her white coat was streaked with chemical stains, her eyes sharp with calculation.
She rewound the footage — slowing the moment where Kai's final kick landed. The motion blur distorted, but for a split second, the data flickered:
Speed output: inhuman.
Kinetic force: off the scale.
Vira leaned back, a smirk curling at her lips.
"A boy who fights like that without a drop of Serum… Now that's interesting."
Outside, Kai pulled on his hoodie, stepping into the neon-lit tunnels of Gravepoint. The air was thick with smog and music from illegal bars. Holo-posters offered fake promises: "STRONGER. FASTER. EVOLVE — Serum X Available Now."
Kai passed them without a glance.
He had no idea that the same blood running through him was the origin of all those posters.
The tunnels outside The Pit stretched like veins beneath the city — narrow, dim, and reeking of ozone and oil. The crowd noise faded behind him, replaced by dripping water and the hum of old power lines.
Kai kept walking, his hoodie pulled low, a duffel bag of winnings slung over his shoulder.
The air buzzed with the aftermath of adrenaline — that strange quiet that always followed a fight.
He didn't notice the shadows tailing him at first.
"Hey, barefoot boy!"
The voice echoed off the concrete. Kai stopped.
Four men stepped out of a side tunnel, faces half-hidden under hooded jackets. Their eyes glimmered under the glow of neon pipes — angry, predatory.
"You cost us money, kid," the tallest one said, cracking his knuckles. "A lot of money."
Kai said nothing. He didn't break stance.
Another man spat on the floor.
"We had twenty grand on Gritto. You were supposed to be a warm-up, not a damn highlight reel."
"Guess you bet wrong," Kai replied evenly.
That was all it took.
The first man lunged forward, swinging a pipe. Kai sidestepped, the swing slicing air. His right foot lashed out — a short, brutal kick to the ribs. The sound was dull and final. The man dropped to his knees, gasping.
The others rushed in — knives flashing.
Kai's world narrowed to movement.
His body flowed, twisting, pivoting — hands redirecting blades just enough to slide past his skin, legs snapping out with surgical precision.
One kick to the jaw.
Spin — back kick to the chest.
Drop — sweep the legs.
Three seconds. Three bodies down.
The last man hesitated, knife trembling. Kai's left foot rose slowly, poised like a coiled spring.
"Don't," he said quietly.
The man hesitated too long. Kai moved — faster than sight — and the kick sent the knife spinning into the wall. The thug stumbled backward, eyes wide.
"Tell your friends to bet smarter."
The man turned and ran.
Kai exhaled, the rhythm of his breathing returning to normal. His heart beat steady — not from fear, but from focus. The fight was already gone from his mind.
He bent down, picking up the pipe one of them had dropped. The metal was dented where it hit the wall. He studied it for a second, then tossed it aside.
A faint sound echoed — not footsteps, not breathing.
Something metallic. Watching.
He turned, scanning the tunnel. A small drone hovered at the far end — black shell, red lens blinking.
Recording.
Kai's eyes narrowed.
Someone had sent it. Someone had watched.
The drone whirred softly, then darted back into the darkness.
Far above, in a smoky control room overlooking The Pit, Vira Nox leaned closer to her console.
Her screen replayed the footage of the ambush, frame by frame.
Every movement was clean. Measured. Too perfect.
"Four-on-one. No Serum. No panic," she murmured.
"Who are you, Ironfoot?"
She tapped a button, freezing the image on Kai's face as he walked away into the neon mist.
The corner of her mouth curled upward.
"You're going to make me very rich… or very dead."
Kai finally reached the surface level of Gravepoint — an old train platform turned marketplace. Neon signs flickered in foreign languages; the air reeked of fried oil and smoke.
He ducked under a flickering light and sat on an old bench, opening his duffel.
Half his winnings were bloodstained, but he didn't care. He counted slowly, methodically.
Behind him, a loudspeaker blared news from aboveground:
"Reports of new Serum variants spreading through upper sectors. Officials deny responsibility—"
Kai shut it off. He looked down at his feet — bruised, scuffed, but steady.
"Guess I'll need new shoes soon," he muttered.
He didn't realize that from the shadows above, someone was still watching — a pair of eyes faintly glowing blue.
A familiar voice, hoarse and half mechanical, whispered through the darkness.
"You move just like him..."
And then the figure vanished.