Yamo noticed it slowly, not all at once. The chains binding him grew weaker, then vanished entirely, like gravity had simply lost interest in him.
His knees stopped trembling. His shoulders loosened. His breath came back in full, painful gulps.
He straightened—carefully. He returned to normal, but he felt weak and tired.
The warehouse was still roaring, but it felt distant, muted, like sound heard through water.
His hearing hadn't returned yet; only that thin, slicing ring remained, drilling into his skull without mercy.
Blood crusted along his ears, down his jaw, dark against his skin. Yamo wiped at it absently and looked around.
The ring was destroyed. Cracks spiderwebbed through the canvas.
The ropes hung slack and twisted. The far wall was broken, chunks of concrete still crumbling where Inverso had hit.
Medical teams swarmed the impact site. Six men worked together to pull Inverso free, his body limp, breathing shallow, limbs bent at wrong angles. He was alive. Barely.
The crowd didn't cheer anymore.
They stared.
Some with fear.
Some with hunger.
Some with calculations already forming.
Yamo felt a tap at his shoulder. Someone was standing behind him. He fearfully turned around not knowing someone was behind him.
The man with nine eyes.
He didn't smile. He didn't look impressed. He looked… cautious.
He raised a hand, palm out, signaling the medics and staff to clear space. They obeyed instantly.
Even the announcer had gone quiet, microphone lowered, unsure whether he was allowed to speak anymore.
Up close, his presence felt heavier than Inverso's had ever been—not physically, but socially. Like the weight of authority pressing down.
Yamo tilted his head, then remembered. He raised two fingers and pointed at his ears.
9 eyes nodded once. He tapped on his tablet and turned it around.
[Your hearing will return. Slowly. Do not fight again tonight.]
Yamo gave a weak nod. 9 eyes studied him for a long moment—long enough that the crowd began murmuring again.
Then he spoke aloud, slow and deliberate, making sure everyone could hear him including Yamo.
"These matches are for mutants."
Yamo stiffened. Michael continued before he could respond. "What you are… isn't."
Yamo swallowed. 'I knew it. This was never going to end cleanly.'
9 eyes gestured with his tablet. [My name is Michael. Just now was for show] Two staff members approached, carrying a heavy duffel bag. They dropped it at Yamo's feet.
It hit the canvas with a solid, undeniable thud.
[Your payout in cash] Michael showed on the tablet. He tapped the screen again.
– Tier 4 appearance fee
– Fighter cut
– Personal bet payout
– Minus for structural damage liability
– Goodwill
Yamo was confused "Goodwill?". Michael smiled and wrote on his tablet.
[$2,500 Your membership fee + my goodwill $5,000 ]
Yamo blinked as he looked at the total number. He'd earned a little over twenty-five thousand dollar. The damage Yamo caused, barely made a dent in the total amount.
Adding Michael's five thousand brought it to thirty thousand—Yamo stared at him.
Michael met his gaze evenly. [You didn't kill him. That matters.]
Yamo's hands clenched slowly at his sides.
'It didn't feel like mercy, it felt like restraint.'He thought
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly, as if he'd read something in Yamo's eyes he didn't like.
"Your membership is revoked," Michael said loudly for all to hear. No anger. No accusation. Just fact.
"This place is not built for you. And if you fight here again, someone will die. Possibly many someones."
Yamo exhaled through his nose. "…Alright," he said hoarsely and handed him the dark blood crimson like card.
Michael studied him another moment, then reached into his coat and produced a card—thick, matte black, with a single silver emblem pressed into it.
He held it out.
[There are better matches. Cleaner. Real arenas. Not this… warehouse.] Micheal face revealed his disgust he had regarding this underground betting place.
He flicked his eyes around the ruined space with open disdain.
[If you ever want to make big bucks calls this number and say that michael 9 eyes sent you]
Yamo took it the black card. He looked at it amd saw a white number on it. The card felt heavier than it should have. Yamo recognized the seriousness of the current path he was stepping on.
Michael leaned closer, lowering his voice. "And if they ask what you are—" He paused.
"Don't answer."
Yamo nodded slowly. Michael straightened and turned away—but then stopped.
"One more thing." Yamo tapped him on his shoulder. "Can you show me the footage of when I broke loose from Inverso's grip."
Michael's nine eyes widened. He turned the tablet back around and a fee taps later Yamo saw the footage.
Yamo stiffened. The video played and the fight happened exactly how Yamo remebered it moments ago.
Yamo saw himself from above—captured by a ceiling drone he hadn't noticed. The moment Inverso whispered. The moment the pressure peaked.
Then—
The eruption.
Whitish-blue ki exploding outward. The shockwave. The flicker.
For a single frame—golden hair, eyes glowing teal.
Not stable. Not complete, but unmistakable.
Yamo's throat went dry.
'…That's it,' he realized. 'That wasn't just adrenaline.' His fists clenched.
'False Super Saiyan, just like Goku from the non-canon movie where he fought against Lord Slug.. Incomplete and uncontrolled.'
Michael watched his face carefully. [You didn't plan that] Michael wrote.
Yamo shook his head slowly. "No."
Michael nodded and smiled. "Good."
He locked the tablet. "Because if you ever do it on purpose—" He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
Michael stepped out of the ring and signaled the staff. The announcer was quietly escorted away. The betting boards dimmed.
The show was over.
Yamo left through the backdoor. He didn't use the entrance gate this time.
He stepped out into the cold night air, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, city lights stretching endlessly beneath him.
He paused. Then flew. He didn't fly reckless, but still fast enough to disappear in a moment.
From far away—very far—a drone adjusted its lens. It tracked him. The red light blinked once.
Michael stood below, watching the empty sky. "…Trouble," he murmured.
---
Yamo landed miles away, on a quiet rooftop, breath finally steadying.
He sat down slowly, back against a vent, hands still shaking as he opened the duffel bag.
Stacks of cash. 30 thousand dollars. People would kill for far less, and friendships and familys were destroyed for even less.
The money felt real heavy in Yamo's hands. He wasn't that afraid of the law than Mutans and Superhumans.
"30.thousand is enough to change everything. Hahhaha."
He laughed once—short, breathless, almost hysterical.
Then stopped. His smile faded.
'I didn't want to,' he thought again.
'But for a second…' He looked at his hands.
'I really wanted to kill him.'
The ringing in his ears pulsed softly. Yamo closed his eyes and processed everytjing thst happened in the last hour or so.
'Mutants, Deadweight, Pressure Drum, Inverso, Michael, money'
Growl~
Yamo froze. "…Right. Priorities. Let's go eat first."
He popped open the vent beside him, reached inside, and quickly changed out of his 'costume'.
The familiar outfit went on instead—black shirt, jeans, and the red button shirt he wore almost every day. Normal. Invisible. Safe.
He looked at the duffel bag one more time. "Alright, money. Stay safe."
He leaned down and kissed the bag lightly.
"Good night."
He turned away—then stopped.
"…Actually."
Yamo sighed, turned back, opened the bag, and dumped the entire contents onto the floor.
Bills spilled everywhere. Stacks. Loose cash. Way too much money to ignore.
He crouched down, eyes narrowing, and slowly scanned the pile, brushing his hand over it once, twice, thrice.
Nothing beeped.
Nothing buzzed.
Nothing exploded.
"Whew~" he muttered. "No tracker."
He scooped everything back up, re-packed the duffel, hid it properly this time, and finally stepped out into the night.
Yamo didn't go home. Instead, he followed the smell.
He walked into the first restaurant he saw with a sign so aggressive it felt like a threat.
"EAT IT ALL OR PAY DOUBLE."
He stared at it for a moment. In the past, he would've walked away immediately. Not because he doubted himself—but because what if he failed?
He never tested the limits of a sajyan stomach, the last time he was full was as a small child. Since then, he restrained himself when eating.
Spending money on food when you might become homless was stupid. Yamo would rather be hungry instead of sleeping with his family under a bridge.
But Tonight? Tonight he was starving and for the first time he could afford to be stupid, because he was now 'rich'.
"I'll take the challenge," he said determined inside the restaurant. The staff laughed when the challenge started, but they stopped laughing ten minutes later.
Burgers disappeared. Fries followed. Sauces were wiped clean with bread like it was a personal insult.
The timer buzzed uselessly while Yamo leaned back in his chair, perfectly fine. He didn't pay a cent.
So he went next door. Then the place across the street.
Ramen challenges. Pizza towers. Spicy wings that made grown men cry. One restaurant filmed him. Another offered a free shirt. A third asked him if he was medically cleared.
Yamo just smiled, thanked them, and kept going. Between bites, he rolled his shoulders and gently rubbed his ears.
The ringing was still there—but softer. Duller.
'Good,' he thought. 'If eating doesn't fix it, nothing will.'
Saiyan logic was simple.
Fight hard.
Eat harder.
Heal faster.
By the time the streets began to quiet and the sky hinted at morning, Yamo finally slowed down.
He spent more time eating after the fight than in all three fights together.
Yamo stood outside a closed diner, stomach heavy, body warm, energy humming instead of aching.
He exhaled slowly.
"…Okay," he muttered. "That helped."
He turned toward home, already thinking about sleep—and remembering the class trip to Oscorp tomorrow, but he felt like he forgot something important.
Midnight was close.