The preliminary bouts ground on, the roar of the satisfied crowd competing with the dull thudding echoing from the ring. Olaf's security teams, a mix of highly trained former military contractors and some of Olaf's more loyal, albeit unawakened, connections, were holding the line admirably. They were a fortress against the orchestrated chaos swelling outside the venue perimeter.
One of the guards near the south corridor adjusted his earpiece and muttered to the man beside him.
"Feels like a riot is trying to happen out there."
His partner kept his eyes on the hallway leading toward the arena seating.
"Yeah," he replied quietly. "And we're the dam."
Another guard farther down the line chuckled grimly.
"Let's just hope we're a strong one."
During a brief lull between matches, the announcer's voice boomed over the stadium P.A., a clear, authoritative tone cutting through the noise: "Folks, enjoy the show, but for your safety, remain within the venue boundaries until the final bout concludes. Security will escort everyone outwards once the dust settles."
This pragmatic instruction was met with approving cheers; the crowd instinctively recognized the gravity of the turmoil echoing from the parking lots.
A fan in the lower section leaned toward his friend.
"Did he just say security escort?"
His friend nodded, eyes wide but excited.
"Yeah. Something's definitely happening outside."
The first fan shrugged.
"As long as the fights keep going."
⸻
Shane Albright was preparing backstage, the black and white fabric of his professional fight gear feeling heavier than usual.
He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, loosening his shoulders.
One of the junior trainers near the locker area looked over.
"You good, Shane?"
Shane exhaled slowly.
"Yeah," he said. "Just thinking."
The trainer laughed quietly.
"Probably not ideal before a fight."
Shane smirked faintly.
"No kidding."
It was a deliberate statement. No red, no blue—just the stark neutrality of 'Common Sense.'
A cutman sitting nearby noticed the colors.
"Black and white tonight?"
Shane nodded.
"Figured it fits the message."
The cutman grinned.
"Subtle."
Shane ran through the mental checklist for his walkout music, a popular, booming track that spoke of clear thinking and cutting through noise.
One of the corner assistants checked the monitor.
"You're second to last."
Shane nodded.
"I know."
He rolled his shoulders again.
He was scheduled for the second-to-last slot. The main event, the heavyweight clash between Hugo and Jason Bowen, would close the night.
From farther down the locker corridor Hugo's voice echoed faintly as he spoke to one of his cornermen.
"Jason's going to shoot early," Hugo said. "I know it."
The coach replied calmly.
"Then stuff the shot and make him regret it."
Hugo laughed.
"That's the plan."
⸻
The first fight of the main card concluded with a decisive submission, and as the referee raised the winner's hand, a sudden, frantic crackle erupted over Olaf's private communication network.
One of Olaf's security lieutenants spoke rapidly into his headset.
"Command, confirm East Entry disturbance."
Another voice responded immediately.
"Confirmed. Multiple aggressors."
Olaf, seated ringside, shot to his feet, his expression hardening instantly.
"Breach at the East Entry point! Security overwhelmed! Thugs are inside!"
The security officer nearest Olaf instinctively stepped closer.
"How many?"
Olaf didn't look away from the entrance corridor.
"Enough."
Freya, who was watching from the VIP seating area near Olaf, tracked the sudden shift in his demeanor. Her own inner awareness, refined by years as a warrior and now resurfacing, flared. She was instantly alert.
She leaned slightly toward Olaf.
"That wasn't just crowd trouble, was it?"
Olaf didn't need to relay the message through the system; he simply barked a command into his hidden mic, his voice tight.
"VA, get to the far side of the venue. Could be a diversion. Shane, keep focused, but monitor the crew."
Freya's eyes narrowed slightly.
"Diversion?" she murmured.
Olaf answered quietly.
"Apex Negativa never starts with the real attack."
⸻
Shane, running through his own warm-up routine nearby, felt the system ping his awareness simultaneously with Olaf's verbal command registering in his ears.
He paused mid-shadowboxing.
"Of course," he muttered.
He immed relayed instructions silently through the network interface.
'Gary, Ben, Cory—coordinate with VA's expected location. Document everything.'
Gary's reply came instantly.
On it.
Ben's response followed seconds later.
Camera already rolling.
Cory added simply:
Tracking.
⸻
Olaf moved with an authority that betrayed his recent reawakening, heading directly toward the point of incursion.
One of the security captains moved with him.
"Sir, you should stay ringside."
Olaf didn't slow.
"No."
The captain blinked.
"Understood."
He moved past his security detail with practiced ease as they regrouped.
At the East Entry, the scene was pure anarchy compressed into a small space.
Overwhelmed guards were being shoved back by a wave of masked figures—agitators shouting pre-rehearsed slogans about government overreach fused with outright criminal elements already on Apex Negativa's payroll.
One thug shouted loudly.
"Shut it down!"
Another slammed a metal barricade.
"This event is illegal!"
Olaf didn't hesitate.
He used his nascent power not yet as a grand celestial display, but as raw, overpowering physical force combined with short, sharp bursts of latent energy that felt like powerful kinetic pushes.
The first thug that reached him suddenly flew backward.
The others stumbled as if they had run into a moving wall.
Olaf stepped forward.
"Enough."
His voice carried with ancient authority.
The momentum of the breach stalled.
⸻
Across the vast, mostly filled arena, Veritas Alpha, in his Bjorn persona, was already coordinating a counter-push on the opposite side where a similar breach was occurring.
A security guard beside him looked stunned.
"How did you even—"
Bjorn simply stepped forward.
"Push them back."
Wearing the calm, imposing mask of an accountant, his movements were efficient and devastatingly precise as he assisted the local security team in forcing the infiltrators back through the entry points.
Bjorn wasn't fighting like a brawler; he was dismantling the threat with minimalist efficiency, using his ingrained knowledge of leverage and pressure points.
One thug swung wildly.
Bjorn redirected the arm and dropped him instantly.
Another tried to rush him.
Bjorn stepped aside and shoved him straight into two others.
A nearby guard blinked.
"Remind me not to argue with that guy."
⸻
Back near ringside, Ben, with Cory acting as his shadow and assistant, was recording the chaos as it unfolded at the entry points.
"Cory, check the gate footage from the West side, quickly," Ben whispered into his headset, his camera steady on the action near the ring.
Cory quickly overlaid the timestamps, reviewing the chaotic entry footage.
"Damn, Ben. You were right. About a dozen got past the initial push—scattered into the main crowd before Olaf and VA isolated the entry points."
Ben adjusted his lens.
"Zooming in."
Cory relayed the information immediately to Olaf's command channel.
Olaf acknowledged grimly.
⸻
The first main card fight ended, and the crowd roared in approval as Jessalyn Ingalls—now confirmed as Freya—stepped into the octagon.
Dressed impeccably, she possessed an aura of effortless command that captivated the audience, a stark contrast to the chaos outside.
A fan near the front row leaned toward his friend.
"Is that Jessalyn Ingalls?"
His friend nodded.
"Yep."
"Man this event has everything."
She was naturally magnetic.
She conducted the in-ring interview with smooth professionalism, her voice carrying perfectly through the sound system.
As she moved to exit the octagon, an agitator, one of the dozen who had slipped past security, dashed from the general seating area toward the ring apron.
He was masked and clearly intending harm.
Jessalyn didn't pause.
Her warrior instincts, honed over millennia, took over.
In one fluid, practiced motion that was almost too fast for the ringside cameras to track clearly, she dipped under the thug's clumsy lunge and delivered a sharp, perfectly timed strike to his temple with the heel of her palm.
The man dropped like a discarded marionette.
The crowd, who had witnessed a sudden, sharp example of self-defense, erupted in cheers, mistaking it for part of the show's aggressive entertainment value.
Ben, capturing the whole thing in crisp slow-motion, had to bite back a laugh.
'Stupid to try to attack a god,' he thought.
He replayed the footage once.
Then again.
"Yeah," he whispered. "That's going viral."
He saw Freya give a casual nod to the ringside security taking the man away before she strolled back to her seat beside Olaf.
⸻
Leaning in close to Olaf, she whispered, her voice barely audible over the renewed cheers,
"My foresight is screaming. They will all rush the stage eventually, Olaf. I can't pin the moment, but it's coming."
Olaf nodded once.
"I expected as much."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Then we make sure they don't reach it."
He immediately transmitted detailed alerts to his security commanders, mapping out staging areas for immediate response teams around the ring and exits.
⸻
The fights churned on, each victory a small, temporary reprieve in the grand, unseen battle.
Finally, the atmosphere shifted again.
The crowd began to pulse with anticipation for the next match: Shane Albright versus Zabit Askorov.
A fan shouted loudly from the upper seats.
"ALBRIGHT!"
Another answered from across the section.
"ASKOROV!"
The tension rolled through the arena like a storm front.
⸻
Shane made his entrance.
His black and white ensemble drew appreciative noise—he was established enough now to warrant genuine interest, a fresh face who wasn't beholden to the established political factions.
He focused intently on the entry tunnel, attempting to compartmentalize the rising tension of the impending riot and the complex celestial realities swirling around him.
In the octagon, the referee checked his gloves, explained the standardized rules for the exhibition fight.
As Shane steadied himself, his system flared with an unexpected, demanding notification:
New Quest received - Defeat your opponent in the octagon using no skills, then defeat your opponent's outside the octagon using any means necessary, protect your people quest still active. Reward - open 1 celestial magic slot.
Shane blinked.
Sure, he thought.
Keep distracting me.
He swiped the notification away.
Right as he tried to clear his focus, Zabit Askorov's entrance music began.
Shane looked up—
—and his eyes landed on Jessalyn.
His system chimed again.
New Quest Received - Talk to Freya about celestial magic. Reward - upgrade foresight skill to max.
Shane sighed internally.
Fantastic.
As Shane swiped the notification to the side he had to use sheer willpower to look away from Jessalyn.
⸻
From the outside, Jessalyn felt it too.
The moment Shane's eyes locked with hers, a profound jolt shot through her—a recognition that transcended mortal memory.
She leaned back slightly in her seat.
"That's… interesting," she murmured quietly.
It was the energy signature of one who shared her celestial fire, yet it felt unfamiliar, new, and utterly powerful.
She couldn't break eye contact.
Olaf noticed the intense, almost magnetic connection between the roofer and the goddess sharing his ringside seat.
A faint smirk touched the corner of his mouth.
"Do you see something, Jessalyn, or are you just checking him out?"
Jessalyn tore her gaze away, a slight flush rising on her cheeks.
"Both, I think, Olaf."
⸻
The bell rang, signaling the start of the fight.
Shane Albright, the man who still largely saw himself as a glorified roofer pulled into madness, was now locked in a duel that was both physical and predestined.
He had to fight using only his body, his physical training, and the natural speed and strength he possessed from the last upgrade—no glowing blue speed bursts, no tactical rewinds.
Just the man.
He stepped forward.
Preparing to weather the initial aggression of the Dagestani fighter.
Entirely unaware that the fate of his next upgrade, and perhaps his very existence, hinged on the next few minutes—
—and the conversation he was now mandatorily scheduled to have with the woman sitting next to the Raven God.
********************
"If you enjoyed Shane's journey, please drop a Power Stone! It helps the Common Sense Party grow!"