Xander wakes up to his stomach growling so fiercely it's almost painful. "Ughh... what the hell? What time is it? I'm starving… but I just ate all that food!" he mutters, wincing as the hunger pangs hit hard. He glances over at the old clock on the motel wall, its hands pointing to half past 8 PM. "The fuck?! I've been sleeping for ten hours?!"
Springing up from the bed, he scrambles to gather his belongings, stuffing everything into his backpack in a hurry. He pulls on his only other pair of clothes—a red and black full jumper with matching sweatpants and hoodie—and heads to the bathroom.
Splashing cold water on his face to shake off the remnants of sleep, he quickly pops in his contacts, eyes now sharp with determination and maybe a little irritation. All the while, his stomach growls in protest, almost begging for food.
"I know, I know, you're hungry, but shut up! I'm about to be late to the fight club!" He gives his gut a light punch, as if it might get the message, before dashing out of the motel room, grabbing his wad of cash on the way.
He sprints down the street, his breath fogging up slightly in the cool night air, until he reaches the subway station just in time to slip into the bullet train before the doors close.
He finds an empty seat, collapsing into it with a sigh, but the moment's peace is short-lived as his stomach growls again, even louder this time.
He glances around, embarrassed as the sound echoes in the otherwise quiet car, then clutches his gut tightly. Oh, come on… super metabolism might not be such a blessing after all. What happened to that ridiculous amount of food I ate earlier? He thinks, groaning inwardly as he tries to ignore the gnawing hunger, hoping the train ride won't be long.
As Xander sits in his seat, a gnawing ache rolls through his stomach, sharp and insistent, and no amount of clenching can quiet it down. "I feel great physically... but this hunger—it's out of control. I need food, and I need it now," he mutters to himself, eyes darting around the train car in search of anything edible.
Just a few seats away, he spots a teenager with a beanie and a half-eaten bag of chips resting in his lap.
The sight is almost too much to bear. Without hesitation, Xander gets up, crossing the short distance in record time before sitting down directly next to the kid. The boy glances at him, wide-eyed and wary.
"Hey, um... could I have some of those chips?" Xander asks, his voice strained with desperation. Right on cue, his stomach growls, loud and primal, causing a few nearby passengers to look over. "I'm seriously starving, man."
The boy's face twists in an expression of mild disgust as he clutches his bag closer. "Nah, dude. These are mine. Find your own snack, weirdo."
Xander frowns but tries to mask his irritation. "Okay, look—I'll buy them off you. Ten bucks for the whole bag." He pulls out a crumpled bill, trying his best to look as nonchalant as possible despite his stomach feeling like it's about to eat itself.
The boy raises an eyebrow and then smirks. "Twenty bucks, take it or leave it," he says with a shrug, eyeing Xander's outstretched cash. "And just so you know, they're half-eaten."
Without a second thought, Xander digs out another bill and slaps it into the kid's hand. "Deal," he says, snatching the bag out of his hand and immediately tearing into it.
He devours the chips with abandon, the taste salty and artificial but incredibly satisfying, at least for a few seconds.
Oblivious to the stares he's attracting, he polishes off the bag in seconds, licking the crumbs from his fingers.
The kid scoots further down the bench, muttering, "Freaks on the metro, man… they get worse every day."
Thanks to his enhanced hearing, Xander catches the insult loud and clear. He shoots the boy a withering glance, inwardly grimacing. Twenty bucks for a bag of stale chips... I'm losing my mind, he thinks, mourning his lighter wallet as he crumples up the empty bag.
But the satisfaction doesn't last long, his stomach already rumbling for more. It's like throwing pebbles into a black hole. I need real food.
Finally, the train comes to a halt. Xander springs to his feet the second the doors slide open, rushing out and hitting the street at a near sprint. Every footfall sends a dull ache through his stomach, his hunger gnawing at him despite the snack. He looks around, orienting himself. I really wish they'd buried me with my phone. I'm wandering around like it's the Stone Age, he thinks, dodging pedestrians and muttering curses under his breath.
With the sun dipping below the horizon, Xander's shadow stretches long as he breaks into a run, heading toward the meetup spot on the city's outskirts. Next time, a phone's coming with me to the grave.
Xander kept sprinting through the dimly lit streets, his breath steady but his stomach a raging beast demanding tribute. Each step only seemed to amplify the gnawing hunger, like an insatiable fire burning in his gut. The distant glow of streetlights blurred past as he pushed forward, determined to reach the meeting spot on time.
But then—
A scent hit him. Hard.
It wasn't just any food smell; this was something divine.
Crispy, fried batter mixed with sizzling cheese, a hint of something savory and slightly sweet.
His entire body froze mid-step, his nose flaring as if tracking prey. His stomach clenched, an almost painful growl escaping as his head snapped in the direction of the scent.
What the hell is that?!!
Xander's eyes darted around frantically, and as if the world itself wanted to mock him, his gaze landed on a massive LED billboard above a nearby building. The time flickered across the screen:
8:45 PM.
15 minutes left.
He clenched his jaw, mentally waging war with himself. "Damn it…"
He was cutting it close. He had no time to waste.
But that smell—
Xander's head whipped around, scanning the street. His enhanced vision immediately picked up on a bustling street cart, a long line stretching out in front of it. A bright red sign above the cart read:
"Seoul Snacks - Authentic Korean Corn Dogs!"
Beneath it, sizzling batter crackled in hot oil, golden-brown perfection being lifted onto sticks and drizzled with different sauces. A fresh batch had just been served to a college student, who was holding three corn dogs, each coated in different toppings—cheese pull, crispy potato bits, and spicy mayo drizzle.
Xander almost drooled on the spot.
His body moved before his brain could finish reasoning against it.
In a split-second decision, he changed direction, bolting toward the cart instead of the meetup spot.
Maybe… if I'm really quick…
He skidded to a stop beside the unsuspecting student, eyes locked onto the golden-fried treasures in their hands.
"Uhhh... hey, how much did you get those for?" Xander asked, barely keeping himself from grabbing one outright.
The student, an upbeat-looking guy in casual college wear, blinked at him before answering, "They're like six bucks each."
Six bucks?! Cheap as hell!
Xander's brain raced. The line was too damn long. He'd never make it in time if he waited. His instincts kicked in, and without thinking, he blurted,
"Look, I'm in a huge rush! Can I just buy those off you for twenty—no, twenty-five bucks?!"
The student hesitated, glancing between Xander and his freshly bought food.
Twenty-five bucks was way more than what he'd paid.
"...Deal," the student finally said with a grin, handing over the three corn dogs in exchange for the cash.
Xander didn't waste a second.
He snatched the food like a starving beast, immediately shoving one whole corn dog into his mouth, barely chewing as he took off sprinting again.
The student watched him go, shaking his head in amused disbelief.
"Wow… that was weird," he muttered, looking at the cash in his hands. Then his eyes flicked back to the cart.
"...But hey, I can get a free one now."
Xander was already halfway down the street, devouring the second corn dog without slowing down, still pushing forward toward his destination.
Realizing he was definitely running late, Xander gritted his teeth and activated [Feline's Nimbleness] without hesitation.
A surge of ethereal blue energy burst around his limbs, flowing like mist before latching onto his muscles.
His pupils contracted into razor-thin slits, shifting into a feline-like gaze that gleamed faintly—even beneath his red contact lenses.
Then, he exploded forward.
His speed seemingly doubled, his movements sharper and more fluid than ever. His feet barely touched the ground as he weaved through the streets, dodging pedestrians with inhuman reflexes.
Thirty seconds. The city blurred past. His mind sharpened, tracking everything in his immediate surroundings at once.
Forty-five seconds. His breathing remained steady, legs pumping like well-oiled machinery, the remnants of the corndogs settling in his gut.
Fifty-five seconds.
His destination came into view just as the one-minute mark hit, the blue aura fading from his limbs. His heartbeat thundered, but the overwhelming hunger that had plagued him all day was finally gone.
Xander skidded to a stop, breathing heavily as he looked up.
A massive neon sign flickered above him, glowing in elegant cursive:
"The Gentleman's Club"
Xander stared at it, completely bewildered.
"…Surely this isn't the place," he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing about a fight club screams 'gentle.'"
From the outside, the place looked bougie as hell. The entrance had gold-trimmed doors, velvet ropes, and a line of expensive-looking cars parked out front.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, Xander could see men in tailored suits sitting on lavish couches, sipping expensive drinks. Pole dancers moved gracefully on golden platforms, and the entire place reeked of high society and money.
Yeah. Definitely not what he was expecting.
Before he could dwell on it, a voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
"Hey, kid. You got an invite? If not, buzz off."
Xander turned to see a tall, dark-skinned man in a suit, built like a damn mountain, standing guard at the entrance. He wore black shades despite it being nighttime, and his arms were crossed in a way that screamed 'I will break you in half if you test me.'
Xander cleared his throat. "Uh, well… I don't have an invite. I mean, I do. But it's…" He glanced at the sign again. "…For the fight club?"
The bouncer raised an eyebrow, his expression completely unreadable.
Xander quickly pulled out the plumbing card that Jerry had given him earlier. "Here, you can call this number."
The bouncer took it, eyeing the random plumbing company name before dialing without a second thought.
Xander watched in mild envy.
Must be nice having a phone…
The call lasted only a few seconds. The bouncer gave a quick nod before hanging up and slipping the phone back into his pocket.
"Follow me, kid."
Xander obeyed without a word, stepping past the gold-trimmed doors and into the club.
The inside was even crazier.
Crystal chandeliers illuminated the space in a dim golden hue. The scent of cologne, perfume, and expensive alcohol mixed together in a potent cocktail. Wealthy men and women lounged in VIP booths, surrounded by gorgeous dancers.
The atmosphere was loud yet controlled, oozing a refined kind of decadence.
Xander followed closely, feeling wildly out of place in his hoodie and sweatpants.
Some people in the crowd glanced at him, eyes lingering as if trying to figure out how he'd gotten past security.
Tension built in his chest.
He kept moving.
Finally, after weaving through the main hall, the bouncer led him to a completely separate hallway. The moment they stepped in, the noise of the main club vanished, replaced by a tense, eerie silence.
The hallway was narrow and dimly lit, the walls lined with soundproof padding. At the very end stood a single ominous-looking door, thicker than a vault, with a steel security panel on the side.
The bouncer stopped and nodded toward it.
"In there. You've got a few minutes left for registration."
With that, he simply turned on his heel and walked away, disappearing back into the main club.
Stepping through the door, Xander was instantly greeted by a storm of sound.
Cheering.
Shouting.
The clinking of bottles.
The heavy impact of fists colliding with flesh.
The air was thick with sweat, alcohol, and raw intensity.
Around the corner, Xander spotted a registration booth and, right beside it, a betting area flooded with eager gamblers tossing cash at bookkeepers. The atmosphere was electric, buzzing with excitement and anticipation.
His eyes scanned the crowd, enhanced vision kicking in as he pinpointed a familiar face.
Jerry.
The blonde thug stood among the masses, his arms crossed, a cocky smirk playing at his lips. When their eyes met, Jerry gave Xander a slight nod—an unspoken acknowledgment.
Xander nodded back before pushing his way through the dense crowd toward the registration booth.
Along the way, his attention flickered to the fighting pits.
Enclosed rings, lined with chains. Each ring was packed with brawlers of all types—boxers, martial artists, scrappy street fighters—throwing down in brutal, no-holds-barred matches.
The smell of blood hung in the air like an unspoken warning.
But what caught Xander's eye the most was above it all.
On the upper level of the arena, a glass-encased VIP viewing lounge stretched across the entire diameter of the underground facility. The glass was tinted, making it impossible to see the faces inside, but Xander could make out their silhouettes.
Wealthy spectators.
Powerful figures.
People with real influence.
Who the hell runs this place?
He shook off the thought and finally reached the registration booth.
Behind the desk sat a blonde woman in a sharp business suit, her piercing green eyes barely glancing up from the screen in front of her. Her voice was all business.
"Ring name and Explorer rank, if you have an Explorer ID."
Xander blinked.
"Ring name?"
Shit, he hadn't thought about that. He scrambled for something cool-sounding.
"Uh… how about the… Scarlet Phantom?"
The woman typed it in without reaction.
"Sponsor or voucher?"
"Jerry and TJ."
A few keystrokes later, she nodded.
"Verified. You're clear to enter."
She turned the screen toward him.
"Now, sign this. Registration ends once the warm-up fights are over."
Xander glanced toward the ring.
Only one fight was still ongoing.
And it was brutal.
One fighter—a towering brute covered in scars—stumbled, his legs nearly black and purple from repeated trauma.
His opponent?
A lean, calm-looking man wearing MMA gloves and no knee pads.
He effortlessly dodged a desperate swing, smoothly stepping back before slamming another brutal kick into his opponent's thigh.
The impact echoed through the arena like a whip cracking.
The brute let out a strangled groan, his legs buckling beneath him.
Xander narrowed his eyes.
That must be Sol.
The crowd roared as the referee rushed in, signaling the match's end. Sol barely acknowledged it—he simply turned his back, exiting the ring like it was just another routine workout.
Damn…
Xander's gaze flicked back to the document on the screen.
A quick skim confirmed what he already expected.
A liability waiver.
"We're not responsible for what happens to you," along with a detailed breakdown of how much of the winnings the house would take.
Standard shady business.
He signed quickly.
With that done, he made his way to the betting booth.
"Hey, I'd like to bet on Sol," Xander said, stepping up to the counter.
Behind the desk sat a scruffy-looking middle-aged man with bright red hair and a cocky grin. His red-tinted shades reflected the flickering lights of the arena.
The man snorted.
"Of course you are. You bastards love that guy, don't ya? Can't blame ya."
He gestured toward the now-finished match.
The hulking brute lay motionless on the ground, his legs swollen to the size of tree trunks. Meanwhile, Sol had already disappeared behind the locker room doors.
"Brutal, ain't it?" the bookie said with a smirk. "So how much you puttin' down? Place is packed with betters tonight—unless you got a big amount, don't expect a big profit."
Xander pulled out his wad of cash.
"$1,900," he said, sliding the bills across the counter.
The bookie's smirk widened as he quickly counted the money, giving Xander an appraising look.
"Not bad, kid… but this is chump change around here."
He slipped the cash into a secure vault under the desk.
"Still, you'll get a decent payout if the bastard wins."
He handed Xander a small betting slip with a number printed on it.
"Come back when the night's done—if you don't get your ass handed to ya before then."
The man let out a loud, wheezing laugh.
Xander frowned but said nothing. Instead, he pocketed the slip and turned away, making his way toward the contestants' area.
The contestants' area was buzzing with energy.
Fighters of all shapes and sizes filled the room—men and women alike, most of them explorers, each one exuding confidence or cold, battle-hardened resolve.
Some paced like predators before a hunt.
Others meditated in silence, their auras coiled tight like springs ready to explode.
Xander stood among them, clearly out of place in his red and black jumper and hoodie combo.
They all look dangerous… and probably have actual abilities too, he thought, scanning the hall with growing tension. I've really thrown myself into something wild this time… heh, whatever. Let's ride it out.
He forced out a chuckle, trying to keep the nerves down.
That's when a stern voice cut through the crowd.
"Sir, you are not allowed to fight while wearing those clothes. I suggest you change into something more appropriate—the event will start soon."
Xander turned toward the source.
A sharp-eyed overseer in a sleek black suit.
The man gave a quick nod, then walked off before Xander could say a word.
Xander let out an audible groan, running his fingers through his hair.
"Damn it… I didn't bring any fighting gear. How could I be so stupid?!"
He bit his thumbnail anxiously, pacing in a circle before stomping his foot in frustration.
"Of all the things to forget…"
Before he could spiral any further, he felt a light tap on his shoulder.
He turned to see a towering man—broad-shouldered, heavy-built, and nearly a full head taller than Xander. His chest was thick like it was sculpted out of granite, and his arms looked like they could crush stone with a flex.
He wore a calm expression, but his eyes carried a depth that made him seem… steady.
"Hello," the man said in a composed, low voice with a faint African accent. "I am Abouda Kari."
Xander blinked.
"Uhh… h-hello? Abouda… Kari?"
He was a bit taken aback by the sudden introduction.
"Did you need something?"
"I do not," the man replied bluntly, his face still emotionless. "But you do. I heard you speaking with the referee. I have spare boxing shorts, if you need them."
Xander raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the man's generosity. But as his gaze met Abouda's and saw no hint of mockery or sarcasm, just genuine calm, a wave of gratitude hit him.
"That would be much appreciated, actually. Uh… Abou?"
"It is Abouda Kari," the man corrected, then softened just slightly. "But you may refer to me as Kari."
He offered a massive hand for a handshake.
Xander reached out, and his own hand all but disappeared into Kari's calloused grip. The difference in size was almost comical.
"Nice to meet you, Kari. I owe you for this."
Kari nodded slowly, then gestured toward a side room.
"In there. Locker number nine. Code is 7777. There is a small pair of clean boxing shorts inside. You may use them."
"Thanks, man. Seriously."
Without wasting another second, Xander turned and jogged toward the lockers, his heart still racing—not from nerves, but from the fact that this night was just getting started.
Xander stepped into the dim, sweat-laced air of the underground locker room.
The concrete walls seemed to pulse faintly with the muffled roar of the fight arena outside—cheers, taunts, metal clanging, flesh pounding against flesh.
The scent of leather polish, disinfectant, old blood, and adrenaline permeated the enclosed space, heightening his senses and setting the tone.
This place was raw.
Unfiltered.
And utterly unforgiving.
He made his way to locker number 9, recalling the passcode.
7777.
The keypad beeped with a mechanical chime, unlocking the door with a soft metallic clack.
Inside lay a surprisingly clean set of MMA shorts and basic kickboxing gear, all neatly folded and decently his size.
A twinge of relief passed through him.
For a place so chaotic, at least this small piece of order existed.
Stripping down quickly, he folded his jumper and hoodie with care and shoved them into the locker. Cold air prickled across his exposed torso as he stepped into the shorts, tightening the drawstring around his waist.
The material felt durable, built for motion and sweat.
He rolled his shoulders, shook out his arms, and reached for the gloves—
BANG—CRASH!
A violent noise exploded from the far end of the locker room.
The slam of metal against metal rang out, followed by the unmistakable thud of something heavy hitting the floor.
Xander's muscles tensed like coiled wire.
Suddenly, a body came flying across the corridor, slamming into the lockers near him with a disturbing metallic echo.
The man crumpled to the ground in a twisted heap, groaning. Blood trickled from a deep slash across his abdomen, and he looked like he'd gone three rounds with a wild animal.
His mocha-toned skin was smeared with sweat and grime, one eye swollen shut, the other half-lidded and unfocused. His thin, torn shirt clung uselessly to his battered frame.
A shaky arm reached out.
Then collapsed under its own weight.
Xander blinked in disbelief.
"What the hell…?"
Then came the thunder of boots.
Each step was heavy, deliberate, and brimming with menace.
The assailant emerged from the locker room's bathroom corridor—a hulking figure easily over six-foot-five, with a physique carved from a lifetime of combat.
His massive arms were wrapped in tribal tattoos and corded muscle, thick veins pulsing like angry rivers beneath scarred skin. Dozens of jagged marks decorated his torso and limbs, a brutal tapestry of violence and survival.
His slick black hair was tied back tightly, emphasizing a face sculpted from anger—sharp jawline, cracked lips, and smoldering fury.
Amber eyes gleamed beneath furrowed brows.
"You stinkin' pig!" the brute bellowed. "Didn't I tell you to keep your ugly mug outta here?! Nothing is gonna stop me from snapping your spine tonight!"
The man on the floor whimpered, curling slightly, but said nothing.
A sickening cough escaped his throat.
The brute's fiery gaze then locked onto Xander, who had the poor timing of simply existing nearby.
"The hell are you lookin' at, scrawny-ass bitch?!"
Xander froze.
His shoulders tensed.
His brain screamed to disengage.
"Nothing, man. I was just about to leave."
He said it calmly, hoping that would be the end of it.
[SYSTEM PROMPT]
New Quest Started: [Learn Some Respect]
Objective: Teach the target how to show some respect—by beating it into him.
Quest Rewards: +75 EXP, +2 Strength, +???
Failure Penalty: ??? + Get your ass handed to you in the near future.
Xander's face contorted.
"SON OF A BITCH!!" he shouted, fists clenched at the ceiling.
The brute turned, now thoroughly pissed off.
"The hell did you just call me, you little bitch?!"
Dammit… wasn't even talking to him. Why is the system out for me?
Xander exhaled hard, then shrugged, giving in to the moment.
"I called you a son of a bitch, you deaf bastard."
Fear started to claw its way up his spine—
—and was instantly crushed by a wave of icy clarity.
Calm Resolve had triggered.
His heart steadied.
His thoughts became crisp, calculating.
The brute looked at him, stunned for a second, then laughed, the sound more animal than human.
"Oh, I like you. Big mouth. Let's see if your fists back it up."
His muscles bulged grotesquely, skin flushing red as energy surged through his veins. His form expanded slightly, a transformation triggered by some kind of strength-enhancing skill.
The concrete under his feet cracked as he stepped forward.
"They call me The Red Ogre, runt. You'll remember that name when you wake up in traction."
He stalked toward Xander, each step exuding violent intent.
Beast-type build. Full aggression. Likely banking on overwhelming force. No grace, no tactics, Xander assessed. I've survived a beast before… I'll survive this one too.
Even with the lingering blur from his +3 red contacts, his focus never wavered. His muscles tensed in anticipation, feet naturally sliding into a balanced stance.
The air in the locker room turned still, thick with rising tension.
Whatever was about to go down—it would be the first real test of the night.
And Xander?
He was done running…