Chapter 59: Blood Colosseum Contract
The Obsidian Pit was packed.
Holden went down the subway stairs and felt the heat before he saw the crowd. The air was filled with the energy of hundreds of people crammed into an underground space designed for half as many. The noise hit him like a wall. Cheering, shouting, the clink of glasses, and the ever-present bass thud of fights already in progress.
His gold mask was in place. His cloak covered everything else. He moved through the crowd like a shadow, and the crowd parted for him.
Word had spread.
After what he’d done to Gorge the Butcher, people were watching. They whispered. They made room, not out of respect exactly, but out of the instinctive caution people showed around things they didn’t understand.
The bookmaker saw him coming.
The scarred man actually stood up from his chair, which was a first. His cigar was unlit, his ledger was open, and his smile showed too many teeth.
"Asura! My favorite mystery man!" He leaned over the glass counter. "You made me a lot of money last night, you know that? Gorge had all the bettors fooled. Nobody thought the rookie would last thirty seconds. You made a lot of people very angry and a few very rich."
Holden stopped at the counter.
"Tonight’s different though," the bookmaker continued. "Word got around. The big spenders want to see you fight again. Problem is, we don’t have anyone left in the standard bracket who’s willing to face you. Gorge’s buddies are scared."
He tapped his ledger.
"But I got an offer. Three fights. Back to back. Veteran Rank Two brawlers, not scrubs. You clear all three, the payout triples. Lose even one, you get nothing. You in?"
Holden placed a deposit on the counter.
The bookmaker’s grin widened. "That’s what I like to see. Cage three. You’re up after the current match ends. Don’t die."
The first opponent was a mercenary named Krag.
He was ugly. Scars crisscrossed his face like a roadmap of violence. His arms were thick as fence posts, and in each hand he gripped a heavy battleaxe with a blade the size of a dinner plate.
"You’re the mask who killed Gorge?" Krag spat on the cage floor. "Gorge was soft. I’m going to take your head off and use it as a bowling ball."
Holden said nothing.
"Begin!"
Krag charged with a roar. Both axes came down in a scissoring strike designed to catch anything between them.
Holden stepped forward instead of back.
His hands came up. He caught both axe handles, one in each palm, right where the wooden shafts met the metal heads.
Krag’s eyes went wide.
Holden squeezed.
Crack.
The axe shafts snapped like dry twigs. The heavy metal heads clattered to the floor. Krag stared at the broken handles in his opponent’s hands.
Before he could react, Holden gave him a head-butt.
Thud.
Krag hit the floor like a sack of wet sand.
[Ding! Rank 2 Cultivator Defeated: Krag the Axe. +500 KP]
"Next!" the announcer shouted.
The second opponent crept into the cage.
He was the opposite of Krag. Thin and muscular. A shadow-rogue named Whisper. His weapons were twin daggers, and his reputation was built on speed and evasion.
"Fast little blade-boy," Whisper said, his voice barely audible. "But I’ve killed faster. You’ll never touch me."
He vanished instantly.
He used shadow-step techniques to blend into the dark corners of the arena, making him nothing more than a ghost in the dim light.
Holden’s 1,000x processing kicked in.
He didn’t need to see Whisper clearly. He just needed to track the distortions in the air, the subtle shifts in pressure.
Whisper struck from behind. Left flank. Low angle aimed at the kidney.
Holden turned and caught the dagger hand.
Whisper struck with the other hand. Throat level.
Holden blocked it with his forearm.
Whisper tried to disengage and fade back into shadow.
Holden didn’t let him. His grip on the rogue’s wrist tightened, and he yanked him forward into a brutal knee strike to the stomach.
Whisper folded. His daggers fell. His eyes rolled back.
Thud.
[Ding! Rank 2 Cultivator Defeated: Whisper the Shade. +500 KP]
The crowd was losing their minds. Two fights. Two instant knockouts. No visible technique. Just overwhelming, impossible strength.
The third opponent was different.
Gravel was his name. His skin had a grayish tint that spoke of a body-modification technique designed to harden the outer layers. He was slow, but he was built like a tank, and his fists had probably broken more bones than most people had seen.
"Stone doesn’t break," Gravel rumbled. "You’ll punch yourself out before you hurt me."
He planted his feet and raised his fists like a boxer.
Holden walked toward him.
Gravel swung. A heavy right hook designed to break ribs.
Holden didn’t dodge. He didn’t block with his arms.
He activated Asura’s Ignition in his right palm and caught the fist.
The stone-skin technique was impressive. It would have stopped any normal Rank 2 attack cold.
But Asura’s heat wasn’t normal.
The stone-like outer layer on Gravel’s fist began to glow red. Then orange. Then it started to crack like heated rock in a fire.
Gravel’s eyes went wide with shock and pain.
Holden squeezed harder. The stone-skin shattered like pottery, flaking away in chunks to reveal the soft flesh underneath. Gravel screamed.
Holden released him and delivered a single punch to the now-unprotected jaw.
Wham.
Gravel flew backward and hit the cage wall. He slid down and didn’t move.
[Ding! Rank 2 Cultivator Defeated: Gravel the Stone. +500 KP]
[3 Rank 2 Cultivators Defeated. Base 1,500 KP. 2x KP Booster Applied! Total: +3,000 KP!]
[Balance: 9,790 KP]
The arena erupted.
The noise was physical. People jumped up and down. Credits changed hands in waves. The announcer was screaming something about a legend being born, but nobody could hear him over the roar.
Holden walked out of the cage.
A handler tried to hand him his payout, but before he could take it, a new voice cut through the chaos.
"Asura."
The crowd quieted slightly. A path opened.
A man stepped out of the VIP lounge. He was dressed in deep purple velvet robes trimmed with gold thread. Rings glittered on every finger. A thin chain of expensive metal hung around his neck.
The arena’s owner.
"You’re making me very rich, Asura," the man said, stopping three feet away. His smile was smooth and practiced. "Very, very rich. The bettors love you. The crowd loves you. But this place is small. Limited. You’re meant for bigger stages."
He brought out a thin metal card from inside his robe and held it out.
"Next week. The Blood Colosseum Tournament. It’s an invitation-only event. Elite fighters. Mercenary captains. Disgraced nobles. The payout for the winner is ten times what you’d make here in a month. And the competition..." He smiled wider. "Let’s just say they won’t go down as easy as these three."
Holden looked at the card.
"You’d be the star attraction," the owner continued. "The mysterious masked fighter who destroyed Gorge the Butcher. The crowd would eat it up. I’d eat it up. And you’d make enough money to buy half the lower city."
He pressed the card closer.
"Let’s make you a legend, Asura."
Holden reached out and took the card.
He nodded once, tucked it into his cloak, and walked past the owner without another word.
The crowd parted for him again.
Behind him, the owner watched him go with a satisfied smile.
"Legend," he murmured. "Oh yes. This one’s going to make me a fortune."