I Evolve 10,000 Times Faster

The back door of the Obsidian Pit opened onto a narrow alley.

Rain had started falling while Holden was inside. It was barely even a drizzle, but it made the ground slippery. The alley was dark. The only light came from a distant street lamp at the far end, its glow weak and flickering.

Holden pulled his hood lower and stepped out.

The Blood Colosseum contract was tucked inside his cloak. His pouch of winnings hung at his belt. The gold mask covered everything above his chin, turning his face into a featureless black void that reflected nothing.

He walked toward the distant light.

His boots splashed in shallow puddles. The rain picked up slightly, pattering against his cloak in an irregular rhythm. The sounds of the Pit faded behind him, replaced by the quieter noise of the sleeping lower city.

He was maybe twenty meters from the street when he stopped.

Not because he saw anything. Because he didn’t hear anything.

The lower city was never completely silent. There were always sounds. Distant voices. Rats in the gutters. The creak of old buildings settling. But right now, the alley behind him had gone dead quiet. Like something had swallowed all the noise.

Four shapes came out from the shadows.

They moved with the practiced coordination of people who had done this before. Two from behind. One from each side. They closed the distance in seconds, cutting off any path to the street.

They were Mercenaries. Rough-looking men in scarred leather armor. Their weapons were drawn. Short swords and clubs. The kind of gear that said professional thug rather than elite warrior.

But what caught Holden’s attention was the emblem stamped into their chest.

A jagged wolf fang. Three points, curved inward like a predator’s tooth.

The Iron Fangs.

Under his mask, Holden almost laughed.

The irony was so perfect it felt scripted. The very assassins Draven’s family had hired to hunt Holden Voss were now trying to mug Asura the arena fighter. They had no idea who they were actually threatening.

The leader stepped forward. He was the biggest of the four, with a scarred face and a short sword that looked well-used.

"Well, well," the leader said. His voice was rough, carrying the thick accent of a man raised in the worst parts of town. "Look what crawled out of the Pit. You’re that mask guy, ain’t you? The one who killed Gorge."

Holden said nothing.

"See, here’s how this works, cage-boy." The leader twirled his sword in a lazy circle. "This is our alley. We collect a tax from everyone who walks through it. Especially fighters carrying heavy bags of winnings."

He pointed the blade at Holden’s belt pouch.

"Hand over the coin, or we take your fingers first. Then the coin. Your choice."

The other three mercenaries spread out slightly, positioning themselves to cut off any escape route. One of them chuckled. Another cracked his knuckles.

Holden tilted his head slightly.

The leader took it as hesitation.

"What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue under there? Don’t worry. We’ll be gentle. Probably."

He stepped forward and swung.

The short sword came in fast, aimed at Holden’s shoulder. A disabling strike meant to hurt without killing, the kind of move thugs used to establish dominance.

Holden raised his hand.

His fingers caught the blade mid-swing.

Crack.

The sword snapped. The top half of the blade dropped to the ground, leaving the leader holding a useless hilt with jagged metal edges.

The leader stared at the broken weapon.

Then at Holden’s fingers. There was not a scratch on them.

"What the..."

Holden moved.

He stepped forward and grabbed the leader’s throat. One hand. His fingers closed around his neck with precise, controlled pressure. The man’s eyes bulged. His mouth opened to scream but nothing came out.

Wham.

Holden slammed him into the alley wall. The impact knocked the breath out of him and sent him sliding to the ground, unconscious before he finished falling.

The second mercenary lunged with his club.

Holden didn’t turn. He just threw a backhand strike over his shoulder without looking. His fist hit the man’s jaw. The mercenary’s head snapped sideways and he dropped to the ground.

Thud.

The third one tried to run.

He only got three steps away before Holden caught him. Holden grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. He hit the man in the chest so hard he couldn’t breathe, knocking him backward into a pile of wet trash bags.

The fourth mercenary hadn’t moved.

He stood frozen in place, his short sword dangling from fingers that had suddenly gone numb. His face was pale. His eyes were locked on the three unconscious bodies of his squadmates.

Less than five seconds. That’s how long it had taken.

Holden turned to face him.

The mercenary’s sword dropped to the ground.

"I... I’m just a scout," he stammered. "Please. I didn’t..."

Holden walked toward him.

The man backpedaled until his spine hit the alley wall. He pressed himself against it, trembling.

Holden stopped one foot away and looked down at him through the gold mask.

The rain fell between them. The only sound in the dead alley.

The mercenary’s bladder let go. A dark stain spread down his leg, mixing with the rainwater pooling at his feet.

Holden reached out and grabbed him by the collar.

He lifted the mercenary off the ground.

It was effortless. One hand on the collar, holding two hundred pounds of armed thug six inches off the ground like he weighed nothing. The man’s feet kicked uselessly in the air. His hands clawed at Holden’s wrist.

Nothing happened.

The grip was iron. Unbreakable. The kind of hold that made people realize they were about to die.

Holden leaned in close. The gold mask filled the mercenary’s vision.

"Why are Iron Fangs scouting lower city alleys?"

His voice came out different. The mask distorted it slightly, giving it an inhuman quality that made it sound like it came from somewhere else entirely.

The mercenary’s eyes bulged.

"How do you... we’re just scouts! Please! We’re not important!"

Holden tightened his grip. Just enough to make breathing harder.

"Who sent you?"

"House Draven! The Valcrest family! They paid us a fortune! I swear, that’s all I know!"

Draven.

Of course. The irony of the situation was almost funny. These men were hunting him, and they had no idea they’d found him.

"What’s the job?"

The mercenary’s face was purple now. Desperation made him talk fast.

"Hunt down an academy freshman! Name’s Holden Voss! They want him dead or captured! That’s all I know, I swear! We’re just scouts! We find targets, we report back, that’s it!"

"Varga," Holden said. The name wasn’t a question.

The mercenary’s eyes went wide. "You... you know about Varga?"

"Where is he?"

"He’s... he’s entering the Blood Colosseum! Next week! He’s going to recruit high-level fighters for a coordinated raid! Something about a Prime Zone estate! I don’t know the details! Talk to Varga! Please!"

The rain kept falling. Cold drops splashed against Holden’s mask and ran down in thin rivulets.

Holden processed the information.

Varga. The Iron Fangs’ leader. A Rank 2, 8-Star warrior entering the Blood Colosseum Tournament. Recruiting fighters for a raid on the Prime Zone.

On Maeve’s home.

The anger that flared was cold and controlled. He knew with absolute certainty that he was going to kill Varga, and it was going to happen in a cage where nobody could blame Holden for it.

He looked at the mercenary dangling from his fist. The man was crying now. Snot ran down his nose. His lips trembled.

"Tell Varga something for me," Holden said.

The man nodded frantically.

"Tell him I’ll see him in the cage."

Wham.

Holden hit the side of the man’s head with his palm. The man’s eyes rolled back, and his body went limp. Holden released him and let him drop to the ground in a heap beside his three unconscious comrades.

[Ding!]

[4 Rank 2 Cultivators Incapacitated.]

[Base KP: 1,000]

[2x KP Booster Applied!]

[Total: +2,000 KP]

[Balance: 11,790 KP]