In the center of the main arena hall, the air was thick with the scent of dust and the heavy vibration of combat. Max was embroiled in a fight of his own, but this wasn’t like the brawls happening elsewhere in the facility. He wasn’t trading blows with the rank-and-file members of the Gilt Rats, nor was he facing off against a soldier encased in a mechanical exoskeleton.
Instead, he was locked in a high-stakes confrontation with the leader of the Black Hounds himself: a man named Darius. The two of them stood atop the stage, a raised platform that now felt like a lonely island in the middle of a war zone. They were ready to tear each other apart, and Darius was the first to break the tension.
Darius lunged forward, throwing a powerful overhand fist aimed squarely at Max’s jaw. Max reacted instantly, moving to block by parrying the arm away with a practiced sweep of his hand. But as his palm cut through the air, he hit nothing. There was no resistance, no impact, just empty space where a limb should have been.
Darius had anticipated the reaction. Seeing the opening created by the missed block, he pivoted his weight and transitioned into a sharp kick. However, Max didn’t panic. He allowed the momentum of his failed parry to carry him through, spinning his body in a fluid, tight circle. Using that centrifugal force, Max delivered a devastating spinning kick that caught Darius flush on the side of the head.
The impact was heavy, a dull thud that echoed through the hall. Darius stumbled back, his vision swimming, but he kept his guard clamped high, bracing himself in case another strike followed.
"I told you already that your stuff won’t work on me anymore," Max claimed, his voice steady and devoid of the fear that had once defined their interactions. "I still can’t figure out how to stop that trick of yours, or why my body keeps reacting to those phantoms, but it doesn’t matter. I’ll just move faster. I’ll strike stronger. I’ll brute force my way through whatever illusions you try to throw at me."
Darius didn’t offer a verbal response. Instead, he narrowed his eyes and moved in again, this time with much more caution than his initial burst. He began to pepper the air with a flurry of fists, his hands moving in a blurring rhythm.
None of the fists being thrown were real; they were feints designed to trigger Max’s reflexes and leave him vulnerable. But Max did exactly as he said he would. He reacted to every single one, parrying the ghost-strikes away with blinding speed, but retracting his hands back into his defensive stance at the perfect moment. He was reset and ready before the next "fist" could even land.
Darius began to feel a cold sweat breaking out. Even though he thought he would have seen a dozen openings by now, he couldn’t find a gap to slip a real strike through. He was forced to keep throwing his intent out, hoping to catch Max in a rhythm he couldn’t break.
’I can’t believe what is happening,’ Darius thought, the side of his head still feeling numb and throbbing from the earlier kick. ’He really is blocking all the strikes at a speed so fast that even when I mix in the fake ones, he can still punish me.’
As they traded shadows and steel, Darius’s internal panic grew. ’It’s not just the speed, either. In some cases, he’s simply brute-forcing his way through the exchange. Even if I managed to land a clean strike, he looks willing to take the hit just so he can hit me back even harder.’
The Black Hound leader struggled to reconcile this version of Max with the one from his memory. ’What I don’t understand is how it’s even possible for him to improve in such a short amount of time. What is his secret? Was he just faking his incompetence the last time the two of us fought?’
He quickly dismissed the thought. ’No, that’s impossible. His life was on the line back then, to the point where he had to jump right off the ship to survive. He hasn’t just improved; he’s managed to evolve in every single aspect of combat.’
Darius clenched both of his fists, his knuckles turning white. He charged in again, but this time he didn’t rely on a single feint. He threw a series of strikes, each laced with true intent, so that on Max’s end, it looked like a wall of actual fists was bearing down on him.
Darius’s plan was simple: if Max was going to block everything, he would use those fake punches to dictate how Max’s body moved. After throwing several high feints toward Max’s head to force his hands up, Darius dropped low, driving a powerful knee strike toward Max’s stomach.
But just as the knee was about to connect, one of Max’s hands shot down, pinning the knee and pushing it toward the floor with effortless strength. Darius looked up, and the last thing he saw was the confident smile on Max’s face before a punch hit him square on the jaw. The force sent his head jerking back, his neck snapping with the impact.
’He blocked my knee strike with a single hand...’ Darius thought as he reeled. ’His strength really has increased by leaps and bounds. This isn’t the same man.’
While Max watched his opponent struggle to find his footing, he felt a genuine surge of adrenaline. This power wasn’t a gift; it was the result of his grueling hard work and his unique perspective as a businessman. By combining his deep knowledge of the Underworld’s mechanics with the resources of his new life, he had built himself into a weapon.
’I need to be careful,’ Max thought, a small smirk playing on his lips. ’Or I might actually get addicted to earning money if this is the kind of interest it pays.’
Just as Max was ready to dive back in and finish Darius off, confident that the leader of the Black Hounds could no longer stand in his way, the heavy sound of a door slamming echoed through the arena.
Max’s head snapped toward the sound. He looked down one of the long hallways, the one that linked directly to the main staircase. Moments later, a figure emerged from the shadows. The man was dressed in a pristine white gown that seemed out of place in the grime of the arena.
"Ramon!" Darius called out, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and shame.
"It’s just as he said. He thought you would be having some trouble here," Ramon commented, his voice smooth and devoid of any real concern. He looked at Max with a tilted head, as if inspecting a curious specimen. "I guess there is more to you than just being the wealthy Chairman of the Billion Bloodline group."
As Max stared at Ramon, his blood ran cold. His mind immediately jumped to the person who was supposed to be guarding that path. A single, frantic thought took over.
"How are you here? What happened to Aron!" Max shouted, his voice echoing through the hall as he prepared for the fight of his life.