INVESTMENT TURMOIL
Four hours later, Don Klause stepped out of his armored sedan and stared at what used to be his gambling den. Police lights spun across the shattered façade, and the broken windows made the place look as though a wrecking ball had taken a personal interest in it.
Marvick strode up to him, field report already in hand. He debriefed him about the situation.
Well, sir… we've got quite a situation."
Klause's jaw tightened. "What do we have here?"
"Some of your customers decided to redecorate," Marvick replied dryly.
Klause exhaled sharply. "Which floor?"
"Second," Marvick said with a warning smirk. "And… you might want to brace yourself."
Klause pushed past him, heading inside. The moment he reached the second level, he stopped cold. It looked like a tornado had torn straight through the building—tables splintered, machines ripped open, debris scattered like shrapnel.
He didn't bother hiding his fury. "Get me the full report. And the camera feeds. Now."
The damage alone would cost him a fortune—and worse, someone had dared to cause it.
Once he'd reviewed every second of footage and every line of Marvick's brief, he issued the order without hesitation—voice low, lethal. "Put a word out. I want these bastards in my hands by the end of the day." He turned to his right-hand man. "Is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," the man answered quietly.
Klause's gaze swept the ruined betting floor. It was barely recognizable. What caught his attention most was how every brawl, every explosion of chaos, seemed to center around two boys.
"Who are those two?" he asked, pointing at the frozen image on the display. "The ones pulling all the attention?" narrowing his eyes. "Everyone else seemed to gravitate toward them."
"Can't say yet," Marvick replied, fingers flying across the tablet as he attempted a face match. "But I doubt they're from Front Marina. Ten betas say they're Undercity brats. That's the direction they bolted when we chased them."
Klause stared at him, unimpressed. "You chased down a pair of kids and they still outran you? Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic."
Marvick only gave a halfhearted shrug. "Don't worry, Klause. You'll have your troublemakers." He waved a casual goodbye as he walked off.
WELCOME TO PARADISE
Meanwhile, the gang had already reached home turf. Nyx and the crew slipped through the massive drainage pipes, dropping into the overflow tunnel. They followed the length of it until they reached a maintenance ladder and climbed out into the neon gloom, stained pavement of Heathen Avenue—heart of the Undercity territory.
The moment they stepped out, the world hit them like a riot of color and noise; the Undercity swallowed them whole. The Undercity was alive—feral, frantic, and unrepentant. The air vibrated with manic energy—life buzzing like exposed wires. Neon lights flickered overhead in sickly pinks and radioactive blues, casting an endless artificial dawn over the streets. Everything smelled like the aftermath of chaos.
They headed toward the monorail–conveyor station, bought their passes, and boarded a rattling gondola that carried them on steel cables high above the district. From up there, the city sprawled like a glowing wound.
Beneath them stretched the infamous central black market—an ocean of noise and chaos. Metal clanged against metal. Chemical fumes hissed out of vents. The soundtrack was a constant assault of shouting, haggling, and unplaceable mechanical screams.
Crowds surged in frantic waves—pushing, cursing, bartering for items no sane person should touch. Vendors barked from stalls made of welded scrap and desperation.
"Boss! Good price!"
"One hit and you'll see God!"
"No refunds!"
They shoved glowing vials, hacked tech, forged IDs, and questionable skewers of meat in every direction.
Brothels sagged between collapsed structures, their neon signs flickering like broken promises: ALL SPECIES. ALL GENDERS. ALL PLEASURES. NO QUESTIONS.
Perfume and sweat mixed with the copper sting of cheap lust hung in the air like fog. Inside, laughter shattered like glass. Outside, joy-girls and rent-boys leaned against lamp posts, cigarette tips burning like tiny suns as they hunted for their next escape.
The clubs were madhouses. Strobe lights carved bodies into frantic silhouettes. Music pounded hard enough to shake dust loose from overhead pipes. Street fights erupted randomly—raw, animal brutality with an eager crowd ready to bet on blood. Fists snapped, boots thudded, cheers rose like a war chant. Money traded hands faster than blood hit the ground.
Drunks sprawled in gutters clutching bottles filled with liquids bright enough to light their own graves. Addicts drifted in twitching clusters, whispering desperate bargains for pills, patches, injectors—anything to burn reality out for a few precious seconds.
Pickpockets slid through the crowd like ghosts—fingers quick, silent, invisible. The moment you felt a hand, it was already gone.
Their gondola reached the end of the line, and they transferred to the slow pneumatic train that cut through the Chemical Wasteland district—an abandoned mega-complex the size of a refinery.
A street preacher shouted about the end times while passing around a pipe of dream-smoke. Lovers slammed each other against a wall beneath a flickering sign that read: PARADISE THIS WAY →.
Chrome-eyed children darted underfoot, laughing as if the entire nightmare was a playground.
Drunks lay across catwalks, their bottles leaking neon-blue liquor. Junkies huddled near steam vents, inhaling vapors never meant for lungs. Their eyes glowed too bright—too empty.
Every scent—burning coolant, grease, synthetic perfume, ozone, mold, engine oil, wet rust—layered into a living monster of a smell. Ozone, sweat, frying rat, spilled liquor, blood, burning plastic, and something sweet-rotten underneath it all. It clung to your hair, your clothes, the back of your throat.
The Undercity didn't sleep. It howled, bled, laughed, and kept going—too wild and too desperate to ever die.
It's a dog-eat-dog world. Welcome to the Undercity. Try not to die. Try harder not to live.
CONFRONTATION
When the train finally rolled into their station, the crew disembarked and headed toward Benzo's bar. To avoid being caught sneaking in, they used the back-alley door with their spare keys.
But Benzo had already spotted them and chose—for now—not to confront them. He pretended, continuing to serve customers until the moment was right.
They slipped downstairs into the underground chamber they'd always called home. Relief washed over them—victory, safety, exhaustion all crashing at once. One by one, they collapsed into their bunks, drifting toward sleep.
Their victory nap lasted only a few minutes before—
The door slammed open, and a burst of blinding white light filled the room as he switched on the lights. Everyone groaned in agony as their eyes burned.
Everyone groaned, shielding their eyes.
"Turn the goddamn light off! I'm trying to sleep," Nyx wailed, burying his face under a pillow.
"You'll sleep," Benzo said sharply, "as soon as you tell me what you idiots did in Front Marina."
Nyx sat up instantly. The rest followed more slowly.
"Good. You're awake." Benzo stepped inside, eyes blazing. "Now—someone tell me why Enforcers were chasing four kids."
"Enforcers… chasing who? What?" Jayce asked in a tone so fake it might as well have come with a receipt.
Benzo glared. "Drop the act, Jayce. I raised you. I know every one of your tells."
Nyx sagged back against the wall, rubbing tired eyes, voice dry with exhaustion. "It's two in the morning, man. What do you want? We're trying to sleep."
"Oh, you care about sleep?" Benzo barked. "If you did—which you don't—you'd have already told me where your asses have been all evening."
"We were at Floki's," Boomer lied.
"You're a terrible liar, Boomer." Benzo's gaze shifted to Skyler. "And you—you're joining their chaos now? Where's my fifteen-year-old princess?"
Nyx cut in, irritated. "Ease up on her, man. She's still a kid—turned fifteen like, what? Three weeks ago?"
MAN TO MAN TALK
Benzo snapped. In one motion, he grabbed Nyx by the collar and hauled him off the bed. Dragging him out of the room, he slammed the door behind them and shoved him against the wall.
"I thought you were supposed to be the smart one!" Benzo roared, jabbing a finger into Nyx's chest with each word. "You're the eldest! You're meant to lead by example—not drag them into danger!"
Nyx shoved him back. "I didn't ask them to follow me. I go out every day to earn my bread. They're the ones who choose to tag along."
Benzo's voice cracked with frustration. "Then what do you do when you notice that pattern?!"
"Chase them back home with a stick?" Nyx shot back.
Benzo exploded. "YOU REPORT THEM TO ME!"
Nyx burst into laughter—loud, mocking. "Wait—did you just say report them to you?" He clapped his hands and pointed toward the Undercity outside.
"This is Hell's Kitchen, Benzo! You should be proud you raised kids who still have their sanity, who haven't lost their morals, who aren't in jail or strung out on happy juice."
Benzo's voice dropped. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean, Nyx?"
"It means you should be grateful you've got kids who actually want to help. Adopted kids who know the value of a father figure."
"Help? Who says I needed help?!"
"Oh, come on!" Nyx snapped. "Drop the act. You think we don't know you're struggling?"
He pointed back toward the bar. "You were just lecturing Jayce about the same thing. Practice what you preach, Pops. Your favorite tax collector will be here this weekend."
Nyx patted Benzo's shoulders with both hands. "You shouldn't be worrying about us—worry about not losing this memorable place of yours," Nyx said calmly. "The birds will eventually leave the nest someday, Papa Birdie."
Benzo rubbed his palms together, his expression darkening. "Do you even know whose gambling den you and your wingman wrecked?" he asked.
Nyx gave a careless shrug, shaking his head. "Nah. Don't know. Don't care."
Benzo exhaled sharply. "My advice, Nyx, is to stay indoors for a few weeks and let things cool down in Front Marina. The Undercity is big enough to absorb your fiasco."
Nyx scoffed. "Sit your ass down and enjoy your old age. You've already done more than enough."
He leaned forward slightly, voice hardening. "We're growing up every single day while you grow old and gray. Don't kill yourself with worry before you die untimely, old man."
The words landed like a slap.
Without warning, Benzo swung a heavy punch straight into Nyx's abdomen—THUD! The impact drove the air from Nyx's lungs and sent him crashing to his knees.
"Ouch!" Nyx groaned. "What was that freaking for?"
Benzo stepped closer, his voice low and sharp. "Next time you feel like craving a death wish, go alone," he said. "Don't jeopardize the safety of three kids on the rooftops of moving trains."
GUNTER THE TAX COLLECTOR
Before Nyx could respond, an assistant from the bar upstairs appeared at the basement railing, peering down nervously.
"E–Excuse me, sir," he muttered, "some unfriendly gentlemen are here to see you."
Benzo turned to Nyx, his stare stern—almost fatherly, yet threatening. "We're not done here. You hear me?"
He climbed the stairs without waiting for a response.
When Nyx returned to the room, he found everyone staring at him as if they had expected something else entirely.
"What?!" Nyx snapped.
"N–Nothing, men," Boomer stuttered quickly.
Jayce stepped in, placing a calming hand on Boomer's shoulder. "C'mon, men. Chill out," he said, looking at Nyx. "We get it. You're frustrated. You're trying to look out for us in your own way—and so is Benzo."
Before Nyx could say anything, Skyler jumped down from her bunk and wrapped her arms tightly around him, pressing her head against his chest. Boomer joined in from the side a moment later.
Nyx's rigid posture softened. A faint smile crept onto his face as he gently patted both of their heads.
He glanced at Jayce, silently inviting him to join the embrace—but—
"Nah, I'm good, men," Jayce muttered, already backing away.
Nyx smirked. "Too shy to join in?"
Jayce climbed up to his bunk. "Not in a million years—nor in any dream—will I hug your sorry ass."
Suddenly, a loud crash echoed from upstairs—bottles shattering, followed by screams and frantic shouting.
Jayce and Nyx exchanged a look before bolting toward the stairs.
"Stay put," they said in unison to Boomer and Skyler.
When they emerged from the basement, the sight before them froze them in place.
Gunter.
He and his goons were trashing the bar, bottles smashed, furniture overturned.
Spotting the boys, Gunter threw his arms wide, grinning. "Hey, boys! How's it going? Long time no see."
He poured himself a drink behind Benzo's bar. "How long's it been? A year?"
"Four months, you devil," Jayce corrected flatly.
Nyx blinked, surprised. Jayce was usually the quiet one—reserved, controlled. Seeing him snap back caught both Nyx and Benzo off guard.
Nyx leaned closer. "What got into you today, buddy?"
"Nothing," Jayce replied casually. "I'm fine. Nothing to worry about."
Gunter pointed his glass toward Jayce. "Why the hostility, blond freak? No harm in collecting Dad's bill."
Nyx folded his arms. "Aren't you supposed to be back in, what—two weeks? Why the early collection? I'm curious." He tilted his head. "Going broke already?"
Gunter burst into malicious laughter. "Did you just say going broke already?" He sneered. "Maybe you should look in a mirror."
Nyx smiled broadly—fake, polished. "I'm just curious, Gunter. A boss of your caliber should watch his spending habits. Money's not easy to come by these days."
Gunter's smile vanished. "Alright, boys—trash the place."
As he stepped away, he added casually, "Buddy here isn't meeting up with payment."
Jayce and Nyx immediately moved, blocking the goons before they could do any more damage.
"How much overdue are we talking about?" they asked.
"Since you asked politely," Gunter replied, slamming back a shot of tequila, "a thousand betas."
Nyx reached into his pocket, pulled out a stack of bills, and handed them to one of Gunter's men.
"Two thousand," the goon counted aloud. "Boss."
Gunter smirked. "Benzo, my good friend—it seems your boys are paying in advance." He gestured lazily toward the door. "Guess you won't be seeing them again for the next two months."
With a flick of his hand, his men followed him out.
Once the door shut behind them, the bar fell into a heavy silence.
Then, without a word, Nyx and Jayce began cleaning.
Soon, a few familiar locals stepped in, grabbing brooms and lifting tables. Together, as one community, they set the place right again.
VICTORIA ROYAL RUMBLE
The following morning, back at the hotel, Victoria wandered the vast premises and found herself halting before the gymnasium lobby.
A kata team occupied the center floor, moving in perfect unison—choreographed martial artistry blending precision, balance, and theatrical flair. Each strike cut the air cleanly, their movements fluid as a single living organism.
To her right, groups of fighters sparred intensely, fists snapping and bodies colliding in controlled violence. To her left, the same ferocity played out again—but this time with wooden weapons clacking sharply against one another.
The moment her presence was noticed, the rhythm shattered.
Training ceased. Conversations died mid-breath. One by one, fighters turned, bowed, and offered greetings, paying their respects to the royal majesty.
Heat rushed to Victoria's cheeks. Embarrassed by the sudden attention, she quickly requested a small indoor competition in her honor. As she spoke with the lobby director, more people poured in—drawn by whispers and curiosity. Guards immediately noticed the growing crowd and shifted into formation, tightening security around her.
The memory of the banquet incident lingered heavily in their minds. Safety could never be taken lightly.
Fortunately, the gymnasium was expansive enough to accommodate the influx. At Victoria's request, the manager made the arena available without hesitation.
What began as a simple suggestion snowballed into an event. Despite the early hour—barely 9 a.m.—the lobby buzzed like a festival ground. Security rivaled that of a king's palace. Sensory-type Enforcers remained on full alert.
The mini tournament commenced.
Four rounds. Eight fighters.
Victoria was appointed referee.
The rules were simple:
Straight knockout.
Submission.
Or unanimous decision.
The crowd roared, feet stomping in anticipation as the indoor gymnasium transformed into a living, breathing theater of combat. The energy was so electric that the hotel manager began selling tickets to latecomers. There was no margin for error—especially with royalty present.
Stepping into the arena, Victoria wore a tailored referee's coat lined with royal gold. A small lapel microphone rested near her collar, and a ceremonial baton hung lightly at her hip. She raised one hand, steady and commanding.
Her voice rang out—equal parts velvet and steel.
"Ladies and gentlemen, fighters and fanatics—welcome to our undisputed community challenge championship. Eight entered. Eight invincible fighters. Only one will leave with the Crown's Laurels."
She paused, letting the tension coil tight.
"…Let the combatants approach."
Two fighters marched toward the red-marked circle at the center of the arena.
MATCH ONE: TURBO THE IRON JACKAL vs. SOFIA OF THE WIND TEMPLE
Victoria's gaze swept over them, noting the barely contained adrenaline, the hunger to explode into motion.
Turbo stood thick-shouldered and scarred, fists wrapped in rough leather. He cracked his knuckles—snap, snap—like breaking branches.
Sofia was light on her feet, calm-eyed, arms loose at her sides. The very air around her seemed to breathe in rhythm with her movements.
Victoria raised her hand.
"Combatants ready…"
A hush fell.
"FIGHT!"
The battle detonated.
WHAM!
Turbo lunged first, a brutal right hook crashing toward Sofia's ribs. He swung like a wrecking ball unleashed for demolition.
Sofia slipped beneath it, fluid as water flowing around stone, her braid snapping behind her.
Thff! Thff!
Two lightning-fast jabs kissed Turbo's jaw—so quick Victoria almost missed them.
Sofia danced back. Turbo bulldozed forward.
BOOM!
His shoulder slammed into her guard, dust bursting into the air. Sofia skidded backward but stayed upright, breath sharp, eyes locked and ready—coiled for a counter.
Victoria narrated crisply:
"Turbo presses the offense! Sofia maintains distance—her footwork is fluid. She's waiting for her moment."
Turbo raised his arm and brought it down like an executioner's axe—brute strength drowning out calculation.
CRACK!
Sofia blocked—barely. The impact rattled through her frame.
He followed with a sweeping leg—
Swoosh—THUD! It clipped her ankle and sent her tumbling.
The crowd erupted.
Victoria lifted one finger.
"Clean sweep! No foul."
Sofia rolled, sprang up, and pivoted sharply. Her heel slashed the air—
WHIP—THWACK!
The spinning kick struck Turbo's temple. His head snapped sideways, sweat and blood spraying from his brow.
He staggered.
Sofia surged forward, adrenaline burning hot.
Tap—tap—BAM!
Three strikes landed in rapid succession: chest, throat, jaw.
Turbo dropped to one knee.
Victoria stepped forward, her voice ringing through the arena.
"Defender unable to continue—MATCH ONE GOES TO SOFIA OF THE WIND TEMPLE!"
The arena exploded.
Victoria inhaled deeply, the dust and adrenaline filling her lungs as the fighters cleared the stage. She loved this—the raw willpower, the discipline, the hunger of the crowd rising like a tide.
Despite the circumstances of her arrival in Crownpoint, her spirits had never wavered. For the first time in a long while, she was truly enjoying herself.
Here—only here—she felt normal. Free from crowns, titles, and expectations. Just a woman witnessing strength and passion collide.
Her voice rose again, clear and commanding.
"Next contenders—enter the arena!"
Two shadows stepped forward as the crowd's heat pulsed like a heartbeat, the atmosphere thick with anticipation.
MATCH TWO: COUGAR THE MOUNTAIN VS. HARRISON, KING'S BLADE
Cougar was a towering slab of muscle, a living monument of brute force and mass. Harrison, by contrast, was lean and sinewy—a fully conditioned ectomorph, every fiber taut with discipline. His hair was drawn into a high knot, his posture immaculate, his expression as cold and clear as winter glass.
Victoria stepped into position and swept her arm through the air with theatrical authority.
"Ready…"
A brief, electric pause.
"Engage!"
The clash erupted like a thunderclap.
Harrison moved first.
Shff—shff—shff.
His hands blurred as he darted forward, striking with surgical precision. Cougar raised his forearms—thick as tree trunks—to meet the assault. Each collision rang through the arena like hardwood slamming into hardwood.
THOK! THOK! THOK!
Without breaking rhythm, Harrison pivoted, his movement fluid and seamless.
Crack!
His knee drove into Cougar's ribs.
Cougar snarled and lunged, his massive hand closing around Harrison's arm.
FWUP—BOOM!
With raw, overwhelming force, he hurled Harrison across the maple hardwood floor. The lean fighter rolled, bounced once, then sprang back to his feet in a single smooth motion, his recovery predatory and precise.
Victoria's voice cut through the roar of the crowd.
"Massive throw by Cougar! But Harrison recovers—beautiful form!"
Roaring, Cougar charged again, like a boulder tearing free from a mountainside—full throttle, fueled by power and miscalculated confidence.
Harrison stepped in to meet him.
His palm began to glow faintly, not with spectacle but with focus—every ounce of his body aligned into a single, perfectly measured strike. His demeanor was calm, almost gentle, steady as still water.
POW!
The palm struck Cougar square in the solar plexus. A deep, sickening WHUMP reverberated across the arena.
Cougar froze.
All the air fled his lungs at once. His massive frame folded as if its internal supports had been yanked away—like a tumbling stack of Lego bricks. He dropped to both knees, gasping, his breath wheezing like a punctured bellows.
Victoria was already there, stepping sharply between them, her arm raised high.
"STOP! Combatant incapacitated. Harrison advances to the Semifinals!"
The crowd erupted in thunderous approval.
Harrison bowed once—sharp, respectful—then turned and walked away without a word.
SHOPPING SPREE
Meanwhile, twenty miles from Upper Crownpoint—across the strait, far below in the maze of Undercity—Nyx stepped straight into the open streets, blatantly ignoring Benzo's warning to lie low until the heat cooled off. As always, the inseparable duo, Skyler and Boomer, tagged along behind him.
They trailed him for several minutes before Nyx sensed their presence. Without warning, he veered sharply around the nearest corner and vanished. Skyler and Boomer skidded to a halt, scanning the street. He was gone.
Disappointed, they exchanged glances and turned to head back home.
Then—grab!
Strong hands clamped down on both of them from behind.
"Well, well," a low, malicious voice hissed close to their ears. "What do we have here? Two little innocent mice wandering the streets all alone."
Fear seized them instantly, but Skyler's street instincts kicked in. Pssshh! She popped a mini gas canister, blasting the stranger with a cloud of stinging smoke, and twisted free. Boomer followed her lead, wrenching himself loose as well. Snatching up a wooden baton from the ground, they swung wildly, striking through the haze.
Thwack! Thud!
Every blow, however, met nothing but air. The stranger dodged each strike with effortless precision.
As the smoke thinned, the figure stepped forward.
It was Nyx.
Relief and irritation hit them at the same time.
Nyx sighed, rubbing his temple, his expression tight with frustration. "Why are you following me around, pipsqueaks?"
They answered in perfect unison. "It's boring at the bar."
"And it smells like alcohol paradise all day," Skyler added, wrinkling her nose.
Nyx clicked his tongue. Benzo was definitely going to lecture him again for this—another session of confrontation he had no interest in enduring. What can I do to avoid that? he thought.
Then it hit him.
"Why don't we go grocery shopping," he said slowly, "and maybe get some new clothes and other exciting stuff?"
Skyler and Boomer looked at each other. Their eyes lit up.
"Hurray!" they shouted together, leaping into the air.
They dove into shopping immediately, hopping from one famous thrift store to another, hunting down the best deals Undercity had to offer. The clothes were so well-preserved that the faint perfume and fine oils of their previous owners still clung to the fabric—clearly once worn by upper-class citizens before being donated or discarded.
From there, they moved on to the food market. As Nyx watched the piles grow, he noticed the haul becoming heavy enough to attract unwanted attention—street scavengers, bandit groups, anyone desperate enough to try their luck. He hired a small delivery truck and paid extra for security.
By the time they were done, the truck was packed with enough food and supplies to last them several months.
Nyx turned to the two of them, his tone sharp. "Stay smart and stay alert. Don't get distracted until you reach Benzo's."
He gestured toward the loaded truck. "That's months' worth of food and supplies. Don't lose it."
Then he leaned toward the driver, his eyes cold. "And don't try anything funny."
Skyler tilted her head, curiosity written all over her face. "Where are you going, since you're not coming with us?"
Nyx smirked. "None of your concern, pipsqueak."
He leaned down, pressing his forehead lightly against hers. "Guard our fortune well."
She nodded solemnly. "I promise."
Boomer frowned, jealousy flickering across his face. "Hey, you can count on me too, Nyx. I'm older than her—I can deliver too," he said quickly.
Nyx paused, then smiled faintly, touched by the remark. "Alright. You're co-captain."
Boomer's face lit up instantly.
And with that, the truck rumbled to life, carrying Skyler and Boomer—and their hard-won treasure—back toward home.