Xander barely had time to enjoy the fact that he was no longer getting booed by half the arena before his stomach reminded him that survival came with a brutal little tax.
It twisted low and hard, a sharp, hollow ache that made him press a hand against his abdomen as he stepped away from the edge of the ring platform. The fight with Red Ogre had wrung him out. Between the injuries, the active skills, the regeneration, and that monstrous engine called Super Metabolism chewing through whatever calories he had left, he felt like someone had lit a furnace inside him and forgotten to turn it off.
Man… this is seriously starting to get annoying, he thought bitterly.
L
The underground arena buzzed around him like a living machine. Rings thundered with fresh fights. Bookies yelled odds over one another. Spectators waved betting slips and sloshed expensive drinks onto the floor. Somewhere nearby, a man screamed in either agony or celebration. With this place, it was hard to tell the difference.
Xander's eyes drifted toward the food stalls arranged around the outer perimeter of the tournament floor. There were more of them than he had noticed earlier. Grilled skewers smoking over portable flames, paper boats piled with fried seafood, burgers glistening with grease, loaded fries dripping cheese, and enough sugary junk to make a dentist weep blood.
There was just one problem.
Everything looked expensive.
He could already tell from the little glowing boards above the counters. Twelve bucks for a sandwich. Fifteen for fried chicken. Twenty for a "VIP combo platter" that looked like it had been plated by a lunatic in a tuxedo.
Xander grimaced.
I think I've got a few dollars in my hoodie… but I really don't feel like going back to the locker.
Not after what had happened there.
He kept walking, eyes scanning for something cheap, or at least something with enough calories to justify the robbery. Then he saw it.
A large stall near Ring Seven had a giant poster hanging over the counter in dramatic black-and-red lettering:
[10x SPICY NOODLES CHALLENGE]
Beneath it was a second sign with the rules printed in bold:
Must finish in 10 minutes or less
No drinks allowed until after 5 minutes of completion
If you finish within 10 minutes or less, there will be no charge and you win a $25 cash prize
Xander stopped walking.
He read the sign again.
Then once more, just to make sure he wasn't hallucinating from hunger.
"…10x spicy?" he muttered.
His stomach answered with a long, ugly growl that made the decision for him.
At almost the same time, a familiar voice boomed through the arena speakers, vibrant and razor-sharp with theatrical energy.
"Ladies and gentlemen, turn your eyes to Ring Seven!" Seo Yura's voice rang out, carrying over the crowd with perfect control. "Because this next matchup is one the regulars have been waiting for all night. A clash of discipline and destruction… a mountain of calm against a blade wrapped in skin!"
The surrounding crowd stirred. Conversations shifted. More than a few heads turned toward the giant screen mounted above Ring Seven.
"Entering first," Seo continued, with clear relish in every word, "a man whose defense has broken fists, whose patience has buried louder opponents, and whose body has all the warmth of a stone wall in winter… give it up for Abouda 'The Turtle Bear' Kari!"
The arena responded with a wave of cheers. Not the feral screaming that had followed Red Ogre's name, but something heavier. Respectful. Solid. The kind of noise made for someone who had earned his reputation.
The screen flashed to Kari as he stepped into the ring, expression calm, shoulders broad as a gate, his sheer frame swallowing the light around him. He looked exactly like the kind of man people regretted underestimating.
Seo's tone shifted, sharpening with a little wicked delight.
"And facing him tonight… a man who doesn't waste motion, words, or bullets. Cold eyes. Colder hands. Straight from the eastern circuits, with enough surgical knockouts to make the medics nervous… the up-and-coming executioner himself… Viktor Sokolov, the Black Scalpel!"
The screen cut to his opponent.
Xander's brows rose slightly.
Viktor wasn't nearly as large as Kari. In fact, next to him, he looked almost lean. But there was something deeply wrong about the way his body was put together. His muscle definition was too sharp, too precise, like each line had been carved in with a blade instead of built naturally. His arms were rope-thick without excess mass.
His torso looked compact and armored. Even standing still, he gave the impression of a weapon folded into human shape. Pale skin. Close-cropped ash-brown hair. Narrow, expressionless eyes that looked less like a fighter's and more like a hitman's.
Xander clicked his tongue softly.
"That's the perfect fight to watch while eating this torturous meal," he said under his breath as he changed direction and walked toward the stall.
The woman behind the counter noticed him coming and straightened with professional brightness. She looked to be in her late twenties, maybe early thirties, with auburn hair tied into a high ponytail and a black apron stretched over a red shirt. Her smile was warm, but there was a spark of amusement in her eyes that made Xander instantly suspicious.
"Hey," he said, stopping in front of the stall. "I'd like to try the 10x spicy noodles challenge."
Her smile widened.
"Of course you would." She reached beneath the counter and produced a clipboard with the speed of someone who had done this many, many times. "Before we begin preparing it, I do need you to sign this waiver."
Xander stared at the clipboard.
Then at her.
Then at the clipboard again.
"…Of course there's a waiver."
He took it and gave it a quick scan.
Thanks to Enhanced Reading, the densely packed legal nonsense might as well have been a children's menu. He skimmed through the whole thing in seconds.
Voluntary participation. No liability for physical discomfort. No liability for vomiting, temporary loss of taste, dizziness, nosebleeds, emotional trauma, or "other spice-related incidents." Contestants agreed that if they died, choked, combusted, or spiritually unraveled, the establishment could not be held responsible.
Xander sighed through his nose.
Another death waiver.
For a brief second he considered how bizarre his life had become.
Not long ago, he'd been grieving, broke, and trying to survive classes, shifts and hospital bills.
Now he was a resurrected fugitive with a glitched demi-god system, fresh trauma from a locker room deathmatch, and a legal form in his hand warning him that noodles might finish what burial hadn't.
Well… if this is how I go out, it would be pretty embarrassing.
His stomach cramped again, harder this time.
But spicy food is better than no food. And if I don't get some real calories in me, I'm not making it to the next fight.
He signed the waiver.
The woman took it back with a quick nod, then gestured toward the row of high stools at the side of the stall. "Take a seat. We'll have it out in just a minute."
Xander slid onto one of the stools, elbows resting on the counter as he watched the Ring Seven screen overhead. The live feed showed Kari standing in his corner, eyes half-lidded, conserving energy like a machine switched to sleep mode. Across from him, Viktor Sokolov rolled his shoulders once and flexed his fingers, looking as if he'd already imagined six different ways to dismantle the man in front of him.
A moment later, a food runner approached Xander from the side carrying a tall glass of ice water beaded with condensation.
The runner, a younger woman with freckles and a surprisingly cheerful face for someone working in an underground blood arena, set the glass in front of him with a polite smile.
"You're allowed to drink before the challenge, sir."
Xander blinked at the water.
Then slowly looked up at her.
"…How nice," he said.
She smiled again and stepped away.
Xander stared at the glass another second.
Then at the challenge sign.
Then back at the glass.
That just means this challenge is actually that deadly, doesn't it?
He let out a tired breath and rubbed his face with one hand.
"What has my life come to," he mumbled.
His stomach growled again, sounding offended by the question.
Above him, the Ring Seven timer appeared on-screen.
8:11
The camera zoomed in on Kari's stoic expression.
Xander leaned back slightly, studying him.
I wonder what kind of fighter he really is…
Strong, obviously. Calm too. But calm could mean a hundred different things in a place like this. Maybe he was defensive. Maybe he crushed people slowly. Maybe "Turtle Bear" was one of those ridiculous names that ended up being more accurate than it had any right to be.
His thoughts cut off when the runner returned.
She set down a bowl so large it seemed personally insulting.
Steam rolled up from it in thick, ominous waves. The noodles were dark red, almost black in some places, drowned beneath a vicious broth the color of fresh wounds and industrial hazard signs. Chili oil glistened across the surface like molten lacquer. Sliced peppers floated among the coils like bits of chopped-up warning labels. Whatever aroma rose from the bowl could not accurately be called "spicy."
It smelled like someone had captured a demon, boiled it down, and seasoned it with revenge.
And there was far too much of it.
The portion looked less like a meal and more like a punishment handed down by a very petty god.
Xander swallowed.
Then, without a word, he picked up the ice water and chugged the whole thing in one go.
The cold hit his stomach like mercy.
He set the empty glass down, grabbed the chopsticks from the tray, and looked at the bowl like a man about to either conquer a mountain or die halfway up it.
"Let's see if I can adapt to this," he said, grinning in spite of himself.
Then he went in.
He shoveled a massive mouthful into his mouth and slurped the noodles down fast, clearly trying to blitz through the challenge before his body had time to protest. A few nearby onlookers noticed immediately. One of them, a middle-aged guy with a beer in hand, leaned closer and squinted at the bowl.
"That kid is cooked," he declared.
Two more men stepped up beside him.
They looked like they'd crawled out of a bad decision together. One was blonde with rough stubble and a permanent smirk that made him look ready to either gamble or lie at any given moment. The other was bald, broad-shouldered, and built like he spent his free time intimidating people in parking lots.
The bald one chuckled.
"Heh. You wanna bet on it? Let's make it fun. Fifty says the kid wins. We'll pay you a hundred if he fails. How's that sound?"
The guy with the beer looked between them, then at Xander, who was currently inhaling noodles with the determination of a condemned man trying to beat the execution clock.
"…You know what? Sure. Easy money."
The two thuggish-looking men exchanged an amused glance.
Xander barely noticed them. Not at first.
By his fourth mouthful, his face had started to change color.
By the sixth, his ears were burning.
By the eighth, it felt like someone had snuck a blowtorch into his throat and politely asked him to keep swallowing.
What the hell did they put in this thing?!
The thought erupted in his mind as his eyes watered instantly.
It didn't feel like food anymore. It felt like liquefied volcanic rock. The noodles hit his tongue and multiplied into pain. The broth clung to the inside of his mouth like some kind of vengeful spirit, crawling down his throat and detonating in his chest.
Tears streamed down his reddened face. His nose started running. His breathing turned ragged and heavy through flared nostrils. He looked like he was trying to survive an assassination attempt by soup.
And the bowl was still mostly full.
Not even half. Not even close.
A quarter, maybe.
One spectator winced in sympathy. Another took a step back.
The blonde thug let out a whistle. "Damn. He looks like he just licked the sun."
The bald one laughed. "Forget the challenge. Somebody call a priest."
Xander pointed one chopstick at them with trembling fury while chewing.
"Fffh-"
He tried again, eyes bloodshot.
"Fhhhuck you."
The words came out mangled enough to make the nearby customers laugh.
The stall lady folded her arms, clearly entertained now. "You've still got over six minutes," she said. "Assuming you've made peace with your ancestors."
Xander slammed down another mouthful, tears running freely.
This is absurd. This is criminal. This should count as chemical warfare.
[SYSTEM PROMPT]
[Hyper Adaptation] has triggered!
As a result, you've gained a new passive:
[Enhanced Spice Tolerance] (Rank-E)
Your body has adapted to extreme capsaicin exposure, reducing panic, pain overload, and physical disruption from highly spicy foods. Heat still hurts, but it no longer overwhelms your ability to function.
Xander nearly laughed from relief.
"There it is," he thought, tears still on his cheeks.
The change came quickly.
The fire didn't vanish. It was still there, still vicious, still enough to make his mouth throb and his lips burn. But it stopped feeling like imminent medical collapse. The panic left first. Then the wild gasping. Then the flood of involuntary tears. The redness across his face began to fade little by little.
Now it was simply an extremely, violently spicy meal.
Painful, yes.
But edible.
Xander sat up straighter.
Then took another bite.
This time he actually tasted it beneath the inferno.
There was garlic. A deep umami savoriness. Something smoky in the broth. A little sweetness hiding behind the assault. He chewed thoughtfully, then blinked.
"Huh."
Another slurp.
"…Okay, this is actually kind of good."
The onlookers stared.
The man with the beer lowered it slowly. "No way."
The blonde thug grinned. "Looks like we're about to make some easy money, TJ."
"Yeah," the bald one replied, crossing his arms. "I had no doubt the kid would do it."
Xander kept eating, now at a far steadier pace. The chopsticks moved with ugly efficiency. Noodles vanished. The mountain shrank. The broth level dropped.
Above him, the Ring Seven pre-match screen continued flashing images of Kari and Viktor while commentators hyped the matchup.
Xander was only half listening now.
He had entered a higher state of existence.
A state where nothing mattered except defeating this malicious bowl and ensuring his stomach stopped trying to consume him from within.
A few minutes later, he reached the end.
The last of the noodles vanished into his mouth.
Then, after a brief pause, he lifted the bowl and started slurping down the dark red broth itself.
The entire stall fell quiet.
Even the front counter lady leaned in.
The final slurp echoed with surprising drama.
Then Xander set the bowl down.
Empty.
Completely empty.
For one beat, nobody moved.
Then the stall erupted into applause.
The front counter lady clapped first, laughing in disbelief. A few customers followed immediately after. Even the guy who'd bet against him muttered a curse and joined in with reluctant respect.
Jerry and TJ stepped forward, both grinning like they'd just watched a magic trick performed by a lunatic.
"Congratulations on your first win, kid!" TJ said, smacking Xander on the back. "You really are like a food dumpster though, huh?"
Jerry laughed and tossed the other man a smug look before taking the winnings from him. Then he reached into his own pocket, pulled out the challenge prize envelope the stall lady had just placed on the counter, and added another folded stack of bills to it.
"You deserve it," he said, tossing the envelope to Xander. "With a stomach like that, I'm sure you'll be hungry again soon enough. You bottomless pit."
Xander caught the envelope and laughed, still breathing a little hard.
"At this rate," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, "I'm less worried about getting stabbed in a fight and more worried about what's gonna happen when this comes back to haunt me in the bathroom later."
He looked down at the empty bowl with mock solemnity.
"If this burns coming in and going out, I might have to call that a draw."
That got a sharper laugh out of TJ and even a snort from the front counter lady.
Speaking of which, she returned a moment later holding an old instant camera.
"We're gonna need a picture," she said, smiling brightly. "Hall of fame rules."
She pointed toward a board at the back of the stall lined with photos of previous challenge winners. Some looked triumphant. Some looked traumatized. One looked both.
Xander glanced at it, then back at the camera.
"…There's a hall of fame for this?"
"Of course."
He sighed, then lifted the empty bowl with one hand and threw up a peace sign with the other.
The flash popped.
Somewhere overhead, Ring Seven's countdown hit 0:00.
The giant screen shifted.
Abouda Kari stepped forward into the ring beneath the roar of the crowd, while across from him Viktor Sokolov rolled his neck once and settled into stance with the chilling stillness of a hired killer.
Xander lowered the bowl and turned toward the screen, his grin fading into something more focused.
The match was starting.
.....
Ring Seven lit up like judgment.
As the timer vanished from the screen, the camera angle shifted overhead, giving the audience a clean view of the ring while the rest of the underground coliseum roared around it. All across the arena floor, other matches were either beginning or seconds away from starting. Twelve rings glowed beneath separate spotlights, each one holding a different collision of bodies, styles, and intentions.
A giant of a man with tattooed shoulders and fists like cinder blocks stalked toward a wiry woman whose fingertips crackled faintly with blue energy. In another ring, a bald brute with serrated scars down his chest rolled his neck while a lean kickboxer bounced in place opposite him, calves twitching like coiled springs. One fighter in a black mouthguard had skin that shimmered gray at the forearms, as if stone had learned to breathe. In another corner, two smaller men circled each other with the twitchy patience of knife-fighters, though knives themselves were forbidden.
That was the rule set here. No weapons. No non-physical spells. No outside equipment. If it came from your body, your mana, your instincts, your bones, your rage, it was fair game.
No killing was technically another rule.
But in places like this, rules had a sense of humor.
Sometimes a fighter didn't die in the ring. Sometimes they died three hours later under fluorescent hospital lights with a doctor trying to explain to a clipboard why a man's internal organs looked like they had lost an argument with a car crash.
Xander sat at the stall with the empty challenge bowl still cooling in front of him, an ice-cold milkshake in one hand and a faint burn creeping up his throat.
The front counter lady had given it to him "on the house for surviving," which he suspected meant she'd seen enough contestants collapse after the noodle challenge to know mercy was cheaper than cleaning vomit off the floor.
He took another long pull from the straw, the cold sweetness washing down some of the acid clawing its way back up his esophagus.
"Ugh," he muttered. "There it is."
TJ barked out a laugh beside him. "Told you, kid. The devil always sends his regards the next day."
Jerry, arms folded over the railing near the stall, smirked without taking his eyes off the screen. "If he explodes in the next fight, I'm blaming the noodles, not the tournament."
Xander ignored them, gaze fixed on Ring Seven.
Kari and Viktor stepped toward the center at the same time.
No wasted swagger. No chest pounding. No fake intimidation rituals for the crowd.
Just movement.
Kari walked the way a mountain would walk if one day it decided it was tired of being climbed. Every step was measured and grounded, heavy without being slow. His shoulders stayed loose, his hands low, his expression unreadable.
Viktor Sokolov moved differently. Light. Narrow. Almost elegant, if elegance had learned to kill for money. His unnatural muscle definition stood out even through the camera feed. There was no unnecessary bulk on him, just compact violence wrapped in skin too tight over a weapon's frame.
The two men stopped at the center of the ring.
For one quiet second, the noise around the arena seemed to pull back.
Then Seo Yura's voice cut through everything, bright and vicious and delighted to be alive where other people got broken.
"And there they are, folks! Ring Seven, center stage! The immovable beast of endurance… Abouda 'The Turtle Bear' Kari! And facing him, the cold-blooded precision killer from the eastern circuit… Viktor Sokolov, the Black Scalpel!"
The crowd screamed.
Drinks lifted. Money changed hands. Somewhere behind Xander, two gamblers were already arguing over odds before the first strike had even been thrown.
"Watch Viktor's footwork," one man shouted to nobody in particular. "He'll slice him up!"
"Slice what?" someone barked back. "That man's built like an armored truck!"
On-screen, Viktor and Kari stared each other down.
No words.
No posturing.
Then Viktor moved first.
He snapped forward with terrifying speed, his lead foot whispering across the canvas before his body rotated into a sharp opening strike. A brutal outside kick came screaming toward Kari's ribs, cutting the air clean enough that even Xander felt his shoulders tense.
Seo's voice rose with the moment.
"And Sokolov wastes no time! Straight into range, trying to test the wall early!"
Kari blocked it casually.
Not carelessly. Casually.
His forearm shifted just enough to intercept the blow, and a tight little shockwave burst at the point of impact, carrying a mist of sweat through the ring lights like a tiny explosion. The sound cracked louder than it had any right to.
Viktor didn't hesitate. Another blow came instantly, this one lower and nastier, a whip-like kick aimed to collapse the thigh.
Thwack.
Kari's guard absorbed that one too.
No stumble. No opening. No visible strain.
Xander's brows lifted.
Damn.
Even through the milkshake, he felt his own pulse jump with interest.
He's barely even setting his feet. He's just reading it and blocking like it's nothing.
TJ whistled low. "That ain't normal."
Jerry nodded once. "Told you Kari was different. That dude doesn't defend. He invalidates."
In the ring, Kari smiled.
Just a little.
The sort of smile that made it clear he had learned something already.
Viktor saw it, too.
And frowned.
Seo laughed into the mic, all sugar and knives.
"Ooooh, Sokolov doesn't like that! Kari's smiling already, ladies and gentlemen! And we all know what that means. He's either bored… or he's figured something out."
Viktor reset his stance, but this time something changed.
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
Then his body ignited.
A bright orange aura erupted around him in a sudden flare, wrapping his frame in a heat-haze shimmer that made the air above the ring distort. It wasn't fire exactly, but it looked hot enough to blister thought itself. The glow pulsed around his legs first, then through his torso and shoulders like a furnace catching draft.
The crowd exploded.
"There it is!" someone shouted.
"Hell yes, Black Scalpel!"
Seo practically purred.
"And there it is, folks! Sokolov's signature technique! Burnstep Drive! The acceleration art that made him famous in the eastern pits!"
On-screen graphics pulsed beside Viktor's name as the commentators' side feed briefly flashed old stats and highlights.
Burnstep Drive: a combat acceleration ability that overloaded the user's explosive muscle fibers with mana-driven thermal output, sharply increasing strike velocity and penetration at the cost of stability and long-term strain. Dangerous. Spectacular. Popular for obvious reasons.
Xander leaned forward.
So that's his thing huh?.. Reminds me a bit of [Feline's Nimbleness], minus the strain part.
Viktor lunged again.
This time the kick was monstrous.
There was almost no transition between stillness and violence. One moment he was set, the next his leg was already there, a bright orange blur tearing through the air at Kari's flank with enough speed to make the previous kicks look like warm-ups.
The crowd roared ahead of impact.
Kari answered with a knee block.
Clean.
Brutal.
Perfectly timed.
His leg came up just enough.
The collision sounded wrong.
Not like flesh meeting flesh.
Not even like bone.
It sounded like someone had dropped a steel pipe into a snapping tree branch.
CRACK.
For a split second, Viktor's body kept moving as if the attack had succeeded.
Then his leg folded where it shouldn't.
The shin bent grotesquely off-line.
The orange aura around him shuddered.
And Viktor Sokolov screamed.
"YEEAAARRRHHHHH!!"
It was not a fighter's roar. It was pure agony, high and ragged and involuntary, the kind of sound that yanked a laugh out of half the crowd and a wince out of the rest.
It ended almost immediately.
Because Kari moved.
No setup.
No wasted shift.
No flashy chambering.
He simply turned with the opening and brought a haymaker down across Viktor's head.
The strike looked less like a punch and more like a bear swiping a body out of its path.
For an instant, the pressure in the ring warped visibly around the impact. Air bent. Sweat mist exploded sideways. Viktor's face snapped with the blow, and his entire body left the point of contact like it had been released from a sling.
He hit the canvas and scraped across it in a limp skid, one broken leg dangling horribly behind him at the snapped point.
Silence held for half a beat.
Then the arena detonated.
The crowd came apart in sheer bloodthirsty ecstasy.
People screamed. Cups flew. Someone near the front actually climbed onto their chair and started pounding their chest. The gamblers who had backed Kari lost their minds. The ones who had backed Viktor looked like they wanted the ring itself arrested.
"THAT'S IT!" a man near Xander roared. "THAT'S WHY HE'S THE TURTLE BEAR!"
"No way, no way, no way…" another voice gasped. "He broke the leg on the counter?!"
Seo Yura was nearly shrieking with joy into the mic.
"HE SHATTERED THE DRIVE! HE SHATTERED THE LEG! KARI WITH THE READ OF THE NIGHT! DO YOU PEOPLE SEE THIS?! DO YOU SEE THIS?!"
Xander was already half out of his seat.
"That was insane!!" he blurted before he could stop himself.
His grip tightened around the milkshake cup until the sides crinkled inward.
But holy shit… that leg snap was brutal.
The image replayed in his mind at once. The timing. The knee angle. The way Kari had not simply blocked, but intercepted force with greater force and let Viktor break himself on the answer.
He baited that. He smiled on purpose. He wanted the stronger kick.
Jerry laughed beside him, slapping the railing. "That's why you don't throw your best move first against a monster!"
TJ was grinning so wide it looked painful. "Sokolov thought he was the blade. Kari turned him into broken furniture."
Xander barely heard them.
His mind was still on Kari.
He didn't panic. Didn't rush. He just waited, read the pattern, and punished the moment Viktor overcommitted.
The medics were already rushing the ring below, though even they looked hesitant approaching Sokolov's leg. The referee knelt, checking responsiveness while Kari stood in his corner, breathing steadily, shoulders relaxed, expression almost bored again.
Not proud… or hyped.
Just finished.
Xander took a long pull from the milkshake, the cold cutting through the lingering acid in his throat.
His eyes stayed locked on the screen.
The more he watched Kari, the less the nickname sounded funny.
Turtle Bear, huh…
Slow shell.
Heavy body.
Sudden violence.
Yeah.
That fit.