Chapter 60
The 8th District looked different at night.
As Elijah drove through the streets, the city slowly changed around him. The buildings became rougher, older, covered in layers of graffiti and cracked concrete. Neon signs flickered above bars and gambling spots, throwing red and blue light across the pavement. Groups of men stood outside smoking, watching every passing car with suspicious eyes, while music echoed faintly through the narrow streets from places hidden deeper inside the district.
The entire area felt harder, colder, and far more dangerous than the 7th or even the 9th District.
Elijah drove slowly, his eyes scanning the numbers on the buildings while he searched for Baxter Street.
He finally found it near the edge of the district where the road ended at a tall chain-link fence covered in razor wire. The warehouse beyond it was enormous, nearly swallowing the entire block. It rose three stories high, its walls layered with old graffiti that had been painted over so many times that the original color no longer existed. Some sections of concrete were cracked, others stained black from old fires.
At the front of the building stood a single black metal door.
No signs.
No guards.
Nothing that suggested what happened inside.
But Elijah could feel the tension in the air.
He parked halfway down the street beneath a flickering streetlight and shut off the engine. For a moment, he stayed seated in silence, listening to the ticking sound of the cooling car.
The mask rested on the passenger seat beside him.
Black, smooth, and strangely light.
Elijah picked it up and turned it over in his hands before slowly putting it on.
The fit was perfect.
The material pressed comfortably against his skin without restricting his breathing or vision. The upper half of his face disappeared beneath black shadows while his jaw and mouth remained exposed.
He looked at himself in the rearview mirror.
A stranger stared back at him.
The glowing red eyes behind the mask no longer looked human. Combined with the sharp black design around them, they made him look cold, almost inhuman.
For a second, Elijah barely recognized himself.
Then he opened the door and stepped out into the night.
The cold air brushed against his skin as he walked toward the warehouse entrance. His footsteps echoed softly against the empty street.
There was no handle on the outside of the metal door, no keypad, no intercom. Elijah stood there for a moment before pushing against it.
The door opened silently.
A long corridor stretched out before him, illuminated by dim red lights embedded into the walls. The hallway smelled faintly of smoke, metal, sweat, and old blood.
Elijah walked forward calmly.
At the end of the corridor stood another door, this one thick steel with a small reinforced glass window at eye level. A face appeared behind the glass moments later.
The man staring at him had pale skin, dark eyes, and a long scar running from his eyebrow to his ear. His head was shaved completely bald, and his expression looked permanently irritated. He glanced at Elijah, then looked down at a tablet in his hand.
"Name?" the man asked through the speaker beside the door.
"Red Eye."
The man checked the tablet again before nodding once.
"You're expected. Go through."
The steel door slid open with a loud hydraulic hiss.
The room beyond was massive.
The ceiling stretched nearly three stories high, supported by thick steel beams covered in rust and old paint. In the center of the warehouse stood a giant cage made from steel bars and reinforced fencing. Powerful lights hung overhead, pouring white light directly onto the concrete floor inside the cage.
Rows of seats surrounded it on all sides.
Most of them were empty.
Only around fifty people sat scattered throughout the stands, dressed in dark clothes and masks, their faces hidden beneath shadows while they quietly watched the cage below.
Elijah immediately spotted Tristan standing near the entrance.
Even beneath the black mask covering the upper half of his face, the purple eyes were unmistakable.
Tristan stood with his arms crossed over his chest, dressed entirely in black. His posture was relaxed, but Elijah could feel the pressure radiating from him even from several feet away.
"Elijah," Tristan said.
"Tristan."
Tristan studied him silently for a few seconds, his purple eyes scanning the mask, the posture, the calmness in Elijah's expression.
Then he turned and gestured toward the cage.
"Walk with me."
The two of them moved through the shadows near the seating area while the massive cage loomed beside them under the blinding lights.
"The gang running this place is called the Iron Horde," Tristan explained quietly. "They control most of the 8th District, and they've been holding death matches here for years."
Elijah listened without interrupting.
"The rules are simple. You pay an entry fee and step inside the cage. If you win, you continue fighting. No long breaks, no recovery time, no mercy. You keep going until you've defeated ten opponents or until someone kills you."
Elijah nodded slowly. It was exactly the kind of place he had expected.
Tristan continued speaking.
"Once someone wins ten consecutive matches, they qualify for the Royal Rumble held at the end of every month which is today. That's where the real money is. Fifty thousand dollars for the winner, plus betting profits if people wager on themselves."
"What about the fighters?" Elijah asked. "The ones inside the ten matches."
Tristan's expression hardened slightly.
"They're monsters."
His voice stayed calm, but Elijah could hear the seriousness underneath it.
"Some of them are experienced killers. Some are ex-gang enforcers, others are underground fighters who couldn't survive anywhere else. They don't just want to beat you. A lot of them enjoy hurting people. They'll break bones slowly just because they can. Some drag fights out on purpose because they like hearing people scream."
The sounds of the cage echoed faintly across the warehouse as Tristan looked directly at Elijah.
"And if you hesitate for even a second, they'll kill you."
Elijah stayed silent for a moment before asking, "How do I register?"
Tristan stopped walking immediately.
His purple eyes narrowed.
"You still don't understand what I'm telling you."
"I understand perfectly."
"No, you don't." Tristan's voice lowered. "I've watched people stronger than you enter that cage. Faster fighters. More experienced fighters. Some walked in confidently just like you are now."
His jaw tightened slightly.
"Most of them never walked out."
Elijah met his gaze calmly.
"I need the money, and I need the experience. The tournament is in two weeks, and Jack Reyes is waiting after that. If I can't survive ten fights here, then I have no right standing in front of him later."
Tristan stared at him for several long seconds.
Finally, he exhaled slowly and shook his head.
"Fine."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small metal token stamped with a number.
"The registration fee is one thousand dollars. The Iron Horde takes ten percent of everything you win." Tristan handed him the token. "Give this to the man at the cage door."
Elijah accepted it.
"Why are you helping me?"
Tristan looked away briefly before answering.
"Kai asked me to. He said you were about to do something reckless and wanted someone here to make sure you survived long enough for our rematch."
A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth.
"I told him I wasn't your babysitter."
Elijah looked at the token in his hand.
"That's not the only reason."
Tristan's small smile disappeared.
"I want to know if you're real." His purple eyes locked onto Elijah again. "If you survive this place, then our rematch actually means something. If you don't..." He shrugged lightly. "Then I was wrong about you."
Elijah slipped the token into his pocket.
"I'll survive."
Tristan watched him for another second before speaking again.
"One last thing."
Elijah stopped walking.
"Do not hold back in there. These people won't hesitate against you, and the second you show mercy, they'll bury you for it. Fight like your life depends on it because tonight, it actually does."
Elijah nodded once and walked toward the cage.
The man guarding the cage entrance was massive. His arms were thicker than Elijah's thighs, his shaved head covered in black tattoos twisting across his scalp and neck. He silently held out his hand.
Elijah gave him the token.
The man inspected it before stepping aside.
"Red Eye," he said in a deep voice. "You're first."
Elijah stepped into the cage.
The inside felt smaller than it had looked from outside.
The concrete floor beneath his feet was stained dark in several places, and the fencing surrounding him looked reinforced from years of abuse. The bright overhead lights washed almost all color from the world, leaving only harsh white light and heavy shadows.
His opponent was already waiting.
The man was enormous, easily over six and a half feet tall with shoulders wide enough to make the cage feel cramped. His scalp was covered in scars, and his chest looked like a map of old violence. Burn marks, knife wounds, deep cuts, and jagged scars stretched across his skin.
In both hands, he held short blades that gleamed beneath the lights.
The crowd slowly quieted.
A screen appeared in the corner of Elijah's vision.
[Quest: The Path of Ten]
A King shouldn't use his full force on those he can defeat. Use only 30% of Zenith for the first five matches.
Reward: 1,000 System Points | 1,000 EXP
Punishment: Losing the battle is punishment enough. Death is not punishment. Death is simply the end.
Elijah read the notification once before closing it.
Then he reached up and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the stained concrete floor beside him.
The heat from the lights pressed against his skin while dozens of eyes watched silently from the darkness beyond the cage.
Elijah slowly inhaled, held the breath inside his lungs, then released it steadily.
Warmth spread through his chest and flowed outward into the rest of his body. The familiar red aura flickered faintly around him as Zenith activated at thirty percent, and his stats shifted quietly behind his eyes.