Niran stopped in front of the dojo door, watching Kao with a mix of affection and concern. The young primate looked at him with attentive eyes, as if he understood the weight of Niran's mission.
"Train while I'm away," he said, patting him lightly on the chest. "Repeat the exercises from the last two weeks."
Kao nodded seriously, then immediately dropped into a squat position, imitating the warm-up Niran had done every morning. Niran gave a faint smile, then turned and disappeared into the night.
He crossed the backstreets of Bangkok with a determined stride, feeling the city's pulse around him. Flickering neon lights illuminated the grimy streets, and the scent of rain and smog mingled in the air. The address on the note led him to an abandoned hangar, seemingly unremarkable. But Niran immediately noticed the steady flow of people slipping in through a side entrance, moving with confidence.
Without hesitation, he followed them.
The corridor behind the door opened into a vast underground arena, packed with roaring spectators. The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and anticipation. In the ring, two fighters exchanged brutal blows, their figures illuminated by artificial lights that made the scene even more theatrical.
Niran looked around, the sound of metallic footsteps echoing in the silence, interrupted only by the faint echo of noises coming from the arena. As the crowd waited for the match to begin, Niran took a moment to observe the place he was in. The underground arena seemed like a cathedral dedicated to violence, a temple for those willing to sacrifice everything in exchange for glory. The walls were black, almost oppressive, and the air heavy with sweat and blood.
The arena floor, gleaming with a sinister reflection, was marked by scars left by previous fights: cracks and dark stains that testified to the brutal battles that had taken place there. In every corner, neon lights illuminated the chaos in the background, creating an unreal atmosphere, as if violence were a sacred act, a ceremony that took place endlessly.
Some fighters were leaving the area, their injuries fresh and evident. Niran noticed a man with a cast on his arm, walking with difficulty. Another, his clothes torn and his face swollen with bruises, leaned on a chair while a medic treated a deep head wound. The intensity of the fights was palpable, the violence almost visible in the thick air filled with smoke and screams.
Among the crowd, Niran could see familiar faces: some local criminals and others he recognized as veterans of numerous underground arenas. Their eyes gleamed with a mix of excitement and disdain, as if they had already decided who would be the next to fall. One group in particular, with sharp features and a menacing air, watched from a shadowy spot, their gaze fixed on the ring, perhaps for another kind of interest: an evaluation, a bet, a revenge.
The sense of danger was tangible, but Niran could no longer turn back. In that place, every move he made, every step he took, brought him closer to his goal. A goal that could mean his future. Or his end.
Niran stopped at the edge, observing. One of the fighters bore the Ascendants' symbol tattooed on his shoulder. His strikes were precise, lethal. This was no ordinary underground fight. It was something more.
The match ended with a clean blow. The victor raised his fist as the crowd erupted in a deafening cheer. Then, the announcer stepped into the ring, raising the microphone with an exhilarated grin.
"Ladies and gentlemen! Let's get ready for the next bout! On one side, a new challenger! A man who has already shaken the underground circuits! The one who knocked out two members of the Leeches: Raksa and Yoru! Let's welcome... Niran!"
The crowd's eyes locked onto him. Niran clenched his fists. He hadn't expected to be called out like this, without warning. A chill ran down his spine as the crowd's cheers intensified.
A man behind him stepped closer and whispered, "If you want answers, you'll have to fight."
Niran didn't reply immediately. He looked at the ring, then at the ecstatic crowd. He knew he couldn't back down. He stepped forward.
The announcer continued, "And now, his opponent! A man who has climbed the Ascendants' ranks with astonishing speed! A monster of power and technique! The brass demon ... Varun!"
From the opposite side of the ring, a towering man stepped forward. Sculpted muscles, scars on his arms, and a gaze of pure determination. He wore reinforced metal combat gloves, a signature of his brutal style. He gave Niran a slight nod, a confident smile on his lips.
Niran climbed into the ring as the crowd roared with excitement. His muscles tensed, adrenaline surged through his veins.
The gong echoed in the air.
The match had begun.