Dragged along, for an ostensibly endless span of time, Azrael heard the jeers of a thousand needles piercing him, clamouring against his ears. He stirred to wakefulness with a start. “Huh? Where am I?”

  “Ya came ta Zenith, and ya ‘ave no clue about the underground fights? I can see why ya were an easy catch.”

  From his seat, he scanned the vast arena beneath, a roiling rumble from thousands under the dim haze of a clandestine space.

  Cheers and jeers, skreiched against the spotlight, illuminating a boxing ring. Massive screens displayed the ongoing fight, providing the audience with a close-up view of the action from afar, including Azrael and his ogre of an abductor.

  The redhead raised an eyebrow. Never seen those displays before. Must be an Abyzzmal creation. A smile touched his lips. “Clearly I’ve no recollection of how I wound up here, so would you mind bringing me up to speed on what all the buzz is about?”

  “’ikes kid, which crockpot did ya crawl out from?” asked the ogre.

  “A boiling cauldron where I was steeped in my own blood. Clearly, I didn’t make it far till I fell from cauldron to flame.”

  The ogre reflected his raised eyebrow, slackening his jaw. “For a dipshit, ya’ve a sharp tongue.”

  “My tongue’s gotten me into more trouble than I can remember.” The redhead puffed his chest up in immodesty, priding a wit he never knew he had had.

  “’ight. Anyway, ta city ya waltzed into is known for its underground brawls against famed fighters. Some of the bestest demon warriors of ‘istory bide their time ta come ‘ere, only ta be wrecked by an unknown underdog. Legend has it, the Sins send scouts ‘very now and then, ta nab an assassin for their elite guard.”

  “Right,” said Azrael, scratching his head. “I can almost –”

  “It’s starting,” said the fired-up ogre. A symphony of deafening cheers drowned out any attempt at conversation, while a set of pipes released a plume of coloured smoke, accompanied by a commentator’s boisterous voice blaring, funnelling the voice from back to front. He assumed it was another one of the Abyzz’s progressive inventions, compared to the advancements humans had made.

  Past a throbbing headache, he heard the commentator announce names he could barely discern. On cue, a pair of demons spilled out onto the boxing ring, the spotlight trained on the two fighters.

  The title holder was a four-armed male with an emerald circlet resting atop his crown. His oceanic blue hair was tied back in a ponytail and his muscles grimaced with tortuous veins.

  Donning an eyepatch over a scarred eye, the challenger winked at his opponent, baring a mouthful of fangs for teeth, foaming at the corners. Paling in a clash of physiques, he began taunting the title holder with a finger.

  Clamouring metal fell from the heavens, landing an enormous meshwork hung by dainty chains with a loud thud, enclosing the duo in a steel enclosure. On cue, the crowd began chanting in unison. “CAGE FIGHT, CAGE FIGHT, CAGE FIGHT!!!”

  A blare of horns signalled the start of their battle, permitting the pair of brawlers to go at each other.

  Azrael anticipated an exchange of flying kicks and hard punches. On the contrary, he was gripped by a wave of uneasiness, bearing witness to a power he had seen before. It reminded him of the time Mol’okh had invaded his orphanage, wielding an overwhelming source of strength, beyond physical prowess.

  “And we have our four-armed title holder, whose ability amplifies his strength tenfold. Now what will the challenger do?”

  Removing his eyepatch, he unveiled a gilded iris with a blank pupil. Gazing into his eyes, the title holder broke down in a puddle of tears, whimpering in a crumpled mess on the canvas. Abandoning the strength he had swelled up with, the champion was reduced to a sobbing child who had his favourite toy stolen.

  Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

  Peering down at the title holder, the challenger strolled leisurely up to him and grabbed him by the throat. With a firm twist, the title of champion switched hands.

  Words couldn’t describe the spectacle Azrael had seen. Nearly ten matches had come to pass and yet, his heart pounded in his chest, deafening his senses.

  A plethora of opponents fought and fell, their timely demise determined by the power they wielded, an ethereal source of strength that went beyond harnessing the force exerted by the body’s musculature and movements.

  Bodybuilding was a discipline involving physical effort to produce results, but it had failed to offer the outcome he’d desired. The torment he had endured, had helped him grasp the art of persistence in the pursuit for strength, but he desperately wanted to understand the power demons wielded, and make it his own.

  Peeled free from his thoughts, Azrael realised the battle had come to an end. The crowd roared in triumph, their cheers a thunderous boom. Cutting through the rumble, he could’ve sworn he heard a crow caw from far off, sharp as an invisible arrow through the throat.

  The eyepatch demon, having dispatched his last opponent of the night, strolled up to the corner of the ring, where the former champion was reduced to a crumpled mound of lifelessness. With a smile painted across his lips, the challenger wrung the emerald circlet off his fallen opponent’s remains. He held the crown above his head, wallowing in the audiences’ cheers as he placed the symbol of dominion on his scalp.

  Past the deafening cheers, the commentator’s voice cut through the noise like a knife. “For our champion tonight, we must have the feed prepared. Commence the bids and name your price, vagrants!”

  The spotlight shone on a pear-shaped demon, who was tied up to a seat with a placard displaying 100,000 silvers. A second light shone and revealed a pig-headed demon, displaying 200,000 silvers. Another ten offerings popped up, displaying prices ranging from tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands.

  “Doesn’t seem very pleasant,” said Azrael, noticing a spotlight on the seat beside him.

  “Oops,” said the ogre, grabbing the redhead by the scruff of his collar.

  Switching places in a heartbeat, he held his hand up against the bright light in his eyes.

  “500,000 silvers for a mortal!” announced the commentor and the crowd cheered in approval, alongside a round of applause.

  “Huh, what?” asked Azrael, rubbing his eyes.

  “We have our feed for the night!” said the commentor.

  A rough pair of arms grabbed him by the shoulders, hoisting him off his seat. “Hey, wait what’s –”

  “Thanks a bunch kid,” said the ogre, discarding the placard. He roared with laughter, waving a hand in farewell. “I’ll drink the night away ta ya luvin’ memory.”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to do here.” Raising an eyebrow, Azrael was stripped of his rags for clothes, and strong-armed into donning a shirt and pants. He slipped on a pair of shoes and adjusted a bowtie around his neck, glancing at a mirror reflecting an emaciated excuse for a young male.

  From the peripherals of his vision, an apple appeared which was forced into his mouth by a bull-headed demon. Next, a yak-faced demon showed up, pushing him along from the backstage dressing room to the canvas of the boxing ring.

  Biting a chunk off the apple, he twirled the fruit in his hand, stepping into the ring, shakily. In spite of his apprehension, he devoured the apple in a blink of three bites and tossed the core over his back. “Better to fight on a full stomach than an empty one.” Though if there was any actual fighting involved, he didn’t like his odds.

  Amidst the torrential cheers, he stood unflinching. His wearied gaze scanned the audience in search of the ogre who had betrayed him, but the bright lights and distance made it difficult to discern faces beyond the seventh row.

  Meanwhile, the newly crowned champion had warmed up, bouncing up and down, ready to throw his weight about. He was unfazed by the matches he had fought throughout the evening, cracking his neck in anticipation. The cage hung precariously above the duo, a looming threat ready to drop at a moment’s notice. But for Azrael, it was the least of his concerns.

  By then, a gong rang loud and clear, announcing the feed had commenced.

  “If you want a quick death,” started the eyepatch demon. “I recommend being taken apart in a single blow. That way I can have a bite of some mortal flesh and satiate the front seaters in one go.”

  “You mean, the feed involved actually feeding on me?” Azrael blinked twice, his mouth hanging loosely.

  “Hell, you’re slow.” The champion guffawed in a wide berth, slapping the side of his thigh.

  The redhead stared at his opponent angrily, a smirk that looked down on him and his human status painted across a face drunk with vanity. He knew it was no easy feat to take down the enemies his opponent had faced in the challenger’s shoes but giving up his life after his miraculous escape from the despair wrought hell he had endured, wasn’t an option.

  Assuming a fighting stance, Azrael mirrored the gesture his opponent had used in his first match, holding up a single finger provocatively.

  The smirk on the champion’s face dissipated as he swung over from his corner to the centre, his fists clenched and ready for battle. The air crackled with tension as the two within the ring faced off, while the audience held their breath, zealously anticipating the feed-turned-clash.