Pavel was born in the slums of Velnias, where survival was its own currency. His mother was a sex worker. They shared a cramped apartment with the others, working girls and their bastard children, all clinging to the scraps of a city that despised them. It grated him that those who partook in his mother's services, who paid for her time and body, respected her so little.

  He learned the trade of survival early. It all came down to selling parts of yourself. At ten, he was already running drugs for the Deverauxs, slipping through the streets unnoticed because no one suspected a child of being a criminal, at least not outside of the slums.

  At fifteen, his mother disappeared. No warning. No note. No debt. Just gone. Pavel searched, asked around, and called in the small amount of favors he had, but deep down, he knew the truth. In Velnias, people didn't leave. They were taken, sold, or buried.

  By twenty, he had broken more bones than he could count, more others than his own. He had become an enforcer for the Volkov family, collecting debts from people who never had a chance of paying them. If they couldn't, he took collateral. Sometimes, it was their valuables, their house or their car, sometimes their bodies, even their lives on occasion.

  The first few nights after selling someone into servitude, he lay awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of a shitty studio apartment. He thought of his mother, of how disappointed she would be.

  Because the truth that kept him up was that everyone sold something to stay alive, and he was selling everything that made him the boy who would curl up into his mother's lap and laugh as she read him stories.

  Then the next job came, and the next, and eventually, it was just another transaction.

  Everyone in Velnias sold something, the better off sold their time, their labor, and parts of their futures. The people of the slums just had to sell more. Their dignity. Their bodies. Their souls.

  So when a Volkov higher up in a suit gave him an offer, he sold it all. Every last scrap.

  Pavel Cross took a shallow breath, and walked out into the ring, ready to bury yet another opponent. He’d win, he knew deep down he would. Because that’s all that there was left to him.

  The preparation room was quiet. Not that there wasn't noise – he could feel the vibrations in the air, the hum of voices bleeding through the walls, the groan of old pipes settling under pressure, the metallic clatter of fighters preparing for their own matches. In the corner, a younger man glared at him. But to Bellamy, it made no difference. He felt none of the room's heat, smelled none of the sweat and blood thick in the air. Those sensations belonged to other people.

  He sat on the narrow bench, leaned forward, and rolled his shoulders, neck, and wrists. He sent essence through the scaffolding of his body as he moved, letting that unnatural force settle over and into him, kneading the fatigue and stress out of his muscles.

  He studied his hands. Calloused. Weathered. Marked by old skirmishes and burns from the steel factory. Scars he could have erased. Smoothed over with essence until they were as smooth as scholars. But they mattered. The marks meant something.

  Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the coarse hand wraps, the rough fabric comfortable in his hands.

  He began at the wrist, anchoring the wrap snugly to follow the natural curve of his skin. His fingers moved with precision, guiding the wrap upward, passing once around his palm before threading between his fingers – splitting the knuckles, keeping them protected without sacrificing mobility. Every turn was deliberate. Every motion carried weight. A quiet affirmation that even the smallest actions had meaning. His eyes tracked each movement, refusing to let muscle memory take over. At every cross-point, he paused, lightly flexing his palm to check the tension, ensuring the pattern remained unbroken. The wrap spiraled back down, binding the wrist once more, locking everything into place.

  When the last length was secured he clenched his fists, testing for slack. No discomfort to gauge. Only the tension of the fabric. Only the certainty that it was correct.

  The first thing he noticed was the change in air pressure, then the murmuring pause in the background chatter, and finally, a young woman's voice.

  "Bellamy," she called out.

  He ignored it for a second longer, turning over his hand as a last inspection before striding outwards.

  The walk to the ring was short, but the sound grew louder with each footfall. The crowd wasn't just loud – it was a living thing, a beast of shifting bodies and frenzied voices, surging with the highs and lows of the bets they placed. They were part of the structure of Penny's. He was simply the instrument through which they enacted their desires. Their presence in the ecosystem sought to elevate the only thing that mattered – the fight itself.

  His opponent was already waiting, a thick-chested man, arms lined with muscle. He rolled his shoulders, shifting from foot to foot. Pavel Cross, the undefeated reigning champion. From a glance, it became clear he was a brawler who learned to survive fights, not just win them. Bellamy studied him, not for openings. Just watching, taking it in.

  "Aannnnnd tonight!" the announcer roared, a tinny sound coating his voice through the microphone. He whipped the already frenzied crowd into delirium, "we have a special match! A blood match between the reigning champion, undefeated, unstoppable, Pavel Cross! And what many of you thought was a newcomer, a fresh pup thrown to the wolves!"

  He paused for dramatic effect. Bellamy appreciated the flare.

  "But," the announcer continued, the word dripping with anticipation, "it turns out you were wrong. Dead wrong."

  Another pause. A breathless, silent moment.

  "Because standing in that ring right now, facing our champion is no rookie. No minnow in shark infested waters. Ladies and gentlemen we bring you a legend raised from the dead. A ghost made flesh once more. I give you … the undefeated former champion Bellamy Holloowwwww!"

  The eruption of noise burst eardrums. Cheers, curses, the sound of bets shifting, of drinks being slammed, and shouts of foul play. Bellamy closed his eyes and let the waves crash into him. Each one a pulse in his still heart. He breathed it in, relished it. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed this.

  "Velnias!" The announcer spread his arms, closing his eyes and staring at the ceiling, calling out to the bloodthirsty spectators and quite possibly a bloodthirsty god. "ARE. YOU. READY?!!!"

  The air hit a fever pitch.

  Bellamy opened his eyes.

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  "BEGIN!"

  The fighters circled, bare feet scraping against the uneven dirt floor. The first exchange started with a jab from Pavel – quick, probing. Bellamy let it slide off his guard. Another flicker of movement and a viper-quick calf kick cracked against Bellay's lead leg, threatening to knock him off balance. Before he could fully reset, Pavel shot low, arms reaching out towards Bellamy's legs to drag them both into the dirt.

  Fast. Ruthless. The impact of the charge sent dust billowing behind the champion.

  But Bellamy was faster.

  He snapped his knee up into Pavel's face. The champion barely faltered, driven forward by sheer momentum or will – it was hard to tell. Bellamy didn't have time to think. He stepped back, twisting his torso mid-motion, and drove a brutal sidekick into Pavel's chest. He aimed for the head. He hit the ribs instead.

  It was enough.

  Pavel grunted, blood trickling from his nose, but even as his charge stopped, his arms kept moving. His hands clamped onto Bellamy's foot before he could retract it. A flash of tension ran through Pavel's body as he stood and yanked, trying to trap the leg under his armpit and wrench Bellamy off balance.

  It would've worked, except for a heavy fist impacting the side of Pavel's neck. A sharp coughing choke. A stagger. Pavel's grip slackened just enough for Bellamy to tear his leg free and plant it firmly on the ground.

  They separated, eyes locked. Pavel's breath came hard and heavy. In turn, Bellamy didn't breathe at all. Too focused on the fight to pretend to need to.

  Each fighter adjusted their stance. Pavel opted for a high guard with a wide base, favoring his left foot. A flexible, adaptable position. Bellamy's stance, in turn, was anything but orthodox – built for aggression and little else. His hands hung low, extended forward at chest level, an opening most fighters would never allow. His left foot led, angled slightly inward to mirror the champion's stance, while his rear foot was rooted sideways, coiled like a spring, ready to drive him forward the moment an opening appeared, but this time he didn't wait.

  He moved forward, lacking grace. His feet drummed in rhythm – back foot, front foot, back foot. His leg shot out, an inside kick to Pavel's lead leg, which was raised in defense. Pavel, leg already raised, kicked forward, hitting Bellamy in the chest. Bellamy took the hit, swinging his right arm to impact the champion's inner thigh. He continued to step in, lead foot stomping on Pavel's back leg as he hooked an arm into his ribs. The impact was met with an elbow to the chin, which Bellamy slid through to headbut Pavel's nose.

  The champion's eyes were wide, not understanding the predatory stance Bellamy carried. The relentless forward motion, despite impacts and pain that would send other men to the ground. Trying to regain some semblance of control, he threw a hook that cracked into Bellamy's ribs. A move that turned out to be a fatal mistake.

  As the impact took him in the side, Bellamy raised both hands up, crossing them to either side of the champion's neck as he scooped up the dense fabric. It formed an X across the champion's throat before Bellamy squeezed inwards, initiating a choke, slowly stopping oxygen from flowing into Pavel's brain.

  Panic took over as Pavel rained blow after blow into Bellamy's unflinching side. The pressure only increased with time as Bellamy squeezed tighter and tighter. Pavel looked up and met Bellamy's eyes. A chill ran through him. The man was smiling, eyes foggy as he grinned so wide it almost broke his face. Pavel was going to die. Bellamy was going to kill him. He threw punch after punch in a frenzy, as heavy as he could manage.

  Bellamy didn't care for the damage to his ribs. It didn't matter if the ribs cracked or broke, one, two, three. It didn't matter. He could heal it afterward; all that mattered to him was winning the fight fair and square.

  With complete control of Pavel's head, Bellamy stepped back and yanked the fighter down, blood and oxygen completely cut off. He had won! Now he just need to wai-

  A sudden impact against Bellamy's chin. Heavy. His vision blurred. A white speck flashed across his eyes. But there had been no fist. Just a stomp on his foot.

  What?

  He tried to hold the choke, but another stomp sent another phantom uppercut into his skull. Bellamy stumbled, barely keeping his balance. Pavel pressed forward, landing hit after hit in a flurry of ill-placed flailing attacks – strikes that should have hit his ribs or chest instead hammered into his head or the back of his knee or his shin.

  The crowd roar turned sharp. Few understood what was happening as the tide shifted.

  The champion moved –stepped forward and twisted his hips to throw a punch as hard as he could. Bellamy threw himself aside, tumbling into a roll that brought him a breath of space. He stood in time to see a fist flying at his face. He sidestepped, almost tripping over his feet, barely glancing the blow off his forearm.

  But even that slight impact struck his head.

  Bellamy began to weave, dodging, his guard that should've absorbed some hits was useless as each blow landed elsewhere. The champion's fist never touched his head, yet somehow they did.

  He risked a glance at the box where Penny and Viracio sat. Viracio scowled, disgust written across his face. Penny's jaw was clenched tight. She hadn't called out, but her silence felt heavy as her eyes bore into both her champion and Bellamy.

  A kick to his leg. The pressure of impact exploded from his ribs instead.

  Bellamy staggered, a sharp hiss breaking through his teeth. That wasn't right. None of this was right. The punches weren't landing where they should. It was disorienting.

  Bellamy swung out, a fast kick to create distance as his mind raced. The strikes weren't heavier, just displaced. The impacts had jumped elsewhere.

  An essence power.

  Pavel wasn't just a fighter. He was a Harbinger – like him.

  By all rights, Bellamy had the right to use his own power. To end the fight in a split second. He reached for his essence, feeling the scaffolding of his core.

  And stopped.

  It felt wrong. It felt like cheating. Pavel's manifestation only displaced impacts. Minor. A subtle shift. Their abilities weren't comparable. It would be fair, but it wouldn't be right.

  Plus he didn’t know how his own ability would interact with Pavels. If he squashed the man suddenly, would he have time to redirect the force back at Bellamy?

  Fine. The hard way it was.

  Bellamy clenched his teeth, studying the champion as he thought through the exchanges. He didn't know the trigger. He knew the ability but not its internal workings, and when fighting a Harbinger, that was what mattered.

  The next punch came. Bellamy made a choice – stepped into it deliberately, absorbing the blow as it struck against his cheekbone. He braced.

  The impact landed exactly where it should. Still made his vision swim and was entirely unpleasant, but it was where it was supposed to be.

  The ability wasn't automatic. It had to be consciously activated. By stepping in, Bellamy had broken it for the moment.

  Another strike. A heavy hook to the ribs. He raised his guard, moving at the last second to glance the blow off his forearms.

  He confirmed his earlier suspicions as the impact hit him in the ribs, but with much less power than a straight blow.

  Pavel's ability formed in his mind. The ability to consciously shift impacts from one location to another.

  Useful. But ultimately, only that. It wasn't something that broke the world, much less another person.

  In short. Beatable.

  Bellamy opened himself to attack, shifting his guard at the last second so the first would connect to his sternum instead of being parried. He studied Pavel's face. His eyes widened slightly as he furrowed his brow and focused more.

  Good. Bellamy could work with this.

  He barely registered the impact as he kicked his thoughts into high gear.

  He missed this. The puzzle. The fight. The scrap. The blow for blow and the clawing to take the pot. God he loved it.

  He stepped back and checked Pavel's stance and guard. It was off. Not as sharp as before. He was focusing on his manifestation instead of the fundamentals. Good.

  Bellamy regained his earlier aggressive stance and flowed forward. He didn't dodge. Not exactly. When a blow came, he stepped into it. Once, twice. And then he stepped away, letting the attack hit him a few seconds later than the champion intended. He alternated, switching the pattern. Forward, forward, back, back, left, right, left right, leg kick, guy punch, weave, forward, forward, right, back, jab, jab, hook, jab, left, jab, forward.

  He walked forward, a predator approaching a wounded animal caught in a trap. He grinned, breathing it all in. He saw Pavel's arm twitch and saw the attack coming.

  This time, he caught it, locking the arm underneath his armpit and straining the elbow before bringing it down onto his knee with a sickening snap.

  The man let out a cry of pain that was almost instantly cut out as Bellamy loaded an uppercut and let it loose against Pavel's chin.

  The champion made no noise. Just crumpled backwards.

  There was silence as Pavel hit the ground.

  Then, the crowd roared. Screaming their lungs out with breath they hadn't been aware they were holding.

  Bellamy raised up his arms and screamed in turn.

  He won. He would always win. Again and again and again until there was no one left to win against.