The preliminary match took place at The Pit.

  The first sound Z-69 heard when he stepped down into The Pit wasn’t cheering, but the grinding of metal against metal—dry, cold, alive, like the teeth of a steel beast waiting to be released.

  The Level 10 arena was a massive garbage pit under neon light, so deep that the darkness at the bottom looked like a widening wound.

  Artificial rain dripped from the rusted dome ceiling into a thin mist, merging with the flickering violet-white glow that pulsed like the artificial organs of the city.

  The arena floor was nothing but pools of black oil, sharp trash, shredded robot parts, leaking cables like intestines, and sometimes even human bones that hadn’t fully decayed.

  On the stands, exiles, gang members, mercenaries, neuro-stimulant addicts—all screamed like demons breathing through their own despair.

  High-pressure music rattled every steel plate around the arena, making it impossible for those below in The Pit to tell which were human screams and which were the dying hums of failing machines.

  A glitching, outdated broadcasting robot staggered into the center, its LED eyes flickering red and green.

  “ASCENSION PRELIMINARY ROUND. ONE HUNDRED WARRIORS ENTER. HOW MANY SURVIVE…LET’S FIND OUT!!!”

  The crowd roared like they’d just been unchained.

  Z-69 stood in the center of the arena, the violet glow from the crystal in his chest reflecting off his emotionless face.

  The energy band on his wrist shifted to pale yellow—his body was under pressure, but still within control.

  On the tech stand, John pulled his hood low, eyes glued to Z-69.

  Lumina lay in his coat pocket, silver eyes half-open, watching him as if trying to predict his every move.

  And Elise, legs crossed in the VIP box, wearing a smile far too gentle to be safe, lifted a glass of red wine and studied Z-69 as though observing an experiment about to begin.

  The starting signal wasn’t a bell—but the shriek of a pressure-release valve.

  Hot steam burst upward like the mouth of a blast furnace being opened, and instantly a hundred bodies hurled themselves into one another in chaotic frenzy.

  Two fighters closest to Z-69 lunged first.

  He blocked with his bare hand—and immediately realized he was wrong.

  His left wrist joint cracked sharply when it collided with the opponent’s cybernetic arm.

  His zombie bones couldn’t handle heavy-impact combat.

  Black blood seeped out instantly.

  He stepped back once.

  “I still haven’t mastered my electricity. Barehanded combat in this situation is not an effective method.” Z-69 evaluated silently.

  Another punch nearly shattered his jaw.

  Z-69 twisted right, spun away, kept dodging, but every breath he took only stirred the zombie virus inside him—awakening like a beast catching the scent of blood.

  The energy band shifted from yellow to pale orange.

  In the chaos, a mercenary was hurled into the steel wall and collapsed. What he dropped wasn’t a gun— but a blacksteel short blade.

  Z-69 picked it up, and the moment the hilt touched his palm, a cold sensation ran up his spine.

  Not physical cold—cold from memory.

  An incomplete memory.

  A flare of Valdora’s fire.

  A purple blade cutting through darkness.

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  A hand… this very hand…

  holding a blade very much like this one.

  Z-69 gave the blade a test swing.

  The movement was so smooth he had to pause.

  His body—not his amnesiac mind—knew exactly how to use it.

  Then something stranger: when violet electricity traveled from his body into the blade—The blade endured it.

  No cracking.

  No burning.

  No electrical recoil.

  It conducted the energy as though it had been forged for that purpose.

  He said nothing, but his eyes flashed with the body’s answer:

  “I used to fight like this…”

  On the stands, Lumina’s ears shot straight up.

  “Left,” she telecast. “Three of them.”

  Z-69 turned instantly, dodging three blades sweeping for his throat.

  “Behind you—laser trap.”

  He ducked.

  The laser beam sliced by, burning a patch of his hair into violet smoke.

  “Little fox, is this considered cheating?”

  Z-69 joked silently.

  “Focus. Don’t let the band hit red...”

  Lumina’s voice was small, weak—but enough to steady him.

  A mutant with metal fangs—IRONJAW—roared and charged forward like a turbine engine.

  Z-69 raised the blade to block those fangs, sparks exploding.

  He twisted his wrist, stabbing deep into the mutant ’s neck.

  Ironjaw staggered back, and Z-69 kicked him straight into an active trash compactor.

  The machine chewed him like old scrap iron.

  Two cybernetic sisters—THE TWINS—rushed in simultaneously.

  Their movements were synchronized like a pair of scissors cutting air.

  Z-69 blocked one strike, twisted out of the second, then used their momentum to slam their bodies together with an impact like a pressure explosion.

  SERAPH 92 appeared next—an energy mutant with skin glowing like a reactor core.

  He stared at Z-69 as if reading his muscular structure.

  “I can see everything,” Seraph 92 said.

  “You’re about to dislocate your shoulder—”

  The energy orb exploded directly into Z-69’s shoulder.

  Bone shattered.

  Flesh burned.

  The energy band turned deep orange.

  The Hunger howl tore through his mind.

  Eat.

  Eat.

  EAT.

  Lumina screamed from the stands:

  “HOLD IT! YOU’RE ABOUT TO GO HUNGER!”

  Z-69 clenched his teeth, forcing the instinct down.

  He lunged at Seraph 92, not slashing—

  but using the short blade like a hammer, smashing it down on the mutant’s skull.

  Violet electricity burst like diseased fireworks.

  Seraph collapsed, the light dying in his eyes.

  But the stands saw it: Z-69 was slipping.

  His breathing ragged, his violet eyes fading toward muddy purple.

  Then the remaining 40 fighters attacked at once.

  Z-69 became the common target.

  The arena entered chaos mode: buzzsaws rising from the floor, laser beams sweeping like lumber cutters, jets of burning heat blasting skin, electric siphon traps pulling violet sparks from his arms.

  Z-69 dodged, spun, slashed, blocked, stabbed—every movement a streak of violet, every discharge another burn searing his flesh.

  Cornered, he stabbed the short blade into the ground and released a static explosion that blasted the crowd backward.

  Z-69 fell to one knee, breathing like an animal on its last breath.

  Finally, silence fell over the arena.

  The broadcasting robot staggered out, voice distorted:

  “PRELIMINARY ROUND COMPLETE. FOURTEEN QUALIFIED WARRIORS.”

  Z-69 stood in the center of The Pit, torn apart, left shoulder dislocated, his arm charred in black patches.

  The band colors shifted to deep red.

  The smell of blood.

  The color red.

  Heat from exposed bone.

  The sound of tearing flesh.

  He heard the Hunger roaring inside.

  His face turned muddy purple.

  Jaw widening.

  Fangs lengthening.

  Violet circuitry running wild in his eyes.

  On the stands, John shot to his feet.

  “No! Not now!”

  He turned to Lumina:

  “Telecast—tell him to open his mouth!”

  Lumina’s ears flicked up, silver light flaring:

  “OPEN YOUR MOUTH!”

  Z-69 froze for half a second.

  His jaw opened, trembling as if fighting invisible chains.

  John yanked his left arm open.

  A mini-launcher popped out from beneath the armor—

  like a tiny rocket tube cobbled together in a garage.

  John shoved in the high-energy jerky he had prepared, locked the chamber.

  “Hold still, Z-69. Here’s your post-battle snack.”

  THWIP!

  The “meat bullet” shot across the arena, arc perfect— and slammed straight into Z-69’s open mouth.

  He swallowed on instinct.

  His entire body jolted as if someone plugged a cable directly into his heart.

  In that same moment, he tore open the packet of meat and devoured it like a starving animal.

  The band colors shifted back to pale yellow.

  Violet eyes faded back to green.

  Fangs retracted.

  Breathing steadied.

  In John’s coat pocket, Lumina whispered:

  “Next time aim a bit lower… miss by a hair and you’d blow his face off.”

  John shrugged.

  “Having any angle at all was a blessing.”

  Z-69 rose slowly, short blade still in hand.

  A sharp crack sounded.

  The blade fractured.

  Violet electricity crawled across its surface.

  Crack… crk… CRAAACK—

  The short blade shattered into fragments,

  falling like black rain.

  Z-69 picked up one piece— it crumbled in his fingers.

  “It wasn’t the blade,” he said quietly.

  “I… couldn’t control it.”

  John climbed down from the stands and hauled him up.

  “Then get a blade that can handle you. Otherwise next time you’ll have to chop people apart with your bare hands.”

  Z-69 stared at the broken fragments.

  Under the violet neon, he felt like they were pointing the way.

  A dark alley.

  A shop with no sign.

  A white smiling mask.

  A low, rumbling voice:

  “I have something that suits you… Thunderlight.”

  Memory or foretelling?

  He didn’t know.

  Only that he would find it.

  The arena speakers blared, slicing through the artificial rain:

  “PARTICIPANT NUMBER 69 – QUALIFIED. MAIN ROUND BEGINS IN 24 HOURS.”

  The crowd erupted, shaking the city like an earthquake.

  Under the steel dome, Z-69 looked upward, violet light deep in his eyes like an abyss.

  Tomorrow, a new battle awaited him.

  But first, he needed to eat something.

  And maybe find a new weapon.