The distorted loudspeakers of Level Ten screeched awake like a dying animal whose throat was made of metal coils and shattered glass.

  “All participants of Round Two of the Battle for Ascension, report to Iron Corridor Nine. Begins in thirty minutes.”

  The announcement didn’t echo—it stabbed the slum.

  Vibrations rattled through the rusted roofs, ran across cracked steel beams, and shot down the broken staircases like a warning trembling through the skeleton of a monster.

  A few old delivery drones jolted mid-air, overloaded by the static shockwave.

  Their lights flickered, their engines spasmed, then they spiraled down like drunken insects and crashed into the alleys below.

  People cursed.

  Dogs barked.

  Someone threw a bottle out the window and screamed at nothing.

  It was morning—Crimeria’s version of morning anyway.

  No sun.

  Just a slightly brighter shade of neon.

  Inside the safehouse, Z-69 sat calmly in the center of the room, as if the chaos outside were the background noise of someone else’s life.

  He was finishing the last of his synthetic-protein snack, crunching into it with the immaculate serenity of a man enjoying a peaceful breakfast.

  The snack smelled like chemical sugar mixed with rust flakes.

  But Z-69 chewed slowly, thoughtfully—like he was savoring gourmet cuisine in some upper-level luxury dome.

  Lumina sprawled across his lap, her tiny paws resting on his knee while her tail lifted and fell each time he bit into another piece.

  “That sound…” she muttered, ears angled flat. “The speakers sound more like a threat than an announcement.”

  John didn’t answer her.

  Because John was already halfway into a breakdown.

  He stood in the corner of the room, one cybernetic hand braced against the wall while the other pinched the bridge of his nose.

  His earlier battle repairs still left scorch marks along his arm, and the neon flickering above cast alternating shadows across his human face and machine plating—making him look like two different men arguing inside one body.

  “Again,” John muttered. “Round Two. That damn tunnel.”

  He glared at Z-69 with the exact expression of someone begging fate to spare him for once.

  Z-69 stood, dusting crumbs off the front of his coat with efficient precision.

  “It has begun,” he said simply, like announcing a weather forecast.

  John’s expression twitched.

  “Could you—just once—sound less excited? This isn’t a picnic. This isn’t a scenic tour. This isn’t even a normal death trap. This is a tunnel they used to test third-generation battle robots. Battle. Robots. With artillery arms.”

  Z-69 tucked an extra snack packet into his coat.

  “Good. I am still hungry. If I win this round, I will earn more SCRAP to buy additional food.”

  John stared.

  Then he exhaled smoke so violently that the neon above flickered out for two seconds.

  “Fine. Go. GO. And for the love of every god humanity abandoned—DON’T DIE. If you die again, I swear I’ll dig through the trash heaps myself, revive you, then kill you again for dying in the first place.”

  Z-69 responded calmly:

  “Do not beat me. You are weaker than I am.”

  Something inside John audibly snapped.

  Lumina leaped onto Z-69’s shoulder.

  She wrapped her tail around his neck like a warm scarf, glaring at John for extra emphasis.

  “This time,” she declared, “I’m joining the fight. I don’t trust you not to go Hunger-crazy and chew someone’s head off.”

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  “Reasonable.” Z-69 said.

  John wanted to scream.

  Instead, he choked on his own smoke.

  The path to Iron Corridor Nine was a long metallic artery leading straight into the guts of Level Ten.

  Oil dripped from overhead pipes like thick black rain.

  Broken monitors flickered with half-corrupted advertisements.

  The steel floors thrummed with the heartbeat of old machinery—steady, ancient, dying.

  Level Ten felt like a giant mechanical beast trapped beneath the earth.

  Every step echoed like they were walking across its ribcage.

  John shuffled beside Z-69, his boots clanging sharply, muttering nonstop.

  “The Gauntlet isn’t an arena. It’s a war-prep tunnel. A place where they tested suicide drones and laser traps that cut through titanium plates like noodles.”

  He gestured frantically while walking.

  “But since year 200, no one has maintained it. The central computer fried itself, the traps malfunction, the corridors shift randomly, and sometimes gravity decides it doesn’t want to work anymore.”

  Z-69 listened with the patience of a monk hearing about someone else’s misfortune.

  “Good.” he said. “The more chaotic it is, the fewer survivors. My chance of winning increases.”

  John slapped the nearest wall so hard that rust sprinkled down like sand.

  “I’M TELLING YOU BECAUSE YOU’RE GOING TO GET YOURSELF KILLED!”

  “I will not die.” Z-69 replied with unshakable certainty.

  “Three hundred years ago, you said that exact sentence. Then you exploded.” John rasped.

  “I like this dynamic. Keep yelling, John.” Lumina laughed.

  “I should’ve retired centuries ago…” John groaned.

  The gathering zone before Iron Corridor Nine was a mess of welded containers, broken scaffolding, and temporary markets run by desperate vendors selling things contestants might need.

  Energy patches.

  Pain inhibitors.

  Fake luck charms.

  Illegal stimulants.

  “Guaranteed Victory” stickers (customer reviews: zero stars).

  Contestants gathered in clumps.

  Some prayed.

  Some sharpened weapons.

  Some stared emptily like they were already dead.

  As Z-69 entered, the noise dropped half a pitch.

  He didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t even look at anyone.

  But several muscular fighters stepped aside.

  A tall brute with tattoos across half his face growled:

  “If you get paired with my team, I’ll use you as a shield.”

  Z-69 answered, tone flat:

  “You may try—if your life feels too long.”

  The brute immediately shut up.

  “His face looks like someone slapped him with a frying pan.” Lumina chuckled internally.

  In the center of the crowd, someone approached.

  Light, graceful, carrying the faint scent of cold perfume and metallic sweetness.

  Elise.

  Her presence bent the neon around her—as if the city itself wanted to highlight her entrance.

  “That woman… appears exactly when I don’t want her to. Like mold on bread.” John groaned.

  Elise stopped in front of Z-69.

  Her smile was soft.

  Beautiful.

  Deadly.

  “Mr. Thunderlight,” she greeted him. “I have interesting information.”

  “Why are you helping me?” Z-69 asked.

  Elise tilted her head slightly, smile unreadable.

  “Because you’re interesting. And because you look like someone worth investing in.”

  Lumina hopped up, her psychic voice slicing through Elise’s mind:

  “Stay one meter away from him.”

  “Oh,” Elise cooed, patting the fox’s head,“So cute when you’re jealous.”

  Lumina swiped a claw at her hand.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Z-69 spoke flatly:

  “Information.”

  Elise handed him a folded paper, ink-drawn.

  “The Gauntlet has four segments: collapse segment, laser segment, drone segment, and core chamber. To escape, retrieve the key. Two teams enter—usually one exits.”

  “Right…” Z-69 said.

  Elise hesitated, then leaned closer, whispering near his ear:

  “The one paired with you… isn’t strong. But he is unusual. Not like anyone on this floor. Be careful.”

  “Unusual how?”

  Not like Level Ten residents. Not like ability users. Not like normal humans. Like something… in between.”

  Then her sweet smile returned.

  “I’ll wait for you in Round Three. Don’t die.”

  She walked away—and several contestants stared at her as if hypnotized by her scent.

  Lumina muttered telepathically:

  “She’s extremely dangerous.”

  Z-69 internally noted:

  “And fascinating too.”

  At that moment, someone called out timidly:

  “Mr. Z-69?”

  A thin young man stood before them.

  Wearing a dirty brown jacket.

  Dark circles under his eyes.

  Hands trembling from exhaustion.

  Weak.

  Sickly.

  But his posture was straight.

  He didn’t fear Z-69.

  He didn’t recoil from the undead aura.

  His eyes were oddly calm.

  “I’m Ten,” he said. “I’m paired with you.”

  John choked on his smoke.

  “That—THAT sickly kid?!”

  Ten bowed.

  “I’m weak. But I won’t hinder you.”

  Z-69 studied him.

  The boy looked like he’d been starving for years…

  Yet his gaze—steady.

  Too steady.

  “You know me?” Z-69 asked.

  Ten shook his head.

  “Not know. Remember. I’ve seen you in my dreams.”

  “I hate sentences like that.” Lumina hissed.

  “He smells like trouble.” John muttered.

  Z-69 looked directly at Ten.

  “You are suspicious.”

  Ten smiled faintly.

  “I’m not dangerous. I just… believe I won’t die if I stand behind you.”

  A strange faith.

  Not blind.

  Not foolish.

  Something older.

  Deeper.

  Z-69 didn’t understand it.

  But he didn’t reject it either.

  The gate to the tunnel began lifting, screeching like rusted claws dragging across bone.

  Hot air blasted out—stinking of ozone, burnt metal, and something vaguely organic.

  The tunnel before them was dark.

  A deep, twisting throat of machinery.

  Red warning lights flickered sporadically.

  The floor vibrated with slow, ominous pulses—like something breathing.

  A loudspeaker boomed:

  “Round Two contestants, enter The Gauntlet. Gate closes in sixty seconds.”

  Z-69 drew the Heaven-Sundering Short Blade.

  The violet glow danced across his face—a light that once burned down armies.

  Ten swallowed, but didn’t step back.

  Lumina crouched low on Z-69’s shoulder, eyes glowing sharply.

  John stepped forward.

  He placed a hand on Z-69’s shoulder.

  No jokes.

  No insults.

  Just a quiet, heavy sincerity.

  “Z-69,” he said softly, voice rough, “don’t die. I still have a lot to tell you.”

  Z-69 nodded.

  “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

  After that, Z-69 and Ten stepped inside.

  BANG.

  The gate slammed shut with the finality of a tomb sealing itself.

  Darkness swallowed everything.

  Then—tick… tick… tick…

  “Trap.” Ten whispered

  Z-69’s grip tightened.

  “I hear it.”

  A floor panel ahead dropped like a guillotine.

  Deep in the tunnel, engines roared awake—ancient, wounded, hungry.

  A distorted voice echoed through the darkness:

  “Welcome to The Gauntlet. Good luck — or good luck to someone else.”