Shadow slave: Sovereign of the Unknown

The weight of the short sword at his side felt foreign yet strangely natural. Though it wasn't an ideal weapon, it was a step in the right direction.

Walking out of the underground market, he pulled his hood lower over his face and blended into the bustling streets of the Lower Districts. The city never truly slept—desperation, crime, and the ever-present fear of the Nightmare Spell made it a place where only the ruthless thrived.

And he needed to thrive.

He had a goal now.

Survive. Adapt. Grow stronger.

And to do that, he needed a test of battle.

The Silent Predator

The air was thick with the scent of oil and metal, mingled with the acrid stench of decay. A perfect representation of this world's brutality.

He moved swiftly through the ruined streets, scanning his surroundings. Opportunities for combat were everywhere in this city—especially in the Lower Districts, where those without power struggled to hold onto their lives.

His eyes flickered toward a shadowy alley.

Three figures lurked there, their voices hushed but filled with malice.

"…Poor bastard won't even see it coming."

"You sure he's got credits?"

"Saw him flashing some before—enough to split between us."

A mugging.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't care. He wasn't a hero. Helping random strangers wasn't his problem.

But this? This was an opportunity.

A test.

The Hunt Begins

Without hesitation, he moved—silent as a specter. The Predator's Conquest skill ensured that every movement was smooth, every step calculated. He had absorbed enough combat instincts from his previous fights to move like a natural-born killer.

The three men were so focused on their conversation that they didn't even notice him until it was too late.

By the time the first one turned, his eyes widening in alarm—

It was over.

He struck with precision, his short sword slashing cleanly across the first attacker's thigh. A cry of pain echoed in the alleyway as the man collapsed, clutching his leg.

The second thug barely had time to react before he pivoted, his foot snapping forward in a devastating front kick. The impact sent the man crashing into the brick wall with a sickening crack.

The third tried to run.

He didn't make it far.

Phantom Rend.

The moment the skill activated, a burst of speed-enhanced movement sent him surging forward like a shadow. The short sword gleamed under the dim streetlights before—

Slash.

A delayed wound appeared across the fleeing man's back. He crumpled, groaning. Not dead—but very much incapacitated.

The fight had lasted less than five seconds.

---

[System Update]

> Enemies Defeated: 3

Stats Absorption in Progress…

Physical Strength +0.3

Speed +0.2

Martial Techniques Absorbed: [Street Brawling]

---

He exhaled.

It was working.

The more he fought, the more his body evolved. Even basic combat styles like Street Brawling were being refined and merged into his growing foundation.

But he wasn't satisfied.

He needed stronger opponents.

A Name in the Darkness

As he sheathed his blade, a voice spoke from the shadows.

"That was quite the display."

He turned instantly, weapon half-drawn.

A man stepped forward, clad in a ragged coat, his face partially hidden by the hood. But the gleam in his eyes was unmistakable—a predator recognizing another.

"You've got skills, kid. Quick, efficient. You're not just some street thug."

He said nothing. Words weren't necessary.

The man smirked. "Relax, I'm not looking for trouble. Just curious. Someone like you… doesn't belong in these back alleys. You're either desperate or ambitious."

He didn't respond, still gripping his weapon.

The man chuckled. "Fine, keep your secrets. But if you're looking for real fights… there's a place."

A slip of paper was tossed toward him. He caught it effortlessly, glancing at the scrawled writing.

It was an address.

"Underground fight club," the man explained. "Not just brawlers—Awakened, Stray or not. If you're looking to sharpen that blade, that's where you go."

Then, without waiting for a response, the man vanished into the night.

The Next Step

He stared at the address.

A place where stronger enemies gathered.

His grip on the sword tightened.

This was it.

His next step toward true power. The slip of paper in his hand felt heavier than it should. An invitation to an underground fight club—it was a dangerous opportunity, but an opportunity nonetheless.

Folding the note, he tucked it into his pocket and melted into the shadows of the Lower District.

A City That Never Sleeps

Night in the Lower District was different from the rest of the city. Here, the streets were alive with desperation, greed, and violence. Survival wasn't guaranteed, and power was the only law that mattered.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself.

If he wanted to thrive, he had to step into the deep end.

---

Underground Arena: The Blood Pit

The address led him to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the district. Faint vibrations hummed through the air, carrying the roar of a crowd. A fight was already underway.

Two burly men flanked the entrance, their expressions bored—until their eyes landed on him.

"You lost, kid?" one of them sneered.

He kept his face impassive. "I'm here for a fight."

The guards exchanged glances before stepping aside.

"Your funeral."

As he descended the stairs, the air grew thick with sweat, blood, and anticipation.

A massive underground chamber sprawled before him. The arena was nothing more than a metal cage surrounded by a jeering crowd. Fighters waited in the dim corners, their expressions ranging from hungry to wary.

This was perfect.

The recruiter from earlier stood near the cage, watching a fight unfold.

When he noticed him approach, a smirk tugged at his lips. "Didn't think you'd show."

He simply shrugged.

The recruiter nodded in approval. "Rules are simple. No killing unless it's an official death match. You win, you get paid. The stronger your opponent, the bigger the reward."

A pause. Then, with a grin—

"And if you make a name for yourself? Doors start opening."

He wasn't here for fame.

He was here to sharpen his fangs.

First Fight

"Newcomer!" the announcer called, his voice booming over the noise. "We've got fresh blood!"

The crowd turned, eager to size him up.

His hooded figure drew mixed reactions—some scoffed, others eyed him with curiosity.

His opponent was already stepping into the cage. A broad-shouldered man with knotted muscles and scarred knuckles. An experienced street brawler.

"A hundred credits on the newbie getting his skull cracked," someone jeered.

He ignored them.

The cage door slammed shut.

The fight had begun.

The brawler wasted no time.

He charged forward, throwing a powerful hook meant to shatter bone.

Mistake.

His footwork shifted—quick, precise, ruthless. He sidestepped, his body flowing like water.

The brawler's fist swung through empty air.

Then—

CRACK!

A precise elbow strike crashed into the side of the brawler's jaw.

The impact sent him staggering.

But the man was tough. Snarling, he came back swinging.

This time, he responded in kind.

Every punch. Every movement. Every stance.

He absorbed them all.

The fight lasted less than a minute.

With a brutal knee to the gut, the brawler collapsed.

The crowd went silent for a moment—then erupted into cheers and groans as bets were exchanged.

He exhaled slowly.

First fight. First win.

---

[System Update]

> Enemy Defeated: 1

Stats Absorption in Progress…

Strength +0.5

Speed +0.3

Martial Technique Absorbed: [Dirty Boxing]

---

He flexed his fingers. The new combat knowledge was settling into his muscles. Each battle refined him further.

The recruiter approached, looking amused.

"Not bad, kid. Ready for another?"

He nodded.

The night was far from over.

He wasn't done growing stronger.