Shadow slave: Sovereign of the Unknown

The underground arena buzzed with raw energy. Fights raged on, one after another, as blood was spilled and credits exchanged. The air reeked of sweat, metal, and the primal hunger for violence.

And he was right in the middle of it.

Standing in the cage, his hands relaxed by his sides, he studied his next opponent.

The man was taller, heavier, and covered in scars—an experienced fighter. Someone who had killed before.

Perfect.

The announcer's voice boomed across the arena.

"Round two! We have our fresh blood staying in the ring! Can he survive, or will his luck run dry?"

The crowd roared. Bets were placed.

The moment the cage door slammed shut—

The fight began.

---

Refining the Blade

His opponent charged, covering the distance in a blink.

A massive fist swung toward his face.

He ducked at the last second, feeling the wind from the strike pass just above his head. His body moved on instinct—fueled by the techniques he had absorbed.

Street Brawling. Dirty Boxing.

It was crude, but it was efficient.

Twisting his body, he lashed out with a precise counterstrike.

Abyss Fang.

His blade flickered. The delayed slash landed an instant after his movement, carving a thin wound across his opponent's ribs.

The man grunted, stepping back.

He pressed forward, attacking in a relentless flurry. Fast. Precise. Brutal.

The weight of battle was shaping him. He could feel his combat style sharpening, every strike landing with more efficiency than the last.

But his opponent wasn't weak.

A sudden elbow caught him in the shoulder, forcing him back. Pain flared, but he adjusted, his stance shifting seamlessly.

The man smirked. "Not bad, kid. But you lack raw power."

Then he came at him with a grappling maneuver, aiming to crush him with sheer strength.

A mistake.

The moment he was grabbed, his mind reacted.

Predator's Conquest activated.

Grappling techniques—absorbed.

The knowledge settled into his muscles in real-time.

He countered perfectly, shifting his weight, using the man's momentum against him.

CRACK.

The sound of bones snapping echoed as he twisted the man's arm unnaturally.

A scream followed.

The fight was over.

---

[System Update]

> Enemy Defeated: 1

Stats Absorption in Progress…

Strength +0.7

Speed +0.4

Martial Technique Absorbed: [Brutal Grappling]

---

His breathing was steady as he stepped away. The fallen fighter groaned on the ground, his arm dislocated and useless.

The crowd erupted into mixed reactions. Some cheered, others jeered. But one thing was certain—

He was no longer just an unknown face.

The recruiter smirked from the sidelines, watching him closely.

"You keep this up, and you won't be in the beginner's bracket for long," he said, tossing a bag of credits his way.

He caught it without looking. Money wasn't the goal. Strength was.

And he was just getting started.

---

The Aftermath

After collecting his winnings, he stepped out into the cold night air.

His body was sore but alive. Every fight, every absorbed technique—it was pushing him closer to true power.

But he needed more.

More fights. More techniques. More battles to hone himself into an unstoppable force.

He exhaled, eyes turning toward the sky.

The real trials hadn't even begun yet.

Soon, the Nightmare Spell would activate.

And when that happened?

He wouldn't just survive.

He would dominate. The crowd's cheers were a distant roar, a backdrop to the pounding of his heart. Each fight was sharpening him, stripping away any hesitation. He was beginning to understand—this wasn't just about survival. It was about becoming something more.

A predator.

His thoughts were interrupted by the recruiter's voice cutting through the noise. "Next match is in fifteen minutes. You in?"

He nodded, not bothering to hide his hunger for more. The recruiter chuckled, a dark glint in his eyes. "Good. You're making us money, and the crowd loves fresh blood."

As the recruiter walked away, he took a moment to lean against the cold stone wall, letting his breath slow. Each battle was pushing him, testing not just his strength but his adaptability.

The system window flickered before his eyes.

---

[System Analysis]

> Current Condition: Stable

Fatigue Level: Moderate

Synchronization: 5%

---

5%. A small number, but it was growing.

Each fight was accelerating his synchronization with the Abyssal Tyrant. The more he fought, the more his body adapted—muscle memory, reflexes, instincts.

But there was a limit to how much he could push himself in one night. He wasn't invincible.

A few minutes later, a rough hand clapped his shoulder. He turned, eyes narrowing.

It was a fighter he hadn't seen before—older, with a cold gaze and a body covered in battle scars. This wasn't just another street thug.

"I've seen you fight," the man grunted. "You're good. But you're relying too much on speed and precision."

His jaw tightened. He wasn't interested in unsolicited advice.

The man chuckled, as if sensing his annoyance. "Calm down, kid. All I'm saying is—against brute force, you'll need more than just technique. You need to be able to take hits and keep going."

He said nothing, though the man's words gnawed at him. It was true—he was focused on dodging, on minimizing damage. But against an opponent who could endure his strikes and keep coming? That was a different challenge.

The announcer's voice rang out again. "Next fight! Newcomer versus Iron Bull!"

The crowd roared, and he pushed off the wall, heading back to the cage.

As he stepped inside, his eyes landed on his next opponent.

Iron Bull lived up to his name—massive, muscles like coiled steel, a brutal grin stretching across his scarred face.

"Gonna enjoy smashing your pretty face in," Iron Bull sneered.

He met the man's gaze evenly. "Try it."

The cage door clanged shut.

The fight began.

---

Iron Bull's Challenge

Iron Bull charged like a freight train, the ground seeming to tremble under his steps.

He braced himself, dropping into a low stance. When the first punch came—a massive, hammer-like swing—he didn't dodge. Instead, he met it head-on, deflecting the blow with his forearm. Pain flared, but he gritted his teeth.

Absorb. Adapt. Overcome.

The man's raw strength was monstrous, but it was also predictable. Each swing was telegraphed, each movement slower than his.

He slipped past a jab, driving his knee into Iron Bull's ribs. A grunt of pain. A counterpunch that he barely deflected, his arm going numb.

The crowd's roar intensified. They loved a brutal match.

Iron Bull's grin widened, eyes gleaming with a savage light. "Is that all you got? You're a fly, and I'm the swatter!"

He said nothing, focusing on his breathing, on the rhythm of the fight.

Tyrant's Form: Activated.

A surge of energy flooded his veins, enhancing his speed and strength. For a brief moment, he felt untouchable.

He darted forward, delivering a flurry of strikes—punches, elbows, kicks—each one aimed at Iron Bull's weak points.

But the man was a wall. Each hit seemed to bounce off, barely slowing him down.

Adapt.

He needed to find a weakness. Something that would bring the giant down.

Iron Bull swung again, a wide haymaker meant to decapitate. He ducked under, spinning on his heel to slash his blade across the back of the man's knee.

A roar of pain. Iron Bull stumbled, his leg buckling.

That was it. The opening he needed.

He drove forward, hammering a punch into the man's kidney, then followed with a brutal upward slash to the chin.

Iron Bull crashed to the ground, blood spraying from his mouth.

The crowd's roar was deafening.

---

[System Update]

> Enemy Defeated: 1

Stats Absorption in Progress…

Strength +1.0

Endurance +0.7

Martial Technique Absorbed: [Brawler's Resilience]

---

He staggered back, chest heaving. The fight had taken more out of him than he expected. His arms throbbed, bruises already blooming under his skin.

But he had won.

The announcer was shouting something, hyping up the crowd, but the noise faded into the background as he focused on his breathing.

Control. Discipline. Power.

He needed to keep pushing himself, but he also needed to recover, to let his body adapt to the new power he'd gained.

The recruiter approached, his grin a mix of approval and greed. "Hell of a show, kid. You're making waves. People are gonna start noticing."

"Let them," he said, voice steady. "I'm not hiding."

The recruiter chuckled. "Good. Keep fighting like this, and you'll be a legend before you know it. But be careful. The higher you climb, the harder the fall."

He met the man's gaze, eyes cold. "I don't plan on falling."

As he turned to leave, he felt the weight of eyes on his back—fighters, gamblers, the desperate. They were all watching him now, sizing him up, wondering how far he would go.

But their opinions didn't matter. Only strength did.

And he was going to keep climbing. No matter what.