The resting area of the arena lay deep beneath the Arena complex, hidden behind corridors where only security robots and registered contestants were allowed to walk.

  The automatic steel door shut behind Z-69 with a dry, sharp clack, severing the roars of the crowd outside as if someone had closed the lid of a jar full of insects.

  Inside, the place was nothing but a series of dull gray metal rooms connected together.

  The flickering white-blue fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, the low ceiling pressed down like a weight, and tangled ventilation pipes snaked overhead.

  The scent was an unpleasant mixture of cheap disinfectant, sweat, machine oil, and a faint trace of energy-cigarette burn—the distinct smell of a place meant only for those who were not fully dead yet.

  Z-69’s rest room was just slightly larger than a prison cell.

  A long metal bench welded into the wall, a folding table, a rusty sink, and a holo-screen hanging in the corner showing the rotating Battle for Ascension logo as if it were mocking everyone inside.

  Z-69 sat down on the metal bench, the scrape of his armor against it producing an ear-grinding sound.

  Lumina slid down from his shoulder, landing softly on his lap before rolling onto her side like an exhausted fluff of fox.

  Her ears drooped, her tail only twitched faintly.

  “I’m tired…” she grumbled, her telepathic voice dragging sluggishly inside his mind. “Because of you, my energy drained way too much.”

  “Sleep.” Z-69 said, placing a hand gently on her back, as if placing a hand on a delicate machine that needed to cool down.

  Lumina let out a small “mmm” and truly closed her eyes.

  The small crystal on her forehead still glowed faintly, but even that light slowly stabilized.

  John stood at the door, leaning against the steel frame, holding a cigarette burned nearly to the butt.

  White smoke curled around his head, mixing with the smell of disinfectant into a stench that was hard to describe.

  “The first match of Round 3.” he said, voice casual. “You weren’t bad.”

  “I’m still alive.” Z-69 replied. “That’s enough, isn’t it?”

  “Your standards are always… minimalistic.”

  John stubbed his cigarette into a nearby bin, then pulled out a folding chair and sat across from him.

  “Come here. Let me check your armor.”

  Z-69 remained still for a few seconds, then lifted his arm, allowing John to unfasten each plate and each strap one by one.

  The shoulder plate that had been slashed by Jin came off, revealing the pale flesh beneath—split in some parts, dark purple blood dried into a dark streak.

  “Hurt?” John asked, more out of habit than concern.

  “No… just a bit itchy.” Z-69 said.

  “Yeah, zombie body.” John muttered. “I keep forgetting.”

  He opened his toolbox and pulled out several metal plates he had already pre-shaped.

  Some were welded from drone armor scraps, others had faint engraved circuitry lines.

  John’s mechanical hand worked fast, clean, precise—so skilled he seemed to be assembling a robot rather than repairing gear for a person.

  Outside in the hallway, heavy metal footsteps of patrol robots echoed—a steady rhythm like a programmed heartbeat.

  On the wall, the holo-screen lit up on its own, switching to the next ongoing fight.

  “Look.” John said, jerking his chin at the screen. “This is when I play free analyst for you.”

  Z-69 raised his head.

  The screen showed another corner of the main arena.

  The battlefield had shifted: now it resembled a ruined container port, with steel cargo boxes stacked as high as a man’s head, forming a cramped maze.

  Electric fences surrounded the perimeter.

  The crowd on the stands still screamed like lunatics.

  The opponent’s name appeared:

  ASHEN – CYBERNETIC ASSASSIN, RANK B-.

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  “That’s Ashen?” Z-69 asked.

  “Not your match.” John replied. “Yours is later. But right now…”

  He pressed a button on the controller.

  The screen switched, flipping rapidly through different matches until it stopped on one line:

  MATCH #12 – TEN VS. G-RAX

  The first name made Z-69 narrow his eyes slightly.

  He remembered the messy-haired kid—the one whose eyes were always filled with fear but still tried to look forward in that laser tunnel.

  The camera zoomed onto the battlefield.

  This time, the terrain was a simple circular yard surrounded by upright metal pillars—like a crude, primitive training ground.

  No flashy effects, no ruined factories, no deserts—just a brutal, bare patch of metal ground.

  On one side stood G-Rax—a massive brute covered in heavy armor plating, large mechanical gauntlets powered by pistons.

  Every step he took onto the arena floor echoed like a hammer slamming onto an anvil.

  On the other side stood Ten.

  He had no armor.

  No weapons.

  Just a torn jacket and a pair of shoes that looked ready to fall apart.

  His hands were clenched and hanging at his sides—not exactly in a good stance, but his eyes…

  Wide open.

  Focused.

  Unblinking.

  The stands roared:

  “The kid from the lower floors!!”

  “Let’s see how long he lasts!!”

  “Bets! Ten seconds!! Place your bets!!”

  G-Rax slammed his fists together, pistons hissing, hot air puffing from the joints.

  “You sure you signed up for the right arena, kid?” he shouted, voice booming.

  Ten didn’t respond.

  He inhaled deeply—then relaxed his shoulders.

  His gaze shifted—not at G-Rax’s eyes, but at something around the brute.

  Z-69 tilted his head slightly.

  “What’s he doing?” Lumina asked, her psychic voice groggy but curious.

  “Listening.” John replied. “Not with ears. With… a different kind of sense.”

  The starting horn blared.

  G-Rax charged forward, mechanical fist swinging straight at Ten’s head.

  One punch.

  Enough to crush a regular skull.

  In that exact moment—Ten leaned slightly sideways, stepping back half a pace.

  The punch brushed past him so close it blew his hair backward.

  The floor behind him cracked from the force.

  The crowd gasped.

  “What?!”

  “Look at him dodge!!”

  “This kid’s got some moves like that white-haired freak earlier!!”

  G-Rax roared and threw a barrage of punches—three in a row.

  Ten didn’t block.

  He weaved, ducked, shifted, slipped past each strike with short steps and small torso twists.

  Every time the fist passed him, he was exactly in the spot where the force wasn’t.

  “Airflow sensing.” John muttered, eyes fixed on the screen. “People like him… were rare on the old battlefields.”

  Z-69 watched more carefully.

  Ten wasn’t looking into his opponent’s eyes.

  He was looking around him—as if seeing air currents, movement vectors, and unseen distortions.

  Every breath G-Rax took, every shift of his shoulder, every time the pistons compressed—they created small pressure changes in the air.

  Ten reacted before the actual punch came.

  To the untrained eye, it looked like luck.

  G-Rax grew angrier.

  “STAND STILL AND LET ME HIT YOU, YOU RAT!!”

  Another punch.

  Ten slipped beneath it.

  His knee touched the ground as he spun, the blow smashing into the metal floor and sending shards flying.

  Lumina even sat up a little.

  “I’ll admit it… the kid dodges beautifully.”

  “Yes.” Z-69 said. “But dodging alone doesn’t win.”

  He was right.

  Ten dodged well—but he couldn’t land a real hit.

  A few times he tried to rush in and punch, but his blows bounced off G-Rax’s armor like tapping a steel wall.

  He had to use all his strength just to retreat before being countered.

  The fight dragged on.

  G-Rax’s armor steamed, his breath loud, but his power remained monstrous.

  Ten was the opposite.

  No armor.

  No offensive abilities.

  His body began to falter.

  One punch—slightly slower than before—Ten still dodged.

  But his leg froze halfway, like cramping.

  He moved one step slower.

  G-Rax noticed instantly.

  “GOT YOU!!”

  A massive punch smashed into Ten’s chest.

  The sound echoed like a thin metal sheet being crushed by a truck.

  Ten flew backward, slammed into one of the metal pillars.

  The pillar shook violently.

  He slid down, head dropping, hand clutching his chest as he coughed out a mouthful of bright red blood onto the floor.

  The stands cheered wildly.

  “YES!!”

  “That’s what we wanna see!!”

  Z-69 leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees.

  Lumina dug her claws lightly into his pants, ears rigid.

  Ten tried to stand.

  His head swayed, vision blurry, breaths heavy.

  But his feet kept searching for balance on the floor.

  He pushed against the pillar, trembling, trying to rise.

  G-Rax approached, each step a thunderous stomp.

  “You did good enough.” he rumbled. “Just stay down, kid.”

  Ten lifted his head.

  His eyes were bloodshot—not from rage, but from refusing to fall.

  “…I… still…” he murmured, voice broken. “…I can still… stand… up…”

  He pushed off from the pillar, taking another step toward G-Rax.

  The movement was so weak that even a breeze might knock him down—but he pushed anyway.

  Z-69 tilted his head.

  Something in the scene felt… familiar.

  Like a distant memory burning through fog—a figure standing alone among monsters, taking one more step even after being torn apart.

  G-Rax exhaled heavily, irritated.

  “Stubborn… but it’s pointless.”

  The final punch came.

  Ten didn’t dodge.

  He tilted his head upward, looking at the artificial sky above—the fake lights that mimicked day.

  For a brief moment, his lips moved—a whisper, maybe an apology, maybe a curse, maybe a promise.

  Then the fist connected.

  The screen shook.

  Ten collapsed.

  Did not get up.

  The robot MC declared:

  “RESULT: CONTESTANT TEN – UNABLE TO CONTINUE.”

  “WINNER: G-RAX.”

  Medical robots rushed in, dragging Ten off the field like broken equipment.

  The crowd whistled, shouted, and immediately forgot him.

  Already placing bets on the next match.

  No one remembered his name for more than a few minutes.

  Inside the resting room, silence lingered.

  Lumina slowly sat up, hugging her tail.

  “That kid… he’s insane. He knew he would lose, but still charged in.”

  “That’s the rule.” John replied, tightening a bolt on Z-69’s armor. “On Level 10, the weak have only two choices: lie down and wait for death… or stand and get beaten unconscious. He just chose slower.”

  “You talk like a jerk.” Lumina growled.

  “I talk truth.” John said. “It’s not my job to make this world sound nicer.”

  Z-69 still stared at the holo-screen where Ten’s last moment faded.

  “He will die?” he asked.

  “No.” John said, pushing a wire back into the armor’s inner layer. “Battle for Ascension still needs ‘interesting’ contestants for later rounds. They’re not dumb enough to kill all the potential ones. The kid will wake up—hurt, disillusioned… and he’ll choose again.”

  “Choose?”

  “Choose to step back into the arena.” John shrugged. “Or choose to crawl in the shadows. But kids like him… don’t usually crawl.”

  Lumina rested her head on Z-69’s lap, letting out a telepathic sigh.

  “I don’t like this place.”

  “I don’t either.” Z-69 said. “But it’s a place we must fight through.”