The underground facility maintained its constant rhythm of violence, gambling, and barely contained chaos. The tournament continued its methodical progression through round one, two fights per day, each one bringing the bracket closer to completion.
Lucius had spent the day observing, cataloging, planning.
The mess hall during lunch hour was always crowded—fighters, guards, maintenance workers, all crammed into the large space that smelled perpetually of industrial cooking and disinfectant. Long metal tables filled the room, and a serving line ran along one wall where food was distributed with mechanical efficiency.
Behind that serving line stood Big Mama.
Nobody knew her real name. She'd been called Big Mama for so long that even she probably didn't remember what her parents had named her. She was a large woman—not fat, but solid, built like someone who'd spent decades doing hard physical labor. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical bun, and she wore a stained apron over simple work clothes. Her face carried the kind of no-nonsense expression that came from years of running a kitchen in impossible conditions.
She wasn't a fighter. Wasn't a NovaBreed. Just a woman who'd somehow ended up cooking for criminals and monsters in an underground death tournament, and she did her job with the grim efficiency of someone who'd learned long ago not to ask questions.
But today, Big Mama was angry.
"I'm telling you, this is getting OUT OF HAND!" Her voice carried across the mess hall as she slammed a large pot down on the counter. "Those damn rats got into the dry storage AGAIN last night! Chewed through three bags of rice, contaminated two boxes of pasta, and I found droppings in the flour!"
Several guards eating at a nearby table looked up. Marcus "Mack" Thompson set down his fork, attention shifting to the commotion.
"That's the third time this week," Big Mama continued, directing her complaints at anyone who would listen. "I run a CLEAN kitchen! Or at least I try to! But how am I supposed to keep things sanitary when rats are getting into EVERYTHING?!"
Harrington, sitting across from Mack, nodded. "We've been getting reports from all over. They're not just in the kitchen anymore."
"Damn right they're not!" Big Mama pointed her serving spoon like a weapon. "I saw three of them running along the wall in the corridor outside the storage area yesterday morning. Big ones too! Not the little field mice you sometimes see. These were proper sewer rats!"
At a table near the back corner, Lucius sat with his tray, eating methodically while listening to every word. His expression remained neutral, uninterested, but his attention was completely focused on the conversation.
A maintenance worker at another table chimed in, a thin man with grease stains on his coveralls. "It's not just the kitchen. I've been getting complaints from everywhere. Fighter quarters, guard stations, even the recreation room. Found rat droppings behind the vending machines yesterday."
"And they're chewing through electrical wiring!" another maintenance worker added, an older man with a weathered face. "Found damaged cables in three different locations this week. If this keeps up, we're going to have power issues."
Viktor Ivanov, one of the less pleasant guards, snorted from his table. "It's an underground facility built decades ago. What do you expect? Of course there are rats."
"We never had rat problems before," Harrington countered, his tone firm. "I've been working security here for three years. This place has always been relatively clean—well, as clean as you can expect for an underground facility. But this? This is new. Started maybe a week ago, and it's getting worse every day."
Mack rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "The scratching sounds in the walls that I mentioned a few days ago—I'm hearing them more frequently now. During patrols, during guard rotations. It's like they're everywhere."
"Because they ARE everywhere," Big Mama said. "And if we don't get exterminators down here soon, this is going to turn into a full infestation!"
"I filed a report two days ago," Harrington said. "Administration is supposed to be scheduling pest control. Should be here within the week."
"Within the week?" Big Mama's expression showed disbelief. "We need them NOW! Do you have any idea how unsanitary this is becoming? This is a health hazard!"
The conversation continued, various workers and guards sharing their own rat sightings and complaints. The consensus was clear—the rat problem had escalated from minor nuisance to genuine concern, and it was getting worse daily.
Lucius finished his meal, his face betraying nothing. Internally, he was satisfied. The timeline was progressing exactly as planned. The exterminators would arrive in about a week—which meant they'd likely show up during the final matches of round one.
Perfect timing.
He stood, deposited his tray, and made his way out of the mess hall. As he walked through the corridors, he passed the announcement board where upcoming matches were posted.
Fight 9: Davis Brown vs Darker - TODAY 1PM
Fight 10: Akira Kenji vs Lam Wing Yan - TODAY 4PM
Fight 11: Reaper vs Hawk Tomas - TOMORROW 1PM
Fight 12: Odd vs Son Tec - TOMORROW 4PM
Lucius studied the board for a moment, committing the schedule to memory, then continued to his quarters.
---
Fight 9 occurred that afternoon at 1 PM.
Lucius didn't attend. He'd already determined the match held no tactical value for him. Instead, he spent the time in his quarters, reviewing his mental notes and refining his plans.
The result came through the facility's announcement system later. Davis Brown had won. Clean finish, nothing remarkable.
---
Fight 10 occurred at 4 PM. Lucius attended this one, sitting in his usual position in the contestant viewing section—back row, corner seat, away from the general crowd.
Akira Kenji versus Lam Wing Yan. Both new fighters making their tournament debut.
The fight was competent but unremarkable. Akira won after a prolonged exchange, utilizing his abilities to wear down his opponent's defenses. The crowd reacted with moderate enthusiasm—not the bloodthirsty roar that came from truly spectacular violence, but enough energy to keep the betting interesting.
Lucius watched with his characteristic neutrality, analyzing fighting styles and tactical decision-making rather than focusing on the spectacle. When the fight ended, he left before the post-fight commentary finished.
---
The recreational room was empty when Lucius passed by it that evening. Most fighters were either in their quarters or watching replays of the day's fights on the monitors scattered throughout the facility.
Lucius paused at the doorway, glancing inside.
The room was a sad excuse for entertainment—a few worn couches, a struggling television that only got two channels, some vending machines, and a table with a chess set missing half its pieces. The television was currently on, displaying some grainy program with terrible picture quality.
He stepped inside, ostensibly to check what was playing, but his attention was on the television itself. It was old, probably hadn't been replaced in a decade. The casing was cracked in places, held together with tape in some spots.
But inside, there would be components. Circuit boards, transistors, wire, small pieces that could be repurposed.
The question was access. He couldn't just dismantle it in front of everyone. But if the television were to fail completely, if it stopped working entirely, maintenance would remove it. And if something happened during that removal process...
He studied the device for another moment, noting its construction, the access panels, the likely internal layout based on the model and age.
Then he left the room as quietly as he'd entered.
Information gathered. Plan forming.
---
That evening, after the 9 PM lights-out buzzer, the real work began.
Lucius lay on his bed in the darkness, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady. To anyone checking through the small window in his door, he appeared to be sleeping.
But his mind was completely active.
Throughout the facility, in the walls and pipes and ventilation shafts, dozens of small shapes moved silently through the darkness.
The rats.
Most of them remained within his normal zone—the roughly one-hundred-foot range where his hydrokinetic senses naturally extended. Within that space, he could feel every water molecule, every living thing, every subtle shift in humidity and temperature. The rats were easy to track, their small bodies rich with water content, creating distinct signatures that his mind processed automatically.
He didn't control them directly. Didn't need to. He simply observed their natural movements, noted which paths they took, what obstacles blocked their progress, how the facility's layout revealed itself through their wandering.
Mapping.
But some rats moved beyond that range. Far beyond, into areas of the facility that his senses couldn't naturally reach from his quarters. And yet, somehow, he could still feel them. Still sense through them.
Those were his remote scouts. The ones that mattered most.
Through them, Lucius explored areas of the facility that would have been otherwise inaccessible. Storage rooms far from the fighter quarters. Maintenance tunnels in distant sections. The pathways that led toward—but not into—the executive residential areas.
That section remained sealed. He'd confirmed it over the past two days. The executive areas were completely isolated from the rest of the facility's ventilation and plumbing systems. No rats could access them. No remote scouting was possible.
Which meant the boy—if he was being held in the executive section as Lucius suspected—would require a different approach. One that involved information gathering through human sources rather than direct reconnaissance.
But that was a problem for later.
Tonight's objective was simpler: component acquisition.
One of his remote scouts moved through a ventilation shaft above the maintenance area, following the path it had taken the previous night. The shaft opened into a larger junction, and the rat navigated down through a series of turns until it reached a vent that overlooked the storage shelves.
Below, in the darkness, were bins of spare parts. Wire, screws, small transistors, capacitors—the basic components that maintenance workers used for minor repairs throughout the facility.
The rat dropped down from the vent, landing silently on the concrete floor. It moved between the bins, following the path Lucius had mapped out during previous reconnaissance.
A coil of thin copper wire sat in one bin, partially unraveled. The rat gripped one end in its teeth and pulled, dragging a six-inch length free from the coil. Then it carried the wire back to the wall, up through a gap in the shelving, and into the ventilation shaft.
Slow work. Careful work.
Another rat was doing the same thing in a different location—a storage room near the recreational area where old electronics were kept before disposal. This rat was smaller, more agile, and it squeezed through a crack in the door frame to access the room.
Inside were shelves of discarded equipment. Broken tablets, old security radios, damaged communication devices—all marked for eventual disposal but currently just gathering dust.
The rat climbed the shelving and reached a partially disassembled security radio. Small screws and circuit components had been removed and left in a plastic tray nearby. The rat carefully extracted a tiny transistor from the tray—smaller than a grain of rice—and carried it back through the crack in the door.
This continued for hours.
Piece by piece, component by component, Lucius gathered what he needed. The rats moved with patient determination, never taking so much that the absence would be noticed, never moving fast enough to trigger attention.
By 2 AM, a small collection of materials had been transported through the ventilation system to a location near Lucius's quarters—a loose panel in the wall of a storage closet two doors down from his room. The panel was already damaged, probably had been for years, and it provided the perfect dead drop location.
Wire in various lengths. A handful of transistors and capacitors. Small screws and metal pieces. The basic building blocks of what he would eventually need to construct.
Not enough yet. But progress.
Around 3 AM, Lucius directed his attention to a different objective.
Guard patterns.
Morrison—the younger guard he'd identified as a potential source of information—was currently on shift near the fighter quarters. Lucius couldn't see him directly from his room, but through his senses, he could feel the man's presence in the corridor.
Morrison was restless tonight. He kept shifting his weight, kept glancing down the corridor toward the restricted areas.
Interesting.
The guard's shift would end at 4 AM, when the night crew took over. Lucius observed until then, noting the exact timing, the routine of the changeover, where Morrison went afterward.
The information was filed away. Not immediately useful, but part of the larger pattern he was building.
By 4:30 AM, Lucius allowed himself to rest. Not sleep—he'd trained himself to function on minimal rest when necessary—but a lighter state of awareness that let his mind process the night's information.
In a few hours, morning routine would begin. Another day of maintaining his cover, of being the mysterious fighter who'd brutalized Tact, of preparing for whatever came next.
But for now, in the darkness, surrounded by the sleeping facility, Lucius allowed himself a moment of cold satisfaction.
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
---
The next morning began with more complaints about the rats.
Big Mama's voice could be heard from the mess hall entrance before Lucius even entered. The woman was in rare form, her anger reaching new heights as she discovered fresh evidence of the infestation.
"They got into the MEAT storage!" she was shouting at a maintenance supervisor who looked like he desperately wanted to be anywhere else. "Do you understand what that means? The MEAT! We have to throw out thirty pounds of supplies because rats have been crawling all over it!"
Lucius collected his breakfast—some kind of scrambled eggs, toast, and what might have been sausage but he wasn't entirely certain—and found his usual corner table.
The maintenance supervisor was trying to calm Big Mama down. "The exterminators are scheduled to arrive in four days. We're doing everything we can."
"Four days," Big Mama repeated, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Four days while these vermin destroy my kitchen, contaminate the food supply, and spread disease throughout the facility. Wonderful. Just wonderful."
Other workers were chiming in with their own complaints. Rats in the guard stations. Rats in the storage areas. Rats chewing through electrical insulation in three different locations. The problem was escalating visibly, and the staff was reaching their breaking point.
Lucius ate his meal in silence, listening to every word, his expression neutral.
Across the mess hall, he noticed Liu Yan sitting with a few other fighters. The man glanced in Lucius's direction once, nodded in acknowledgment, then returned to his meal. Professional distance maintained.
Jacob "Blade" Wilson was also present, his right hand heavily bandaged from his loss to Iron Clad Wang. The fighter was eating awkwardly with his left hand, wincing occasionally but maintaining his composure.
The tournament was taking its toll. Every fight left its mark, whether in physical injuries or mental exhaustion.
Lucius finished his breakfast and left before the complaints about rats reached their next crescendo.
---
The morning passed quietly. Lucius spent time in his quarters, reviewing his mental notes, planning the next phase of his operation. The components he'd gathered were hidden, the reconnaissance data was organized, the guard patterns were mapped.
Around noon, he left his quarters and made his way through the facility. The corridors were busier than usual—fighters preparing for the day's matches, guards on their rotations, maintenance workers dealing with the ongoing rat crisis.
He passed the announcement board and paused.
Fight 11: Reaper vs Hawk Tomas - TODAY 1PM
Fight 12: Odd vs Son Tec - TODAY 4PM
Both fights scheduled for today. The tournament was accelerating, the bracket narrowing.
Lucius continued walking until he found what he was looking for.
---
One of the smaller training areas was occupied by a single fighter. Odd was working through conditioning exercises, his movements tense, his attention scattered.
Lucius entered without announcing himself. Odd noticed him after a moment and stopped, breathing heavily.
"Hey, King."
Lucius didn't waste time with pleasantries. "You're overthinking."
Odd blinked, then let out a weak laugh. "Yeah. Yeah, probably."
"Your fight's this afternoon," Lucius stated. "You don't know your opponent yet. Running scenarios in your head is pointless. You're just creating anxiety."
Odd wiped sweat from his forehead. "That's... yeah, that's pretty much what I've been doing."
"Focus on what you can control," Lucius continued. "Your conditioning, your technique, your awareness. Everything else is variable. Adaptability matters more than planning when you don't have complete information."
It was practical advice, delivered without emotion but with clear tactical thinking.
Odd nodded slowly, absorbing the words. "Right. Okay. I can do that."
"You'll be fine," Lucius said simply.
There was something in the way he said it—not reassurance exactly, but certainty. Like he'd made a decision and that decision determined reality.
Odd seemed to take comfort from that. His shoulders relaxed slightly, the tension in his posture easing.
"Thanks, man. Really."
Lucius nodded once and turned to leave. He'd said what needed to be said. Odd either would or wouldn't be able to handle his fight—Lucius couldn't control that.
But he could at least ensure the man went in with better mental preparation than blind panic.
---
Fight 11 was scheduled for 1 PM.
Lucius attended, taking his usual position in the contestant viewing section—back row, corner seat, away from the general crowd. He'd placed a bet on this match through Seung—a calculated wager based on his observations and analysis.
Reaper versus Hawk Tomas.
Both were returning fighters. Reaper had competed in previous tournaments, building a reputation in underground circuits. Hawk Tomas was one of Tact's associates—the tall, lean fighter with bird-like features who'd been following the now-hospitalized veteran around before his fight with Lucius.
The arena filled quickly. There was more energy for this fight than some of the earlier matches—returning fighters always drew bigger crowds because people knew what to expect, knew what they were betting on.
Jamal "The Voice" Johnson's commentary boomed through the arena. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Fight Eleven of Round One! Two returning competitors ready to tear each other apart for your entertainment!"
Haurang "The Analyst" Brown provided his usual calmer counterpoint. "Both fighters have shown their capabilities in previous appearances. This should be an interesting tactical matchup."
The two fighters stood at opposite ends of the arena. Tension built as the crowd's noise reached a crescendo.
Then Jamal's voice cut through the chaos: "FIGHT!"
The match began.
Lucius watched with focused attention, not for entertainment, but for data. Fighting styles, decision-making under pressure, how abilities were deployed, what strategies succeeded or failed.
The fight developed into a brutal exchange. Both fighters were experienced enough to avoid stupid mistakes, skilled enough to make the combat interesting. The crowd roared at particularly impressive moments, groaned at near-misses, shouted encouragement or curses depending on their betting positions.
Reaper won. Clean finish, Hawk is no more.
The crowd reacted appropriately. Bets were settled. Money changed hands.
Lucius's bet had paid off. Seung would be pleased with the results.
As the arena was cleared for the next fight, Lucius remained seated. Fight 12 was scheduled for 4 PM—just a few hours from now.
Around him, fighters began filtering out of the viewing section, heading to the mess hall for a late lunch, returning to their quarters to rest, discussing the fight they'd just witnessed.
Lucius stayed where he was, his mind shifting through calculations and contingencies.
The components were gathered. The timing was set. The guard patterns were mapped.
In a few hours, during the chaos and distraction of the next match, he would make his move.
Everything was proceeding according to plan.
---
TO BE CONTINUED