The huge arena was humming.
The stands rose up in tiers, reaching toward the ceiling, where old concrete beams and rusty girders disappeared into the twilight. There were hundreds of thousands of people here. They were shouting, whistling, stamping their feet, and this noise rolled in waves, like a storm surf crashing against cliffs. The air trembled from the low bass of music blasting from speakers embedded in the walls. The smell of popcorn, cheap beer, and other people's sweat mixed into one thick, heavy cocktail.
September.
Summer was over.
It was 2024.
On the upper tier of the stands, right by the railing, stood five people. Pardon, in a black shirt with an open collar, was holding a bottle of water but wasn't drinking, just looking down. Takamura, next to him, in a dark jacket, hair tied in a low bun, glasses gleaming in the light of the spotlights. Sua, craning his long neck like a heron, his huge eyes darting across the arena, missing nothing. Miyuki, arms crossed over her chest, lips pressed into a thin line, a slight wrinkle of tension on her forehead. Mika, standing slightly behind everyone, hugging herself, even though it was hot in the hall.
- Look, Sua said, pointing a finger down. Look, look. He's coming out.
Genzo came out of the right corner.
The arena exploded. Not just with shouts, but with a real roar that made your ears ring. Thousands of throats screamed his name, mixing it with other words, rough, unintelligible, full of anger and delight.
Genzo walked slowly. He could feel the floor vibrating under his feet. The concrete was cold even through his soles. The spotlights shone in his face, and he squinted but didn't lower his head. Over these two months, he had prepared. He walked in light fighting shorts and a stretched-out T-shirt, from under which scars and bruises were visible, old, healed, like a map of wars on his body.
His gripping strength had reached six tons.
Six tons put into his fingers, into his palms, into every movement. He hadn't tested it on machines; he tested it on bones. On those who came out against him in dark basements and abandoned warehouses. Six tons meant he could break an arm like a dry twig. Could tear a chunk out of a concrete wall if he wanted to. Could strangle a man with one movement.
He put in his mouthguard.
White plastic, cheap, bought at a sports store for a thousand yen. He bit down on it a couple of times, checking if it fit tightly. His bite had also become stronger, another gift from training.
Anton Kabov came out of the left corner.
He was taller than Genzo, by half a head, maybe a full head. Shoulders like concrete blocks. Neck, short, thick, almost merging with his trapezius muscles. Face, rough, with prominent cheekbones and deep scars above his eyebrows. He wasn't smiling. At all. He walked the way a lumberjack walks toward a tree that needs to be cut down.
He wore only shorts and wraps on his fists. No T-shirt, no jersey. His torso was covered in tattoos. Something church-like, domes, crosses, and between them, skulls. Symbols of faith and death, intertwined into one tangle.
He didn't come out alone. Behind him, three others. Also Russians, but smaller, on the sides, like bodyguards or just his people. Anton didn't notice them. Or pretended not to.
As he walked toward the ring, not the ring, the cage, a huge octagonal cage with a metal mesh, a girl was in his path. She was standing by the edge, looking at someone in the crowd, not seeing what was happening. Anton didn't slow down. Didn't go around.
He just pushed her.
Sharply, roughly, with his shoulder.
The girl flew to the side, flailed her arms, lost her balance, and fell. Right into the dust that had gathered on the concrete floor by the edge of the stands. Her knees were bloody, scraped, scratched. Someone helped her up, but no one shouted. No one objected. Because everyone saw who did it. And everyone was silent.
- Get out of the way, woman, Anton threw over his shoulder, not even looking.
His voice was low, guttural, like a bear that had learned to speak.
Pardon up above chuckled. Shook his head. Turned to Takamura.
- See that?
- Saw it, Takamura replied. Her voice was steady, but a chill appeared in it.
- He won't stand on ceremony, Pardon said. He didn't come for sport.
- None of them came for sport, Takamura replied.
They exchanged glances. Takamura nodded slightly. Agreed. Without words, just a slight movement of her head, which was enough.
Down below, in the cage, Genzo was looking at his hands. He opened his fingers, then clenched them. Then opened them again. His knuckles turned white. Six tons. Six tons that would now decide whether he returned home on his own feet or was carried out.
Anton entered the cage. The metal door clanked, dully, heavily, like a coffin lid. He stopped opposite Genzo. Looked down at him. And smirked.
- You, he said.
His accent was thick, like molasses. The words enveloped you like oil.
- Why did you come?
Genzo raised his head. Looked into his eyes, dark, almost black, without a sparkle.
- To fight, Genzo answered shortly.
- To fight? Anton bared his teeth. Large, yellow, one broken. You don't know how to fight. You only know how not to fall. Those are different things.
- We'll see.
- We'll see, Anton agreed. Just don't cry later. Mommy won't come.
Genzo said nothing. Only clenched his jaw on the mouthguard a little tighter.
The referee raised her hand. Shouted something, impossible to make out over the noise. But Genzo and Anton didn't need words. They looked at each other like two cars standing at an intersection before a collision.
The referee looked at the two of them, she stood in the middle, and they were truly huge.
- Fight! the referee yelled.
And the white light hit their eyes.
The first seconds are like the first breath underwater. Lungs burn, blood pounds in your temples, and you don't know if you'll make it to the surface.
Anton moved forward immediately. No probing, no jabs, just power right away. A right hook, like a sledgehammer, on an arc toward the head. Genzo moved away, not by much, just centimeters, but he moved away. The air whistled past his temple, his hair stirred.
First strike.
Second, with the left.
Third, again with the right, this time to the body.
Genzo took it on his shoulder. His shoulder went numb but didn't break. Six tons. He could take it. But Anton wasn't hitting with six tons. He was hitting harder. More powerfully. With the force that doesn't come from muscles, but from rage accumulated over years in frozen cities, in bar fights, in prison gyms where there are no rules.
The referee tried to step closer and immediately jumped back. Anton swung an elbow, and the referee had to duck to avoid getting hit in the face. He understood. He didn't want to anymore. He stayed in the corner and just watched.
The fight turned into something else. Not a sport. Not a competition. Just two bodies that wanted to destroy each other.
Genzo switched to defense. Anton chopped like an axe. But an axe doesn't know how to change trajectory. Genzo dodged, ducked, slid. He used techniques Anton hadn't seen, hip throws, sweeps, grips that came from wrestling, from judo, from street fights.
He caught Anton's arm, the left one, when he was winding up. His fingers dug into the forearm. Anton jerked but didn't break free. Genzo spun him, yanking, using his own weight, his own inertia. Anton staggered, hit the mesh with his shoulder. The mesh hummed like a string.
Anton got angry.
He pushed off the mesh and went berserk. Strikes rained down like hail, left, right, left, right, without breathing, without pauses. Genzo covered up with a block, but each strike penetrated the defense. His arms went numb. His elbows burned. One strike landed on his body, and Genzo doubled over, spat out his mouthguard, but managed to catch it in mid-air and put it back in.
Blood in his mouth.
He struck back.
A straight left to the jaw. Anton shook his head but didn't fall. Just smirked. Genzo added a right to the liver. Anton bent over but didn't squeal. He was like an old pine tree: branches break, but the trunk stands.
Genzo stood on one hand.
His fingers dug into the ground. His other hand behind his back, legs together, body like a string. He froze for a second. Then pushed off.
The shockwave scattered dust to the sides, beer mugs cracked, metal frames began to creak. The ground on the arena floor shook a little. At that same moment, his legs shot back, whipping, fast, precise. Both soles slammed into Anton's solar plexus.
Anton had no time to inhale or recoil. The air was knocked out of his lungs with a dull sound. Anton was thrown back several steps, he doubled over, gasping emptiness with his mouth.
Genzo dropped back to his feet. Straightened up.
- That's it, Genzo said.
Anton exhaled. Hoarsely. Through his teeth.
-…good, he forced out. You convinced me.
Pardon behind him let out a low whistle.
They exchanged strikes like players exchanging cards, fast, greedy, without hesitation. Genzo used his knees, twice to Anton's thigh, once to his stomach. Anton answered with an elbow to the back of the head, Genzo ducked under, but the back of his head still throbbed.
Three minutes.
Five.
Seven.
The referee wasn't looking at the time anymore. The spectators weren't sitting anymore, they were standing, screaming, banging on their seats.
Genzo didn't feel pain or fatigue. Each of Anton's strikes was like a bag of cement dropped from a height. Genzo held on with technique, he read Anton's trajectory, took him to the ground, he grabbed Anton's arms, he tried to choke him, but Anton just got up, shook him off like an annoying fly.
They flew apart from each other, collided again, circled the cage, leaving spots of sweat and blood on the floor. Genzo smashed Anton in the nose, it crunched, blood ran down his lips, but Anton didn't even blink. He poked Genzo in the eyes with his fingers, dirty, illegal, but the referee was no longer managing the fight.
Genzo was blind for a second and missed the hook from the right.
The strike landed on his temple.
The ground swayed.
Genzo fell to one knee but got up. Because he couldn't not get up. Not here. Not now.
Anton looked at him. Blood was soaking his T-shirt, Genzo had managed to cut his eyebrow with an elbow. Anton looked tired. For the first time.
- You're still standing, he said.
- I'm standing, Genzo exhaled.
- Why?
- The dog barks, but the caravan moves on.
The judges deliberated for a long time. Three minutes, maybe four. Genzo stood in his corner, leaning on the mesh. Anton in his, a towel thrown over his shoulder.
When the draw was announced, the stands exploded.
But not with applause.
They roared.
Thousands of throats demanded a winner. Demanded blood. Someone threw an empty bottle at the cage. Someone a lighter. A second later, chairs, plastic cups, and food wrappers flew.
A man in a tracksuit jumped onto the mesh and started pounding it with his fists, looking at Genzo.
- You didn't fight, you pathetic devil.
Genzo was silent.
Another fan, closer to Anton, was shouting in Russian, cursing, waving his arms. Someone behind him smashed a bottle on someone's seat. Glass shattered into shards, someone screamed.
The riot didn't start from one moment; it ripened in the air like a thunderstorm, and now it broke through. People came down from the stands, jumped over the barriers, ran toward the cage. They coalesced into groups that turned into a crowd.
Some were for Genzo. Some were against. But it no longer made a difference. The only thing that mattered was that they needed to fight.
Genzo pushed off the mesh when the first man climbed into the cage through the bottom bar. Genzo didn't think. He just grabbed him by the collar, yanked him toward himself, and headbutted him, forehead to forehead. The man flew back like a ragdoll, sprawling on the floor.
The second one, climbing over the top, like a monkey. Genzo caught him by the leg, pulled, and the man fell, hitting the back of his head on the metal threshold. He didn't move.
Genzo met the third one with a knee to the stomach. He doubled over, and Genzo threw him aside like a bag of trash.
The fourth, a big guy with a shaved head, swung a chair. Genzo ducked, the chair flew past, crashing into the mesh. Genzo straightened up, grabbed the man by the waist, spun him over his hip, and he flew into the crowd, taking out two more.
Anton, meanwhile, was fending off three. He worked with his elbows. One of the attackers fell with a split eyebrow, the second grabbed his arm, Anton hyperextended his elbow. The third backed away on his own.
But the crowd didn't calm down. It rolled in waves, like the sea, like a tide that cannot be stopped.
Genzo retreated to the barrier behind which was the passageway. His back hit the fence, a tall metal grate separating the fighting zone from the service areas. Someone from the crowd pulled out a chain. Not a toy, a real, heavy one. It whistled through the air. Genzo managed to move, the chain slammed into the grate, striking sparks.
He caught the hand holding the chain. Pulled. The guy holding the chain flew forward, and Genzo caught him by the top of the head. A spin, and that guy's head slammed with force into the concrete floor. A dull sound, like a watermelon smashing. The guy went quiet.
Genzo looked at Anton.
Anton looked at him.
Their eyes met across the entire cage, across the milling people, across the shouts, curses, fighting.
Anton nodded.
Genzo nodded back.
Then he turned and ran. Not out of fear, out of tactics. He dove into the service passage, slipped under the tape that had already been torn down, and disappeared into the darkness of the corridor.
Anton stayed.
But not to fight. He wiped his face with the edge of his T-shirt, spat out blood, and slowly walked toward the opposite exit. Those who tried to stop him simply stepped aside.
Already in the corridor, in the silence, Genzo stopped. His hands were shaking. From the adrenaline boiling in his blood. He leaned his back against the cold wall, closed his eyes for a second.
- Oh-ho-ho.
He opened his eyes.
Anton was standing two steps away. His face was covered in blood, not only his own but others'. He was breathing heavily, but his eyes looked calm.
- How are you doing there? Anton said.
- Seems fine, Genzo answered.
Anton took a step forward. Genzo tensed, but Anton didn't strike. He just patted him on the back. Heavily. Paternally.
- Not bad. I give you credit.
Genzo didn't answer.
-I thought you'd fall in the third minute, Anton continued. You didn't fall. That's good. I respect guys like that. Even if they lose.
- This day isn't ours, Genzo said.
- In life, there are no draws, Anton grinned. Someone always loses. Today, the audience lost. We both won. With money? No. With respect. And that's more valuable.
He turned away, took a step, then stopped.
- If you want a real fight, come to us. There are no judges there. And no mesh. Just snow and a cage welded together by hand.
- I'll think about it, Genzo said.
- Think fast. Time isn't your friend.
Anton left. His footsteps faded down the corridor.
Genzo exhaled. Spat out blood, it was still coming, the taste of iron.
From above, from the stands, shouts still drifted down. The riot wasn't subsiding. But Genzo no longer heard them. He only heard his own heart, finally slowing its race.
Up above, by the railing, Pardon grabbed Takamura's arm.
- We're leaving, he said.
Takamura didn't argue.
They ran.
Sua, in front of everyone, his long legs flashing like spokes on a wheel. Miyuki, behind him, teeth clenched, not falling behind. Mika, almost next to Pardon, her face white, but she didn't scream.
Behind their backs, the stands were turning into a pandemic. People were fighting, smashing chairs, breaking signs. Some tried to get out up top, some jumped down. The arena hummed like a disturbed beehive that wouldn't calm down until morning.
They ran outside.
The night was cool, September-like. Stars, pale, almost invisible because of the city lights. Pardon stopped, bent over, hands on his knees, breathing heavily.
- Hell, he exhaled. Hell, hell, hell.
Takamura was looking at the door they had run out of. Inside, people were still shouting.
- He'll come out, she said. Genzo will come out.
- Are you sure? Sua asked, his voice trembling.
- Yes, Takamura replied. Because he doesn't know how to stay in one place, our restless one, that fool.
Mika was silent. But her eyes were full of something that couldn't be called fear. Rather, expectation.
The door creaked.
Out of the shadows stepped Genzo. In a torn T-shirt, dirty, with dried blood on his lip and cheekbone. But walking. On his own feet.
- Alive, he said hoarsely.
Pardon straightened up, slapped him on the shoulder, gently, as if afraid of breaking him.
- Did you see what's going on in there? We barely made it out.
- I saw it, Genzo grinned crookedly. I was the one carrying them out.
Sua exhaled in relief, grabbed Genzo's hand, and squeezed it tightly, painfully.
- Don't ever do that again, he said. Never. I'm scared for you.
Genzo looked at him. At Pardon. At Mika and Miyuki. At Takamura, who was already lighting a cigarette. Although she never did that in front of him.
- A draw, Genzo said. I didn't lose.
- You didn't lose, Takamura agreed. But you didn't win either. And sometimes that's worse.
They walked away from the arena.
Behind their backs, the city that never sleeps was roaring. Morning came, overcast, gray.
Genzo walked out of that very hospital.
The door slammed shut behind him. He looked at his shoes, dark once, now with dark stains. Blood. Whose, he remembered. And it didn't matter anymore.
He lifted his leg and wiped the sole with his hand.
He inhaled the spring air.