Dirga meditated for twelve straight hours. Not a twitch. Not a breath wasted.
When he finally opened his eyes, the ceiling glowed dimly in the soft hue of dusk.
The sky outside was shifting—the great Eye of Hell transitioning from burning red to a soft, ominous blue. Night was descending.
He stood, muscles loose and mind razor-sharp.
Steam coiled around him as he stepped into the shower, letting the water wash off not just sweat but expectation.
He wasn’t anxious. He wasn’t nervous. He was sharpening himself—every breath a whetstone, every heartbeat the forge.
The Gemspire Ring had already pushed the fight announcement to every ID terminal across the city:
"Tonight’s Main Event: The One Punch Devil vs. The Mother"
Dirga read the title once and didn’t bother digging deeper.
Who—or what—The Mother was, didn’t matter.
He intended to end it in a single punch.
But gods, he hoped so.
By now, his identity was no longer a secret.
Dirgantara. The patron of the Black Joker.
A contender in the Hell Roulette—the greatest tournament across the multiverse.
The crowd was starving for a glimpse of the unknown.
And Dirga? He was a mystery.
While other candidates had reputations, histories, and documented feats, Dirga had appeared out of nowhere—a black star flaring into existence with no warning.
There was so little footage.
And that made the crowd ravenous.
By the time Dirga stepped into the Gemspire Ring’s grand arena, the stands were packed to the brim, shaking with anticipation.
Roars crashed like waves—a storm of sound.
Above, holograms of flames and spectral blades spun in the sky, painting the arena with chaotic light.
The air was thick—blood, metal, perfume, alcohol—a battlefield masquerading as a festival.
The ground pulsed beneath his boots. The entire structure trembled, not from danger... but from hunger.
He walked through the tunnel.
No theatrics. No entourage.
And still, they screamed.
All eyes locked onto him—
as if gravity itself had chosen a new center.
He’d show them what gravity looked like—
when it crushed gods and monsters alike.
"WELCOME! Welcome to tonight’s main event!"
The announcer’s voice boomed across the arena, amplified by magic-tech runes and arcane speakers.
"On one side—we have The Mother!
Vemier, the matriarch of the Black Widow Brood!"
A woman strutted forward in crimson silk, eyes sultry, lips stained dark.
But after just a few steps... her form began to shift.
Eight glossy black legs erupted from her back with a wet snap.
Dozens of obsidian eyes bloomed across her face.
Her lower half twisted into a grotesque arachnid mass—an enormous black widow in seductive flesh.
The crowd roared with a mix of fear and awe.
"And in the other corner! The challenger—or perhaps the one being challenged—
One of the mysterious contestants in the Hell Roulette Tournament—
The enigma himself... DIRGANTARAAAAA!!"
Dirga stepped onto the battlefield, unchanged in appearance—clad in black, aura coiled like a dying star.
But the silence around him was loud. Heavy. Unignorable.
His presence screamed potential.
"Let’s begin with the live betting!" the announcer barked.
Screens lit up around the arena, figures flickering, climbing rapidly.
Gold Devils flowed like rivers.
1,235,000 Gold Devils.
Seventy-five percent went to Vemier.
Only twenty-five percent dared to bet on Dirga.
The crowd didn’t believe.
They remembered his name, but not his weight.
They underestimated him.
They wouldn’t for long.
Before even entering the arena, Dirga had already begun.
His right hand—coated in black flame, the Black Star’s fire.
The Crimson Core wrapped both arms in bandage form, pressure thrumming beneath the skin like coiled thunder.
He just needed one thing.
"Alright! On my count—3... 2... 1—FIGHT!" the announcer bellowed.
Dirga’s mind accelerated.
In an instant, the bandages on his arms uncoiled—not to defend, but to bind.
They shot out, wrapping around Vemier like hungry serpents, locking her in place with telekinetic precision and gravity anchors on both sides. Her movements? Canceled. Options? Gone.
Dirga didn’t hesitate.
With a snap, he launched himself forward, telekinesis compressing and releasing like a cannon blast.
He crossed the gap in a blur—
And stopped abruptly in front of her, momentum gathered like a tidal wave.
All of it—velocity, telekinesis, gravity, and the burning Black Star flame—channeled into one point.
"Punch Style: Collapsing One Point."
The shockwave didn’t echo—it erased sound.
A sonic boom exploded outward, the sheer pressure turning air into screaming wind.
The front rows staggered.
Some screamed. Others bolted, shielding themselves as seats rattled, metal groaned, and holograms burst.
The center of the arena collapsed inward.
A ripple of gravitational force, like a miniature black hole, bloomed from Dirga’s strike.
The earth curled inward, swallowing light, air, and matter in a perfect sphere of implosion.
For three seconds, it seemed the arena would vanish.
The singularity collapsed in on itself, folding into silence.
Dirga landed a few meters away, breathing steadily. The fire around his arm crackled and faded.
The stadium was silent.
Not even the wind dared to move.
In the center of the ring—
Only a crater remained.
And within that crater?
Swallowed whole by the aftershock of Dirga’s punch—consumed by the singularity that had bloomed for a moment and died just as fast.
A murmur finally stirred in the crowd.
What kind of monster can erase a entity with one strike?
Up in the air, the betting screens froze.
The system stalled—unable to calculate what had just happened.
Dirga exhaled quietly, steam rising from his arms. The Black Fire still flickered in his veins.
His gaze swept over the arena, meeting the eyes of devils, warriors, spectators, and hidden killers.