Dani never stood a chance.
That was the truth of it. She was good—quick, fluid, deceptive—but Vera Duvall was something else entirely. Dani had realized it too late. And by then, it didn't matter.
And Vera had kept going.
The crowd roared, but I barely heard it. My eyes were on Dani's still form. Vera had finally released her, letting her collapse onto her hands, her body convulsing slightly before she slumped forward, unconscious. Foam dribbled from her lips, her breathing shallow.
Her team moved fast. Not to stop the fight—no one had dared to interfere. They had simply waited, motionless, as Vera squeezed the life out of their fighter. And only once Vera turned and walked away did they rush in, one of them immediately pressing down on Dani's chest, another forcing back her lips to ensure she didn't choke on her own spit.
They knew this would happen. They expected it.
And worse, they accepted it.
I glanced around the arena. The spectators weren't horrified. If anything, they were entertained. To them, this wasn't some brutal, unforgivable display. It was sport. I caught Vincent Giovanni's expression—mild amusement, nothing more. This was a man who had seen worse. A man who had ordered worse.
The brutality of the fight hit me harder than I expected. Watching someone nearly die in front of me, their body crumpled and their breath ragged, made the air in the arena feel heavier. I could feel the weight of the moment pressing against my chest, but I didn't dare to let my face betray any of it. If I showed weakness now, I'd never survive this place. But inside, it was different. How many times would I have to watch people nearly kill each other before I became numb to it?
My eyes flicked to my team—Sienna's clenched fists, Camille's tense posture, Alexis's narrowed gaze. It was the same for all of us. The violence here wasn't just physical; it was psychological. Dani's fight had ended, but the scars, the fear of what would happen next, lingered in the air. Each match was another step closer to losing part of ourselves. Did I belong here, witnessing this? Did I even have a choice anymore?
Because tapping out wasn't the smart option either.
This wasn't a professional tournament. These fighters represented their respective mafia families. Surrender wasn't just shameful—it was outright dangerous. A fighter who gave up might not even make it back to their hotel room alive. If Dani woke up, she wouldn't just be dealing with injuries. She'd be dealing with whatever 'consequences' her family deemed appropriate for humiliating them.
I swallowed hard, forcing my expression to remain neutral.
The next match was about to begin. And I had a feeling this one would be worse.
Kane "The Bull"Morrow vs Stryker "The Juggernaut" Voss
The pit was cleared, the blood smeared into the dirt like an afterthought. The announcer called their names, and two figures stepped forward.
Stryker "The Juggernaut" Voss was a massive powerhouse. His enormous stature made him appear as if he could absorb a shotgun blast to the chest and continue walking. He moved his shoulders, muscles shifting under his skin, and I could tell he was intentionally flexing, allowing everyone to witness the immense strength he possessed. He popped his knuckles, stared directly at me, and smiled.
"I can't wait to fight a member of the Syndicate after this!"
I said nothing. He wasn't my opponent. But that confidence—it wasn't baseless.
Opposite him, Kane "The Bull" Morrow was a monster of a different breed. He was just as large, but his presence was heavier, more oppressive. His arms were covered in thick black tattoos, not inked but burned into his skin like brands. His reputation preceded him.
Unrelenting. Merciless.
Name: Kane "The Bull" Morrow
Job: Wrestler (A-Rank)
Relentless Assault (Lv. 8) – As the fight progresses, the fighter's relentless pace and unyielding pressure break down the opponent's defenses, making each attack harder to avoid or counter.
Berserker's Endurance (Lv. 7) – Allows the fighter to fight through severe pain and injuries, maintaining focus and reaction speed despite physical setbacks.
Crushing Grip (Lv. 7) – Enhances the fighter's ability to manipulate and control objects with hands, capable of securing a bone-crushing hold or immobilizing opponents with precise control.
Death Charge (Lv. 6) – A full-speed rush that strategically uses the fighter's momentum to overwhelm defenses, creating a focused impact that drives through resistance.
Name: Stryker "The Juggernaut" Voss
Job: Strongman (A-Rank)
Ironhide (Lv. 8) – Significantly enhances durability, allowing the body to withstand powerful impacts with minimal damage.
Shock Absorption (Lv. 7) – Efficiently disperses kinetic force upon impact, reducing the damage taken from strikes and collisions.
Overwhelming Force (Lv. 6) – Leverages momentum and technique to maximize impact, making each strike land with devastating efficiency.
Endless Stamina (Lv. 6) – Greatly boosts endurance, delaying fatigue and enabling sustained peak performance in extended battles.
My stomach tightened.
Stryker could take damage better than anyone. But Kane... Kane wasn't the type to stop.
Stryker moved first, coming in with a heavy, deliberate stride. His entire body language screamed that he wasn't worried. He met Kane head-on, fists raised, ready to absorb whatever came next.
Kane didn't hesitate.
He lunged forward with terrifying speed, his boots slamming against the dirt as he closed the gap in an instant. His fist shot out—a brutal, downward hammer strike.
Stryker raised his arm, blocking it.
The sound was sickening. Flesh against flesh, muscle against bone, a dull crack that reverberated through the arena. Stryker didn't move. His Ironhide skill absorbed the impact, his arm barely budging.
Then he hit him again. And again. And again.
Each strike landed with monstrous force, sending tremors through the pit. Stryker stood firm, his defenses holding, but I could see it—the subtle shifts in his posture, the slight waver in his stance. Shock Absorption was dulling the hits, but Kane's Relentless Assault was getting stronger.
A sharp hook crashed into Stryker's ribs. Then another. Then another.
And finally, Kane dropped his stance and lunged.
Stryker barely had time to react before Kane's entire body slammed into him, like a runaway train hitting a brick wall.
Stryker's feet lifted off the ground.
His massive frame crashed into the pit's edge, the impact splitting the concrete with a resounding crack. Dust erupted into the air. The entire arena seemed to pause for a fraction of a second.
Then Kane was on him.
A fist drove into Stryker's stomach, folding his body. Another. Another. Another. Each blow landed with the force of a wrecking ball. Stryker tried to move, but Kane grabbed his arm—
I heard it before I saw it.
A wet, visceral snap.
Stryker howled. His forearm bent at an angle it wasn't meant to. His free hand swung wildly, desperate, but Kane caught it, twisting his entire body.
With a final, merciless jerk—
Kane ripped Stryker's arm from its socket.
Blood gushed in a horrifying arc. The crowd erupted, half in exhilaration, half in shock. Stryker's scream was lost in the noise, but his body told the story. His legs twitched, his face contorted in agony. His chest rose and fell erratically, but I could see it in his eyes.
He wasn't making it out of here alive.
Stryker's destiny was determined the instant Kane wrenched his arm from its joint. However, it wasn't solely the terror of the deed that unsettled me—it was the stillness that ensued. There was no shout for compassion, no request for assistance. Stryker's yell had been engulfed by the crowd's overwhelming noise, and his eyes—those eyes—were imbued with something much more frightening than pain. It was the harsh acknowledgment that he couldn't escape this. Not only from the battle, but from his very existence. He had already passed away. His body convulsed and spasmed, a horrific representation of a man's last battle, yet there was nothing remaining to contest.
At that moment, I recognized the pointlessness of everything—the harsh conclusiveness of the tournament. Stryker wasn't merely a victim; he served as a reminder of the consequences of defeat in this world. When you were vulnerable, when you couldn't endure the harshness of it all, you turned into a victim, an overlooked piece in a scheme much larger than yourself. Nobody stepped in to assist him; no one displayed even a hint of concern. They just continued on. It was more than merely a battle. It was a death sentence.
Kane exhaled, rolling his shoulders. He turned away from the wreckage that was Stryker, tossing the severed limb aside like discarded meat.
"Winner— Kane "The Bull" Morrow!"
No one moved to help Stryker.
And in this tournament...
That meant he was already dead.