The air within the underworld compound felt denser than usual. A hush loomed over the massive coliseum grounds as the elimination round loomed only hours away. Outside the main arena, tucked within the secluded training quarters reserved for elite participants, the sharp thud of impact rang out again and again—flesh, power, and precision slamming into reinforced metal.
Renji stood in front of a battered combat dummy, his bare fists laced with faint trails of energy, a sheen of sweat running down his face. His shirt was discarded, revealing a lean but tightly coiled musculature honed through survival, not aesthetics. His eyes held a wild sharpness—one foot in discipline, the other inching closer to something unhinged. Each strike reverberated like thunder.
He wasn't just training. He was trying to remember who he was… or perhaps forget what he was becoming.
"I figured I'd find you here," a familiar voice called out smoothly.
Renji paused mid-swing. Elyra emerged from the shadows of the archway, clad in a sleek obsidian outfit that accentuated her agile frame, the silver strands of her hair catching the flickering training lights like knives of moonlight. Her expression was unreadable—calm, focused, but with an almost playful curiosity hidden in the edges of her eyes.
"Couldn't sleep?" Renji asked, grabbing a towel and wiping his face.
"I don't sleep much," she replied with a sly smile. "Not before something this important. I thought I'd offer you a real warm-up."
Renji blinked. "You want to spar?"
Without another word, Elyra stepped onto the training platform, stretching her shoulders with a nonchalant grace. Renji had seen her move before—fluid and calculated—but never in combat.
They circled each other like two opposing storms sensing pressure.
Renji launched the first attack, a controlled lunge, just enough to test her defense. Elyra dodged with a sidestep so precise, it felt premeditated. Her counter-strike was quick—a palm thrust aimed at his ribs. He blocked it, but felt the force behind it.
She's holding back, he thought.
He increased speed, mixing in feints and shifting his weight unpredictably. Elyra adapted, not with brute strength, but with an eerily perfect read on his rhythm. She moved like someone who had trained for a thousand lifetimes—or was born to fight.
Sweat formed again on Renji's brow, not from exertion, but confusion. This aura… I've felt it before. During that moment in the alley… when she first appeared.
He feinted left and exploded right, this time letting his mutated strength surge. A single punch cracked the reinforced wall behind her—but she had already ducked beneath it, delivering a sweep that almost took him off balance. She didn't land it—but she could have.
Their bodies clashed again—fists, forearms, shadows—and then separated.
Renji's breath was heavy, eyes narrowed. "Who… are you really?"
Elyra tilted her head, amused. "You'll find out eventually. For now, just know that I'm on your side."
Renji's fists trembled—not from fear, but anticipation. So there are others like me… or maybe not quite.
He surged forward again, dialing up his speed to his combat limit. His arms blurred, his attacks now sharp enough to rupture concrete—but Elyra still kept up. She didn't overpower him. She matched him.
Then—"Ahem."
The sparring match froze. Mika Ishida stood at the archway, arms folded, eyes narrowed. Her foot tapped the floor with subtle agitation. Whether it was concern, jealousy, or simple duty was unclear.
"Well," Mika said, her voice sharp, "I'd say that's enough sparring for one night."
Renji stepped back, rubbing his wrist. "What is it?"
Mika walked in, handing him a folded note wrapped in crimson thread and marked with an archaic symbol.
"This just came," she said. "An invitation. From the Forgotten Choir."
Elyra's eyes flickered. Even she seemed intrigued now.
Renji took the note, unraveling the thread. The parchment within was written in black ink that shimmered unnaturally, each letter singing with a quiet pulse.
> To the One Who Hunts in Silence,
The Choir has taken note of your rising voice. Should you wish to sing beyond the screams of the tournament, step into the Hall of Echoes before the bloodshed resumes.
— The Forgotten Choir
Mika scowled. "I don't like it. These people are known for strange rituals and cryptic dealings. If they're watching us now, it means they're preparing something twisted."
Renji folded the letter. His gaze moved to Elyra, who looked thoughtful but not surprised.
"Should I go?" he asked.
Elyra smirked faintly. "If I were you… I'd listen. Their voice might be ancient, but it never sings without purpose."
The silence that followed was heavy. Beyond the training grounds, the underworld coliseum shimmered under dark lights. A war was brewing—one of fists, factions, and forgotten truths.
And Renji was walking right into the center of it.
---
The bar was tucked in the underbelly of a half-forgotten district—an old steelworks zone now choked with rust, graffiti, and memories of better decades. The sky above was bruised with dusk, the dying orange light barely piercing through the web of elevated rails and industrial piping that cast jagged shadows over the narrow alleyway.
Renji stood before the entrance—no signage, no name—just a rusted, half-sunken door barely hanging onto its hinges and a faded neon "Open" sign flickering like it was on life support.
Mika Ishida and Takeshi Mori flanked him, both alert and silently scanning the area. Mika's arms were folded, her posture calm, but her eyes scanned every movement like a hunter ready to strike. Takeshi, bulked up from his enhanced physique, loomed nearby like a silent wall of muscle, his gaze locked on the street behind them.
Renji exhaled. "If anything goes sideways, you two fall back. Got it?"
Takeshi grunted. "If you think we're leaving you alone in a place like this, you've got another thing coming."
Mika smirked. "We're already past sideways, Renji. Let's just not go full disaster."
They pushed open the door, and the world melted into a haze of cigarette smoke, low jazz, and blood-red lighting. The bar was a tight, narrow space that seemed to stretch further than it should. Everything was dim—red velvet curtains, lacquered mahogany surfaces, and a haze of dust dancing in the light above like ghost motes.
At the far end of the bar, surrounded by empty booths and half-drowned in shadow, sat a tall, lean figure with white gloves and a coat stitched from black silk and sorrow. His eyes, visible beneath the hood, were sharp—glinting like frost catching fire.
"Renji Kuroya," the man said, voice low, velvet-wrapped steel. "The monster that refuses to wear a leash."
The man gestured to the booth. "Please. Sit. Your guardians can stay. I wouldn't dream of separating you from your loyal entourage."
Renji slid into the booth, eyes unblinking. "Let's skip the theatrics. You called me. Talk."
The man chuckled—dry, calculated. "Very well. I am Lucien, the current voice of the Forgotten Choir. We do not sing often, but when we do… the world listens."
Behind him, shadowed figures lined the booth seats like ghosts. Not quite present, not quite gone.
Lucien leaned in. "You're being hunted. Not by the factions. Not yet. But by something far more… patient."
Renji's eyes narrowed. "Define 'something.'"
Lucien's gloved fingers tapped a slow rhythm on the table. "A group. No name yet. No banner. But they're moving like a faction. Quiet, precise. They aren't part of the underworld system—yet. But they're building. Recruiting. Infecting the ranks with whispers."
Takeshi stepped forward, voice low. "Why should we believe you?"
Lucien shrugged. "Because I'm not asking for your trust. I'm warning you. This… proto-faction has taken an interest in Renji. Specifically. They've sent people into the tournament under fake banners. Others are waiting for the dust to settle."
Renji leaned forward. "What do they want?"
Lucien's smile turned razor-thin. "They want to own you. Break you. Reforge you. Your infection, your adaptability—it terrifies them. And excites them."
Mika frowned. "So why tell us this?"
"Because we don't want chaos. At least not yet," Lucien said, swirling the drink in his hand. "The underworld is already fracturing. You represent a wild card—a walking anomaly. But if they get their hands on you, if they win… the balance shifts."
Renji stared at the man in silence. The red light from above painted Lucien like a specter of truth—beautiful, eerie, and suffocating.
Lucien rose. "You'll find them watching from the shadows. Their eyes are everywhere. Even now."
He leaned closer, his voice a whisper meant for Renji alone. "Beware the silver-haired girl. Beware the man with the metal arm. And beware the name they haven't yet earned."
Renji stood slowly. "I appreciate the warning."
Lucien's eyes gleamed. "I didn't do it out of kindness. If you fall, I need it to be on my terms."
With that, the lights above flickered and dimmed, and the shadowed figures disappeared one by one into the darkness of the bar like vapor.
Outside, the night had thickened into a suffocating shroud. Renji, Mika, and Takeshi stepped into the cold air, the silence between them heavier than steel.
"You believe him?" Takeshi finally asked.
"I believe he's scared," Renji said.
Mika's voice was quieter. "Then we better find out what's hunting you, before it finds a reason to move."
Renji didn't answer. He looked up at the slivered moon.
In the distance, the tournament arena burned with lights. A storm was coming. And Renji wasn't sure if he was its target—or its origin.
---