Boom. PoP.
“Fuck you!”
“Die!”
“Aghur…”

Countless fights raged inside crude iron gauntlet rings, set one right next to another. Some were small—barely enough room to swing a knife—while others were large enough for ten people to go head to head. All manners of brawls and gladiatorial death were being drawn out like a bloody play, its carnage all too real.

“Solomon!”
“Solomon!”
“SOLOMON!”

A young man—well built and carrying the air of a seasoned fighter—turned toward the crowd while clutching his shoulder and waist. Even as they shouted his name, he could barely hear over the ringing in his ears. The sound wasn’t painful, but it lingered for a while. Coins pelted his body along with other items—flowers thrown by patrons in a show of their enjoyment.

He bent down, despite the pain, to gather the coins, but he knew the rules.

Just then, three skinny kids came racing out with burlap bags. The crowd showered them with objects—not coins or flowers this time, but all manner of things available for target practice. Several merchants even manned stalls loaded with miscellaneous objects for that purpose.

The kids dodged and weaved nimbly, clearly accustomed to this treatment from the better part of their young lives.

Solomon sighed; fight after fight had worn him out today. Using his power for offensive combat drained him over the course of several hours. He could use it on an object one time, changing it permanently—but it only improved the object, not his own fighting technique outside of training. Fire still burned, ice still froze, poison still numbed, and being punched by a giant still… hurt like hell.

Swish. Foosh.

Solomon heard his feet moving. With difficulty and as his head swam, he realized he was edging toward the ring’s perimeter. With a tumble, he fell forward, rolled around several corners, and finally entered a rickety door leading to what he called his “room.”

Seconds later, a sturdy-looking man opened the door and quietly closed it behind him. That small favor would have been appreciated—if not for the man’s booming voice, which shattered the silence:
“Good job! Another round of fights… I know it’s tough, kid, but they’re going to raise the stakes until we all die. It’s just what happens to fighters like us…” He sighed and glanced around the dilapidated room. “Every step over a body means the next opponent will be harder to beat. Sorry, kiddo…”

This sturdy man was Jack—known to many as Bear Jack—renowned for his powerful, wide palms, imposing frame, and quick-witted boxing bouts. He’d been in this business a long time, always participating in the heavyweight fights. Lacking a unique power himself, he usually watched from the sidelines during ability-based matches.

Jack had met Solomon when he found the young fighter—much like the burlap-bag carriers seen earlier—stumbling into his ring after a lost bout, battered by bottles and rocks. Solomon had danced around Jack like a monkey while praising him for his skill and begging for lessons. Since then, Jack had taken Solomon under his wing, and the two had become fast friends and battle-brothers.

The power-infused bouts ended the fastest; wounds inflicted by supernatural abilities could be especially devious, and fights escalated the better the powers were. If a fighter possessed a strong ability, they would hurl that person at everyone to test its limits. And if they were powerful themselves, they would take on multiple opponents at once.

“Hot” was the word used when a fighter was on a winning streak—burning out or blazing in glory.
If both fighters had formidable abilities and personal strength, they would fight others on the same level, winning match after match until more challengers were drawn in. It was only a step away from leaping into the fire from a skillet for most. The odds were stacked against you—unless certain patrons paid off your “debt” or “lock-up fee” and bought you out to use as their champion. It all depended on who you were. If you were malicious, the ring—and the patrons—would work tirelessly to get you killed, christening the killer either “the underdog” or “the hero.” That hero might even have a chance to escape the ring, but often they preferred to showcase you, perpetuating the cycle.

Slaves.
Murderers.
Psychopaths.
People down on their luck.
People with nothing left to lose.

All of them had something to gain.

Many fighters had mixed motivations, but what made Jack the saddest was that Solomon had been grabbed as a kid right out of the city and dumped here. Now a teen, Solomon had once scrounged for coins and been tormented relentlessly. Then, one day, his power revealed itself when he crushed the bed he was sleeping on into a pancake while still asleep.

“They don’t waste talent!” they’d say. Not understanding his power then—and still not fully understanding it now—Solomon had managed to stay alive in the ring for the longest streak yet: two years, two years of bloodshed and blades.

“They got you good?” Jack asked, crouching down to examine Solomon’s bruised shoulder and side.

“Yeah… Send Ana in… need her… cough…” Solomon murmured, lying there like a nearly dead corpse, pale and moaning. Jack sighed and nodded, hesitating at the door handle before stepping through and disappearing.

Minutes later, a cute girl—about Solomon’s age—arrived and gently laid her hands on him. White light emanated from her fingertips, sweeping across his body. As her hands passed over his side and shoulder, the light shifted to a soft red glow before condensing into thread-like beams that moved rhythmically over his wounds. Gradually, the light faded back to white.

A girl with this ability was a godsend in the arena—she could save lives and prolong a fighter’s ability to continue.

“Hey beautiful… cough… come here often?” Solomon smirked. She playfully slapped him on the side of the head. Solomon felt his waist finally begin to heal, and he sat up, grabbing her with his one good arm before kissing her.

“Yeah… muah… yeah, yeah…I missed you too, goof…” she replied, returning his kiss with as many words as her breath allowed.

Solomon smiled and lay back on his cot, though her eyes soon noticed he was distracted by something.

“What is it?” she asked softly.

“With the amount of gold I make…I can buy and sell items—magical ones, infused with quality materials… But I don’t think I’ll ever make enough to buy us out of this place together. With how quickly the stakes in the stage fights are rising, I’ve decided to buy you out instead. So you can go live a good life,” Solomon said, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

She mulled this over, a satirical smile spreading across her face. “You know… they could easily just swipe me back up if there’s no one to protect me. How could I leave without you?” She stated the obvious without mincing words.

“Yeah… right,” Solomon replied, placing his arm over his forehead and gazing up at the ceiling—beyond it, the sanctuary of the city he barely knew, high above.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometime around midnight, Solomon had finally fallen asleep—a sleep deeper and more restful than usual. Perhaps it was because he had finally settled, within his mind, the idea of never leaving this place, alive or dead; a reluctant acceptance of the life he’d been forced to lead.

His power was Density, the ability to compress molecules in all their forms.

It was a potent ability—in theory, strong enough to crush a car into a marble from afar—but there was a crucial flaw: it only worked within inches of his body.

Through countless battles, Solomon had gradually abandoned blades and bows, favoring instead full-bodied armor. Most fighters down here preferred minimal armor, wearing only gauntlets or light padding that wouldn’t hinder their movements or martial techniques. But not Solomon. People called him the “Metal Knight”, a name that played upon his heavy armor and his Metability. He compressed the armor’s metals to an extreme density until blades could no longer penetrate. Through rigorous training, he even learned to solidify the air beneath his feet, enabling him to kick off seemingly nothing, or to punch and release compressed air in powerful gusts—techniques taught to him by Jack.

Battle and experience taught him much about his own limitations, but those limitations were steep. When he attempted to condense water, it instantly froze, making liquid-based attacks hazardous. Conversely, releasing molecules instead of compressing them had even worse consequences: everything close by would ignite into flame. Phasing through walls, though possible in theory, would first burn away his clothing before melting the walls themselves into molten lava or causing explosive flashes as matter rapidly expanded. He was effectively imprisoned here, both by his own power’s limits and by the nature of his environment.

His captors only understood his ability as “Deepen Density,” believing armor was his best weapon. He was powerful, yes, but he couldn’t negate fire, frost, or blunt-force trauma—he was certainly no god.

Solomon opened his eyes, going through his own limitations for the thousandth time, hoping somehow the repetition might reveal an escape—but it never did.

Creak.

Turning over in his bed, he finally noticed the unusual silence surrounding him.
“Strange… silence?” he murmured. The familiar roar of crowds and shouting fighters had vanished, replaced by a desolate quiet, unfamiliar and unsettling.

He approached the door and gently opened it, peering out at the familiar bars that overlooked the fighting stage. His room was situated below ground level—like looking upward from a basement window. Nobody was in the ring; the stage stood empty, as were the seats surrounding it. A thick fog hung at the edges of the vast arena, slowly creeping inward like a predator stalking its prey. It halted whenever he looked directly at it, but he sensed it creeping forward from the corner of his eye.

‘Could it be? A power user I don’t know about, freeing people? Fuck it—I’ll take the chance. If I’m going to die here anyway, might as well gamble on this strange miracle.’

Solomon cautiously approached the fog, checking the other rooms in his row. He knew everyone’s schedules; the fighters who should be there were missing. That meant something else was happening—something serious.

He walked cautiously down the hallway, occasionally glancing back at the fog, which had now passed his own room, stopping only when he stared directly at it.

‘This fog… it’s unsettling,’ Solomon thought. He had experienced countless battles and stood at death’s door multiple times; his sense for danger was finely tuned, and this fog was practically screaming warnings at him.

“Nobody else though… What the hell?”

Not a soul was visible anywhere. Finally, reaching Jack’s room, Solomon breathed a sigh of relief to find him sleeping. Keeping his eyes fixed on the creeping fog, he knocked softly.
“Jack! Wake up! Something’s wrong,” he said quietly—loud enough for the seasoned fighter.

The door creaked open immediately. “What’s up, kid?” Jack asked, standing quickly from his bed.

“Everyone’s gone. Nobody’s in the rooms next door, no one’s on stage—there’s nobody anywhere. I only found you, thankfully,” Solomon said grimly, gesturing around.

“The fuck?” Jack stuck his head out the door, verifying the eerie silence. “This ain’t right. All the years I’ve been here, I’ve never seen this. And what’s with this fog? Feels like the devil’s breath,” Jack remarked as he studied the advancing mist. Shadows flitted within its grey shifting forms. Warped into humanoid shapes one moment and then odd renditions of people like a runny wet ink drawing.

“If you don’t watch it, it creeps toward you—about a foot every ten seconds. Which means it hasn’t been here long, yet everyone’s vanished.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed suddenly, catching a shadow racing down a hallway to their left. “Someone down that way—come on!”

Jack led Solomon to the end of the corridor, giving a quiet whistle as Solomon slowly backed away, watching the fog carefully. There were others in the rooms nearby, but neither Solomon nor Jack cared enough about them to risk saving them.

Jack fumbled momentarily with the gate at the end, cringing as its hinges squeaked louder than they wanted. Keeping eyes on the fog, they slipped through quickly, slamming the gate behind them, then sprinted after the mysterious figure Jack had spotted.

As they ran, Solomon glanced back at the fog through the barred gate. The thick mist stopped at the gate itself, unable—or unwilling—to cross through. The windows became opaque from the sheer density of the fog.

“This is definitely someone’s power,” Solomon murmured urgently, turning to Jack. “Normal fog wouldn’t respect boundaries like gates or walls.”

“You’re right, kid,” Jack agreed, eyeing the unnatural barrier. “Only someone’s power would have a flaw like that.”

‘Flaws’ was the term commonly used for limitations in abilities, like Solomon’s proximity requirement or the destructive side-effects of manipulating density. The fog’s inability to cross barriers clearly pointed to such a flaw, meaning anyone trapped behind gates or in their rooms would starve if they didn’t risk opening their doors. Solomon and Jack exchanged a morbid glance, both chuckling softly at the dark realization.

At the far end of the corridor, they briefly knocked on a few doors. Some occupants woke up, and Solomon and Jack mischievously sent them running toward the fog-filled gate. Most prisoners here were vile or indifferent anyway—some even refused the chance to escape. One, however, bolted immediately for the gate, swung it open, and charged into the fog. He vanished without a trace.

Solomon and Jack cautiously peered through the barred windows, angling their heads to glimpse the other side of the corridor. There was movement in the fog—but nothing ever emerged on the far side.

“What kind of ability is this…” Jack muttered, baffled.

The fog was already encroaching upon this hallway. Without hesitation, they lunged through the final door, Jack’s nimble hands locking the gate firmly behind them.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They were now standing in a large hallway, rising upward by stairs until it became level with the scattered fighting platforms placed back-to-back. A large door led into the arena, but for obvious reasons, Solomon and Jack chose to peer cautiously through the wide panoramic windows rather than open the damned thing.

Fog—so dense and thick they couldn’t see an inch beyond the window.

“This just doesn’t seem right…” Jack’s voice trailed off as he casually reached his hand out behind a nearby vendor’s stall and grabbed someone firmly by the throat.

Solomon had also heard the subtle creak and nervous breathing behind the stall, acting as if he were occupied looking through the window, following Jack’s silent cue.

“Wait! Please…don’t kill me! Come on, man, I’m just a vendor! Don’t send me out into that fog, please!” The captured man pleaded desperately. Indeed, he was a noble-dressed vendor, someone Solomon and Jack recognized immediately.

He was a craftsman, a tinkerer, and an Enchanter—the man who provided many of the unusual weapons for the arena’s fighters.

“Sol? Jack? Oh, fuck, thank god it’s you two…” The man gasped in relief, fumbling to slide his glasses back onto his face. They had clearly broken—bent and slightly skewed—probably from being clutched too tightly. “My glasses broke earlier, and when I saw two shadows moving down the hallway, I panicked and hid… fuck…”

“Malcolm, you know if you were someone else, I swear I'd have shaken the shit out of you,” Jack said with a grin, lifting Malcolm back onto his feet.

“What the hell is going on here?” Solomon asked first, voicing both his and Jack’s thoughts.

“I…I fell asleep back in the vendor stall,” Malcolm began shakily. “When I woke up, everyone was staring out the windows at this fog enveloping the room, wondering what was happening. That’s when they saw it: fighters who were nearly dead, or unconscious, started disappearing into thin air. The fog surged toward the crowd, and before their eyes, people just vanished into it. I slammed the door shut right before it reached me. Someone ran toward the fighters’ area on the left, trying to escape, but the fog caught him—that wasn’t long ago. I thought it had taken you both, so I ran down the hallways, but someone grabbed at me through a door and took my favorite glasses.” Malcolm adjusted his bent glasses nervously as he stared at the fog.

Solomon nodded thoughtfully, noting Malcolm's description matched their own observations.

“Have you seen Ana?” Solomon asked anxiously, looking around.

“No,” Malcolm admitted, rubbing his head regretfully. “I haven't seen anyone else. I'd have noticed her.”

“What now?” Jack asked, noticing Malcolm’s scheming glance toward the vendor stalls.

Solomon followed Malcolm’s gaze. “Malcolm, you keep tabs on everything here. What magical items or artifacts can we get our hands on?”

Malcolm coughed and pulled out a small notebook. “Several artifacts, many magical items crafted in-city, and some exotic weapons and armor. The artifacts include a Wind Knuckle Scythe, Dimension Compartment Cylinder, Adamant Breaker, and the Eternal Lantern of Flame.”

Solomon’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve heard of dimensional bags, but what's this one?”

Malcolm swiftly displayed a strange cylindrical item, rolling it out onto the table to reveal an illusory image of a box. Solomon reached out curiously, startled as his hand passed through into cold, empty space.

“Whoa!” Solomon jerked his hand back, astonished.

“Nobody ever explained these things to you?” Malcolm asked, amused.

“Hey, I was brought here young; all I do is fight!” Solomon replied, rolling his eyes as he examined the compartment. It defied logic, containing a dimensional box within the rolled cylinder. He swiftly strapped it onto himself, clearly enamored.

“Next!” Jack said eagerly, eyeing the items.

“For the Wind Knuckle Scythe, you'll need a wind magic affinity—” Malcolm began, only to stop abruptly as Jack snatched it.

“Lucky me,” Jack said, grinning broadly as wind magic flowed visibly around the knuckle-scythe.

Malcolm and Solomon stared wide-eyed.

“You didn’t know I had affinity?” Jack laughed. “People without powers often have magical affinities. I’m from a city of magic—I use wind subtly enough that people just think I’m skilled. I’ve always lacked a good magic item to escape with.”

Malcolm turned to Solomon. “This is the Adamant Breaker—basically indestructible brass knuckles.”

“Perfect,” Solomon smiled, taking them eagerly.

“I'll keep the Eternal Flame Lantern,” Malcolm said, tucking it carefully away. He then brought out several potions and an alchemical lantern, complete with fire crystals.

“Take it,” Jack nodded approvingly. “We can use that.”

Solomon placed the alchemical lantern in his new dimensional cylinder.

“That’s about it, except these bombs,” Malcolm said, presenting small magical explosives. Jack pocketed them appreciatively.

“Now, do we leave or venture into that damned fog?” Solomon questioned, staring intently at the encroaching mist.

“I’ll follow you two,” Malcolm said firmly. “If I leave alone, I risk capture. I might as well stick together.”

Jack and Solomon exchanged grateful glances. Friends were hard to come by.

“You must have a way out,” Solomon prompted Malcolm.

“Of course,” Malcolm replied, grinning. “There’s a hatch in my room.”

The trio moved swiftly to Malcolm’s cluttered back room, where he pulled down a hidden ladder. Just before climbing, Malcolm paused. “Wait—I’ll be right back!”

Ten minutes later, Malcolm returned triumphantly. Solomon and Jack stared, puzzled.

“Just robbed your handler,” Malcolm announced with a grin. “Cleared your debts, Solomon. Now you and Ana can buy your way out.”

Solomon laughed, shaking his head warmly. “Keep it, Malcolm. You earned it.”

Malcolm smiled sheepishly, patting his coin pouch as the trio climbed toward the uncertain freedom awaiting above.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------