[Drift Arena – Red Hollow, 11:26 PM]
The gate behind Eli slammed shut like a coffin lid.
No cheers. No lights flashing. Just the dull red glow of iron floodlamps overhead, buzzing like gnats. The walls were lined with bent chain-link fencing and scuffed with years of bone and boot.
The pit floor was cement, covered in old rubber mats stained black. The scent down here was thick—sweat, oil, iron, and something older. Something that didn't want to be remembered.
Eli stepped forward and said nothing.
The fighters waited for him in silence.
Five of them. Spaced like altar statues. Staring. Still.
This wasn't just a fight.
This was a test.
A speaker hissed above, breaking the quiet.
Gilwoo's voice came through, distant and deliberate.
"You've made your presence known, Eli Nam. Gupo, the Pit, Drift's edges. You broke men who couldn't read your rhythm."
The voice paused.
"But this ring isn't built for rhythm. It's built for drowning."
No bell rang.
No names were called.
Just a breath. And the first man stepped forward.
Round 1 – Daesung (The Stutter Rhythm)
Stocky. Broad chest. Short reach. Elbows high. Neck tense.
Daesung walked like a boxer. Fought like a glitch in a video file.
He led with fakes, always a beat off. Jabs delayed. Steps short, then exploding. Nothing flowed.
He didn't throw punches.
He threw hesitation.
Eli didn't move for the first three seconds. Just watched.
Daesung feinted left.
Eli tilted slightly.
Then the punch came from the right.
Crack.
It hit. Not clean, but enough. A grazing hook across the ribs.
Eli stepped back, body absorbing the pain like a lungful of cold water.
He exhaled.
Then smiled.
"You twitch like a dying lightbulb," he said.
Daesung didn't reply.
He struck again—shoulder dip, high elbow, low sweep.
This time Eli ducked, letting the knee flash above him.
He circled, loosening his own stance. Arms swinging gently. Head tilted like he was dancing alone in a dark room.
Daesung tried a fake-left-pivot-right.
Eli leaned back—then leaned into the punch instead of avoiding it.
The hit landed.
But Eli had already planted.
He wrapped Daesung's arm. Spun.
Knee to spine.
Shoulder throw.
Daesung hit the ground hard.
And Eli didn't follow up.
Didn't stomp. Didn't finish.
He stepped back and wiped his nose with his thumb.
"One."
Round 2 – Ho-bin (The Runner)
Second fighter was lean, sharp-faced. Running shoes instead of boots.
He paced the cage like it was a track.
Ho-bin.
His role was clear—exhaustion by repetition.
The kind of fighter who makes you miss, circle, chase, breathe wrong.
The kind of fighter who turns your own blood into syrup.
Ho-bin came fast.
No wind-up.
Flick jab, bounce out. High-low combo, then distance.
He didn't try to hurt Eli. Not at first.
He tried to stretch him.
Eli kept turning. Breathing. Adjusting.
Watching the footwork more than the fists.
Then the lights dimmed.
A deliberate Drift move.
Disorientation.
Darkness flickered in and out with every step Ho-bin took.
He came again.
One-two. Swipe.
Then back into the shadows.
Eli's jaw split just slightly on a third hit.
Blood. Bright. Real.
It dripped down his collarbone.
Ho-bin circled again.
"You slowing?"
Eli didn't wipe the blood.
He smiled, slow and eerie.
"Only enough to enjoy this."
The next time Ho-bin came, Eli didn't dodge.
He stepped forward.
Took the jab on the shoulder, closed the distance, and reached for the hanging chain along the wall.
Wrapped it once around Ho-bin's ankle.
Tugged.
Hard.
The man fell mid-step, face-first into the steel fencing.
Didn't get up.
Eli leaned against the chain for a moment.
Felt the tremble in his ribs from the earlier hit.
Then stood again.
"Two."
Round 3 – The Mirror
This one was different.
Taller. Calm. Didn't move when he entered.
Didn't raise his fists. Didn't bow.
Just stared.
"You think you're different."
Eli tilted his head.
"You breathe like a god, but bleed like the rest."
The man stepped forward.
Not to strike—but to talk.
Repeating words.
Eli's own.
"Let's see what's beneath the godskin."
"I don't stop rhythm. I devour it."
Eli blinked once.
Then let out a small, sharp laugh.
"Oh. You're the echo."
The fighter said nothing.
"You think words made me," Eli said. "But I've drowned men like you in silence."
Still no movement.
So Eli looked up—toward the glass ceiling above the pit.
A figure stood there.
Not clear.
Not moving.
But watching.
"Gilwoo?" Eli called up. "You watching this?"
He raised a bloodied middle finger.
Then turned.
"You want to be me?" he asked the mimic.
"Then fall like me."
He didn't dodge the next jab.
He absorbed it. Moved in. Close.
Elbow to the temple.
Drop.
Eli stepped over him.
"Three."
Round 4 – The Mask
The fourth didn't speak.
Didn't blink.
He wore a steel mask. Covered the nose and mouth. Breathing hissed through it like a pipe on pressure.
Eli exhaled.
Looked down at his own hands.
Knuckles cut. Ribs tight. Breath catching now. Not sharp—but present.
The masked fighter walked with intentional weight.
This wasn't a runner.
This was a wall.
They clashed mid-center.
Punch to chest. Blocked.
Hook. Duck. Counter-elbow.
Masked man didn't budge.
He absorbed strikes.
Then returned them harder.
Eli caught a shoulder slam that nearly lifted him off his feet.
He staggered. Re-centered. Breathed wrong.
And then the mask leaned in.
"You bleed well."
The voice was mechanical.
Modified.
Eli smirked.
"You talk like you borrowed your identity."
He struck back.
Not fast. Not fancy.
Just sharp.
Hit after hit.
No finisher.
A rhythm reset.
He dragged the fight into the muck—his territory.
Until the mask cracked at the corner.
A piece snapped off.
The man blinked.
Eli stepped back.
"You can go now."
The man didn't rise.
"Four."