SOP CH12: Making a Grand Entrance

Two days had passed since the Clepsydra rebels launched their sudden raid. Chromium-alloy maintenance droids crawled up and down within the Blood Arena, welding steel pillars with mechanical tentacles and clearing rubble, restoring the arena to a brand-new state in less than a day.

Through the lounge glass, Monkey Face watched the robots scuttling about like octopuses, holding a glass of Scotch whisky as the smoky aroma of the liquor dispersed across his palate.

Tomorrow, a duel to the death would unfold right here.

The camera drones were already in position, their dense, compound-eye lenses aimed squarely at the ring. On the online forums of Spiral City’s upper tier, rumors ran rampant, with countless pairs of eyes fixed on the developments within the Blood Arena. If he secured victory in this duel, he would undoubtedly gain immense prestige, perhaps even climbing his way up to the 2035 Branch, Monkey Face calculated with relish.

The duel followed a best-two-out-of-three format. In addition to Monkey Face himself, he had prepared two seasoned veterans who had survived hundreds of battles in the arena, ensuring victory was firmly within his grasp. There was no one in the rebel army stronger than the Boxing King, and Hearts had zero chance of winning.

Memories drifted back like a skiff floating into the past. Monkey Face recalled their showdown years ago, when he and Hearts crossed paths in a narrow corridor, engaging in a deadly struggle amidst the flames of battle. In that fight, he had shattered Hearts’s body with the very punch that burned away thirty years of his own lifespan.

When Hearts resurfaced, he had become a man sustained only by piecing together an assortment of cybernetics. His flesh had turned into an aggregate of machinery and beasts, his heart seeming to turn cold alongside it. Even while posturing as a courteous gentleman, his eyes remained brimming with hatred.

Limbs were relatively easy to assemble, but internal organs were a different story. Organs circulating on the black market carried astronomical price tags and bore serial numbers from the Time Entropy Group, their destinations documented in meticulous detail. Monkey Face had hoped to track down Hearts’s hideout through these transactions and deliver a fatal blow to the rebels along the way. Curiously, however, he had never managed to trace the movement of those organs; where the internal organs sustaining Hearts’s survival had actually come from remained an unsolved mystery to this day.

Right then, a knock sounded on the lounge door. A corporate staff member had come to report on project progress. After nervously explaining the repairs to the arena, the worker asked:

“Director, why are you hosting this duel to the death?”

Monkey Face cast a sidelong glance at him. The worker trembled like a sieve, feeling crushed beneath a giant mountain, yet summoned the courage to speak:

“The rewards offered to them are far too lavish. Releasing all the slaves, wouldn’t that shake the very foundation of our branch?”

After a long pause, Monkey Face remarked leisurely, “The bigger the bait, the greater the attention it draws. Right now, the eyes of the entire Spiral City are focused on us. The 2030 Branch has always handled the frontline grunt work closest to the bottom tier; within the Group, we are often looked down upon by others.”

“Yet as long as we achieve victory in this world-renowned duel, climbing over the heads of the 2035 Branch will no longer be a pipe dream!” Monkey Face raised his voice, slamming down his glass, and said to the staff member, “Employee 1458, you have been with this branch for quite a while, haven’t you? Don’t you want to stand out and climb a few salary grades?”

Drenched in sweat, the worker stammered, “Director, I wouldn’t dare entertain wild thoughts.”

“These are not wild thoughts! Rest easy, the other two contenders we selected are tempered elites of the arena.” Monkey Face slapped the oak desk, a low chuckle rising from his nasal cavity, sounding more like a bout of broken sobbing. “The rebel army is a bunch of useless misfits. There is no way they can win, just like the countless times they collapsed beneath our feet before.”

“What if they fail to show up as agreed?”

“Then let them spend their entire lives as gutter rats cowering in the dark! Their failure to appear would only solidify our 2030 Branch’s reputation in the lower tier.”

“This is a duel where lives are on the line. Director, isn’t stepping into the ring yourself a bit risky?”

“Entering the ring personally is the best possible advertisement,” Monkey Face stated. What he left unsaid was that in order to leapfrog out of the 2030 Branch, he needed to bathe in the spotlight. Prior to that, he still required the assistance of the branch staff. For that reason, he said with pleasant warmth, “Employee 1458, your performance has been outstanding. Once we win this duel and conclude this month’s tournament, go take a paid vacation for a while. I will increase your performance bonuses and holiday perks.”

Tears of gratitude welled in the worker’s eyes, yet he hesitated and said:

“D-Director, there is one more thing I need to report to you.”

“What is it?” Monkey Face frowned. He had faintly sensed that this employee was talking too much. His good mood evaporating, he weighed whether to revoke the man’s incentives.

“Actually, I… am not Employee 1458.”

The worker rubbed his hands together cautiously and said, “It is 4158.”

Tick, tock. The spring slowly unwound, four sets of gears driving the hands around beneath the brass case. A man covered in red spots looked down at the hunting-case pocket watch in his hand.

The man’s name was Sally, nicknamed “Rust Bone,” holding a modest reputation within the Blood Arena. He had once been a military-tech soldier manufactured by the Group in an early production batch, having suppressed numerous disturbances in the lower tier.

Sally used to enjoy pinning defiant lower-tier residents to stone pillars with a broadsword, staging a religious tableau mimicking the Passion of Christ. When the lower-tier folk struggled and wept in agony, a joy akin to admiring a pinned butterfly specimen would well up within his chest.

It was not until his model became obsolete and he was decommissioned, his cutting-edge cybernetics stripped away, and his income plummeted, that he realized he was merely expired goods to the Group. Sally was refitted with recycled scrap aluminum prosthetics, components prone to snapping and rusting, their metal ions dissolving rapidly in sweat. Eventually, he contracted a form of skeletal corrosion, enduring relentless pain that flared up every second, his flesh bruised, purple, and sunken.

Treating this condition required an astronomical fortune in lifespan. Today, Sally was just like a butterfly pierced by a pushpin, forced to eke out a living in the arena by selling his life, pleasing upper-tier spectators with his death throes.

The intercom in the locker room crackled to life, an inorganic electronic voice echoing like a phantom. “The Blood Arena Apricot Moon Duel is about to commence. All contenders, please take your positions.”

Sally straightened his spine as the iron portcullis leading to the arena rose slowly. He stepped out of the locker room onto a long corridor paved with rusted steel plates, flanked by triple-layered bulletproof glass and an electrified grating designed to prevent slaves from escaping. Through this passageway, the interior of the arena came into view.

Sally was scheduled for the second match and was in no hurry to enter the ring. His fight record seemingly paled in comparison to the other contender, “Flesh-and-Blood Engine” Marion, but he was far more adept at the craft of killing. The Group had tasked him on multiple occasions with executing rebel captives on the ring; to date, he had savored the dying shrieks of over a hundred prisoners.

This time would be no exception. Sally ran his rough tongue over his teeth. If the rebels came as agreed, they would be walking straight into a trap, left entirely at their mercy. Yet they had no choice but to come, because the bait dangling here was far too enticing for them.

Perhaps the rebel army would merely send out a few disposable pawns as sacrifices. With that thought, Sally directed his gaze toward the ring.

The overhead lights had dimmed, leaving only yellow and violet floor lamps burning, resembling wild beasts fixing their gazes on prey in the dark. A hissing sound like a serpent flicking its tongue echoed as “Flesh-and-Blood Engine” Marion made his entrance amid thick clouds of dry ice fog.

Marion’s muscles knotted like thick cords, a veritable walking mountain of flesh. Bulging veins snaked across his torso like growth rings on a tree stump. Every step he took shook the ring, the heavy thuds of his footfalls sending shivers through onlookers. At the cost of consuming forty-eight hours of lifespan daily, he had acquired monstrous physical strength, once pulling a five-ton truck using only a rope clenched between his teeth. He was truly a walking nightmare for every fighter in the arena.

Across from him, two or three rounds of dry ice smoke billowed out, yet no opponent appeared. The masked upper-tier spectators in the stands erupted in murmurs of discontent:

“Are the rebels even coming today?”

“It would be a miracle if they did! Sly as they are, why would they walk into a net?”

Gradually, the grumbles turned into boos. Yet amidst the jeering, movement stirred within the fog. A sound of earth-shattering footfalls rumbled forward, and before long, a snow leopard strode out into full view.

The leopard’s pelt gleamed like silk, its shoulders rolling with fluid power, moving like the wind. When it leaped gracefully onto the ring, gasps of astonishment swept the audience. Marion’s massive frame seemed almost clumsy before it.

“Y-You are… Clepsydra’s contender?” Even the brutal Marion found himself stammering slightly.

The snow leopard opened its jaws and spoke in human tongue, the spirited voice of a feisty young girl: “Yeah, what of it?” It then added, “To be frank, I really didn’t want to come to this filthy place. Stinks to high heaven of machine oil and blood!”

“Haha, I just didn’t expect the Blood Arena to turn into a beast-fighting ring today.”

The snow leopard curled its tail. “Indeed. Today we shall perform the classic drama ‘Beauty and the Beast’ right here.”

Marion sneered, “I sure as hell ain’t the beauty.”

Without warning, a gust of fierce wind scraped across his face. A paw struck Marion’s jaw, spinning his head around, sending him flying backward like a discarded rag doll into the front-row seating! Dust billowed up, and amidst the terrified gasps of the spectators, the snow leopard gracefully licked the tips of its claws:

“Nonsense! I am the beauty, and you are the beast.”

The crowd broke into an uproar. Although the Clepsydra rebels had honored the agreement and refrained from deploying forces at the entrances, they had sent out an utterly unimaginable combatant. The snow leopard muttered under its breath, “I was supposed to be a technical operative doing logistical support. If that brat Diamonds hadn’t egged me on, I wouldn’t have set foot here!”

Before the words faded, a thunderous crash resounded. Marion leaped high from the seating area like a bolt of lightning, crashing back onto the canvas. A punch exploded forward like heavy artillery.

The snow leopard vaulted nimbly into the air, raking its claws down to lock his wrist firmly, its tail undulating like a wave. “Half-baked mortal, how could a limp punch like that contend with this genetically modified young lady?”

Prideful of his raw strength, Marion roared in humiliation, swelling his muscles to unleash a tempest of blows against the feline. The leopard soared through the air, landing crisply behind him, clamped its jaws onto his boxing trunks, and hoisted him up before slamming him down onto the canvas.

Marion saw stars from the impact. Monkey Face had informed him before the match that the promise of ‘releasing all slaves upon a rebel victory’ was merely an empty excuse. If he lost as a contender, not only he, but his entire family would be locked into the iron maiden, meeting an agonizing demise pierced by ten thousand spikes; he had no choice but to fight to the death.

Right then, the snow leopard pounced on him again, tearing and snapping wildly. Claw marks crisscrossed Marion’s flesh as blood sprayed into the air. He swung his fists wildly, but the leopard dodged every strike with crisp agility.

Jeers rained from the stands, mounting anxiety causing Marion to expose more openings. Just at that moment, a tranquilizer dart shot from an aperture high above the arena, plunging straight into the snow leopard’s quadriceps.

The snow leopard cried out, “What mosquito bit me!” Yet its limbs steadily went limp, collapsing to the floor in the end.

That dart had been fired from a hidden port in the arena walls, used by management to neutralize fighters who spiraled out of control. Corporate droids rushed onto the canvas, carrying the leopard away while announcing to the spectators:

“The Clepsydra rebels violated regulations by deploying a non-human contender. This round is awarded to the 2030 Branch.”

The audience erupted into another wave of boos. As it was hauled away by the machines, the snow leopard continued protesting in a weak voice: “Unfair! Which of your fighters isn’t a cross between human and machine? At least I have a human brain, with a human purity level of four percent!”

Monkey Face stepped away from his desk. He was the one who had pressed the console switch to trigger the tranquilizer mechanism. Gazing down from the director’s lounge, the corners of his mouth curled up as he muttered to himself:

“Heh, Clepsydra truly is amusing. Who knows whether they came here to clown around or actually intend to take the prize.”

He spoke into the ring intercom: “Begin the next match.”

The arena exits slowly slid shut, security droids forming a solid barrier by the doors, locking the rebel members completely within the arena. The lights dimmed, and suddenly, lasers beamed down from the soaring dome, crimson and emerald beams crisscrossing to the accompaniment of deafening industrial metal music. The announcer droid proclaimed with booming fervor:

“The second match of the Apricot Moon Duel to the Death is about to begin! The victor claims a century of lifespan along with the corresponding mystery prize, while the loser will be publicly executed shortly after! Dear audience members, tap your time terminals to the sensor on your right armrest, spend lifespan, and reserve the execution site for the loser! Whether you wish to drive spikes through the eyeballs, the mouth, or the heart, the choice is yours!”

“Now, will both fighters take the ring! ‘Rust Bone’ Sally, former military-tech soldier who borrowed 2,777 hours of lifespan to treat skeletal corrosion from defective implants, with a record of 26 victories!”

It was his turn to fight. Sally stepped through the rising iron portcullis. A runway lit by floor lamps stretched through the gloom, thunderous cheers resounding from all sides like mountain valley echoes.

He had fought few official matches, but his ruthless efficiency in every bout had left deep impressions, prompting many to cheer for him. It was time to announce the Clepsydra contender, yet the announcer droid seemed to glitch, stammering out:

“The fighter representing the Clepsydra rebels is… H-Hearts!”

In an instant, the entire arena fell dead silent.

A second later, a buzzing swarm of frantic chatter erupted throughout the venue. Even Monkey Face sprang up in the lounge, slamming both palms onto the oak desk, his face draining of color.

“Hearts?”

Virtually everyone believed that Clepsydra’s leader, Hearts, having had his body shattered and suffering grievous trauma, would never appear here. Even if his frame had been repaired, he would typically be reserved for the final bout. Sally had never expected to face the strongest combatant among the rebels, standing frozen in place.

Crimson spotlights beamed down like sheets of blood. Amidst the roaring soundtrack, the opponent entered the ring.

To everyone’s absolute shock, appearing at the far end of the canvas was a young man wearing an oversized white T-shirt decorated with a hand-drawn heart, paired with a pink apron bearing Boxing King Anvil’s autograph. The youth was tall, wore a face mask, held no weapons, and looked out with a pair of cold, gray pupils.

Sally was stunned.

After a long silence, he asked: “Who… are you?”

Not just him; every spectator present harbored the exact same question. The young man replied impassively:

“Are you blind? I am Hearts.”

“Impossible, Hearts looks nothing like you!” Sally clearly remembered Hearts as a towering two-meter-tall behemoth pieced together with cybernetics, completely distinct from the youth before him.

The young man said, “My plastic surgery failed, so I ended up looking like this.”

“What utter rubbish! What plastic surgery replaces an entire human body?”

“That is why I said it failed,” the youth stared at him icily. “You talk too much. Are we fighting or not?”

“You are an imposter—”

Before the sentence could finish, the world spun violently around Sally.

His body vaulted into mid-air, crashing heavily back onto the canvas. A mouthful of teeth shattered instantly, blood gushing forth. That gray-eyed youth had thrown a lightning-fast blow, burying a vicious uppercut right into his jaw.

Blood pooled in Sally’s mouth, his speech instantly turning into a slurred whistle.

“I am Hearts, genuine and true,” the youth said, looking down upon him with haughty disdain, his eyes cold enough to drop icicles.

“What did you say just now? Say it again if you have the guts.”