The neon sign flickered to life, and a manufactured crimson sun hung just outside the window, casting a blood-red glow over the room. Inside the Poker Bar, a heavily built man lay in a fluffy pastel-pink fleece blanket, his breathing ragged and deep.
Quicksand sat by the bedside, staring at the unconscious man. Beneath the blanket, Hearts’s massive chest rose and fall like slow, rhythmic ocean waves.
Just a day ago, the Clepsydra resistance had launched an assault on the Chrono-Entropy Corporation’s 2030 branch. However, their leader, Hearts, had his body shattered by a single devastating punch from the Branch Director, Monkey Face—a blow that had cost Monkey Face thirty years of his own lifespan. Hearts was now left in a state of deep delirium.
Outside the door, members of the resistance were whispering in lowered voices. Their murmurs buzzed like a swarm of mosquitoes, repeatedly stinging Quicksand’s eardrums.
“We shouldn’t have attacked the 2030 branch in the first place… The power gap was just too massive. Now Big Brother Hearts is unconscious, and we’ve suffered a crushing defeat…”
“But Big Brother Hearts always said, ‘How can you catch tiger cubs without entering the tiger’s den?’ If we don’t take the initiative to strike, we’ll never gauge the enemy’s true strength. Besides, Clubs Cat managed to decrypt the dynamic access keys of the 2030 branch and secured data on some of the other branches. There’s critical intelligence regarding the 2035 branch in there.”
“What kind of intelligence?”
“Word is… it contains partial files on the Time Scavengers, including personal data on the Corporation’s Chief Scavenger—’Quicksand.'”
Quicksand’s entire body jolted, as if an invisible hand had gripped his heart. The name Quicksand acted like a curse, triggering a sudden, inexplicable surge of panic within him.
“Who exactly is this ‘Quicksand’?”
“We still don’t know. The file went through several more layers of dynamic encryption. Clubs Cat is still working on cracking it.”
Sitting inside the room, Quicksand felt his heart pounding wildly. Who is Quicksand? Is it an acquaintance from before I lost my memory? A tangled web of questions branched out in his mind. Outside the room, the resistance members continued:
“What’s Big Brother Hearts’s current condition?”
“Comatose. His body feels like it’s completely falling apart. Dr. Hua from the Affordable Clinic examined him and said we still need more materials to patch up his body. Who knows what kind of dirty trick that bastard Monkey Face used—one punch, and the boss’s body looked as if it had been chewed to pieces by a wild beast…”
The voices gradually faded as the resistance members walked down the wooden stairs. Left alone in the deathly quiet room, Quicksand felt a creeping anxiety clawing at his heart like a cat. He stood up and switched on the vintage radio resting beneath a poster of Anvil the King of Boxers. Static hissed through the speakers like falling dry leaves before a vintage jazz piano track drifted out, closely followed by a deep, resonant male voice:
“Time fades, but glory endures. Welcome to Echoes of Time. Today, let us step back into the past and relive the iron-blooded life of Anvil, the King of Boxers—”
This wasn’t a live broadcast found by tuning the dial; it was a pre-recorded audio log. Spurred by a sudden flash of curiosity, Quicksand sat down, cradling the radio. The voice flowed smoothly, trickling through the room like a stream.
The radio began to weave a tale.
An ancient story about Anvil, the King of Boxers—a story that most of the world had long forgotten.
A legend used to circulate through the blood arenas of the Spiral City.
There was a man built like a colossal bear and fierce as a predatory lion, entirely invincible on the canvas. His fists were as heavy as iron, and his defense was absolutely impenetrable. He had marched over a trail of dripping blood across countless tournaments to stand victorious at the apex. The flashbulbs of countless media outlets had locked onto him, and his title echoed throughout every level of the Spiral City—”Anvil, the King of Boxers.”
Anvil hailed from a long and storied lineage, but he was a stain upon the family tree—an illegitimate son. He was once welcomed back into the ancestral home, only to flee after becoming entangled in a vortex of internal power struggles. Ultimately, he vanished into the lower districts of the Spiral City, marrying a woman who worked as a schoolteacher, intending to spend the remainder of his days in peace.
Their lives should have passed in quiet tranquility, but a sudden storm disrupted their path. His wife contracted a bizarre affliction—parts of her body would spontaneously age rapidly, and she frequently coughed up blood. Initially, Anvil suspected the heavily polluted water supply of the lower districts. Yet even after spending exorbitant amounts of money to secure purified water, his wife’s symptoms showed no signs of improvement.
The goatee-wearing old doctor from the Affordable Clinic examined her, offering a thoughtful assessment. He noted that his wife’s condition wasn’t uncommon in the lower districts. It was a pathology known as the Black Hole Disease.
“Why is it called the Black Hole Disease?”
“The name is derived from a theoretical hypothesis about black holes. You see, our lower district is a labyrinth of time—much like a black hole where even light loses its way. If time possesses a particulate form, then the temporal particles in the lower districts must be utterly chaotic. Prolonged exposure to this environment destabilizes a person’s internal time signature, mimicking a black hole that detonates once its mass is reduced to its absolute limit.” The old doctor sighed and shook his head. “Mind you, this is just a speculative folk rumor. I’ve barely scratched the surface of physics myself, so I can’t speak to the underlying science.”
“Is there a cure?”
“The Chrono-Entropy Corporation possesses advanced temporal technology; they ought to have a way to treat it. If you can get your wife admitted to one of their medical facilities, her life can likely be preserved.”
Without a second thought, Anvil paid an astronomical entry fee at the elevator docks and rushed his wife into a hospital managed by the 2030 branch.
The hospital was overrun by hulking brutes and gaunt, emaciated lower-district dwellers. They possessed ferocious glints in their eyes, their bodies wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. Anvil instantly recognized them as fighters from the blood arenas. His wife sat among them, pale, slender, and entirely out of place. The Black Hole Disease lived up to its reputation; massive medical bills drained away like flowing water, yet the required financial balance remained a bottomless abyss.
Anvil worked himself to the bone, juggling multiple occupations. By day, he labored as a cybernetic repair technician. Once night fell, he black-marketed refurbished microchips and subjected himself to human experimentation in illicit clinics. His wife grew progressively frailer by the day, her physical frame withering away as if pinched tight by a giant hand. Whenever he returned home from the hospital, his daughter, Duo Duo, would rush out from the shadows to embrace him, crying out sweetly:
“Dad! Where did you go?”
Deep sorrow lingered within the young girl’s voice, though she masked it exceptionally well. Anvil bent down to lift her into his arms, his heart weighed down with immense grief. “I went to visit your mother. She’s at the hospital. Don’t worry, she’ll be back home very soon,” he replied, weaving a tapestry of half-truths and half-lies.
Duo Duo lowered her eyebrows. “I’m not worried, but I hope you and Mom can both come home soon.” She, too, spoke a mixture of half-truths and half-lies.
The deficit for the medical expenses grew exponentially larger, until Anvil eventually found himself utterly powerless to bridge the gap. His frail wife offered a soft smile from her hospital bed: “If it can’t be cured, then let it go. A human lifespan spans only a few decades, but how much of that time possesses genuine meaning? Meeting, knowing, understanding, and accompanying one another—we have already achieved three out of those four milestones. Even if I exit the stage halfway through the performance, I leave with no regrets.”
Anvil curled into a ball on the corridor floor outside the patient ward. Memories of the past dozen years flashed through his mind—a journey filled with bitter hardships, yet seasoned with moments of profound sweetness. He wept silently. His wife had once possessed brilliant white teeth and vibrant lips, a picture of vivid color, but she was now left pale and broken by the torment of her disease. She was a fiercely proud woman. When they first married, she had told him with absolute solemnity: “No matter what storms, rain, or snow we encounter in the future, we must walk together until the very end. Neither of us is allowed to abandon the path halfway.” And now, both of them were about to break that vow.
After an unknown period, he noticed a pair of polished leather shoes halting right in front of him. A slick, oily voice drifted down from above:
“Young man, you look exceptionally robust and fit. Any interest in stepping into the rings of the blood arena? The prize money is incredibly generous—abundant enough to purchase several lifetimes over.”
Anvil slowly raised his gaze, coming face-to-face with a slick, smiling face that resembled an ape.
Following that encounter, Anvil secured a position within the blood arena circuit.
The mountain of medical bills vanished overnight, and the terrifying, late-night pounding on the door from debt collectors that used to petrify Duo Duo ceased completely. His wife was transferred into a grander, far superior private ward. However, Anvil’s visits grew increasingly infrequent. He would often appear at the ward’s entrance in the dead of night, staring silently at his wife’s sleeping face through the glass pane, his eyes filled with a dark gloom.
“What’s wrong? Come on in,” his wife would occasionally awaken and call out gently upon spotting him behind the door. He would invariably shake his head with an apologetic grin: “I haven’t gone through decontamination yet. I’m worried I might pass some harmful pathogens onto you.”
His wife would break into a warm smile. “I’m not so weak that a few microbes can take me down. What kind of super-bug could possibly be that dangerous?”
Anvil remained silent, quietly walking away to conceal the horrific lacerations hidden beneath his coat. It was a pathogen that posed no threat to the physical flesh, but acted as a lethal toxin to the human soul. As he walked toward the elevator banks, the electronic display arrays behind him surged with a crowd of tens of thousands. Innumerable promotional banners drifted above the blood arena like ghosts, and the shrill, high-pitched voice of the mechanical announcer echoed: “The mysterious newcomer, Anvil, has claimed seven consecutive lives in the ring! Ferocious beyond measure, he crushes all who stand before him!”
Anvil utilized the funds amassed from the arena to acquire combat gloves and brass knuckles. For the first time in his life, he felt a surge of gratitude toward his parents for granting him such a powerful physical constitution. Lower-district dwellers required no escape routes; to secure the exorbitant medical fees, he had long grown accustomed to a life balanced on a razor’s edge, adapting rapidly to the life-and-death clashes of the arena. Perhaps due to his previous stints undergoing illicit human experiments, his muscular density far exceeded ordinary human limits, and his wounds healed with remarkable speed, channeling a primal, bestial ferocity. Before he knew it, the pile of bodies collapsing before his feet grew larger, and his internal state shifted from initial terror into a serene, deathly stillness.
Gradually, those capable of matching his prowess grew fewer and fewer. A resounding title spread like wildfire through the crowds, and the masses frantically chanted his name: “Anvil, the King of Boxers!” “Anvil, the King of Boxers!”
Media lenses locked onto the rising superstar of the colosseum circuit. Journalists swarmed the exiting combatants like a flock of pigeons lured by corn kernels: “Fighters, might we ask what drives you to spill your blood and sweat so furiously upon the canvas?”
One replied, “For a dream.” Another said, “To claim the crown of the King of Boxers.” When the microphone was thrust before Anvil’s face, his eyes remained dim as he muttered, “For money. This old man needs to amass a fortune.”
When the interview aired, the rumors flew across every corner of the Spiral City as if equipped with wings. His supporters praised his absolute candor, while his detractors condemned him as a mercenary beast who had bartered away his soul. Everyone clashed over their own idealized version of him. Amid the roaring chaos, he walked through the crowds, feeling like a hollow corpse—a mere empty shell.
One day, during a visit to the hospital, he found his wife sitting upright on the bed, her expression cold as ice. A magazine lay splayed open across the bedding before her.
“My dear, I read your story in here. I hear you’ve become quite the celebrity now?”
Anvil remained silent. His wife’s words carried the weight of an interrogation, laced with deep reproach. Her fingertips rested upon a colored page of the magazine, depicting the King of Boxers raising his arms in triumph, standing atop a pile of twisted corpses. She let out a heavy sigh: “Treating an illness with money earned from slaughter will never grant peace to the soul. To save my single life, how many dozens, how many hundreds of individuals have perished in a sea of blood?”
Anvil’s breathing turned heavy. “They are absolute strangers to me. To rescue the one I love, sacrificing bystanders is an unavoidable necessity.”
His wife countered, “But I, too, was once an absolute stranger to you. If someone were to take my life one day for that exact same justification, could you sit back and do nothing? A path of continuous wickedness invariably invites destruction upon oneself. I fear calamity will fall upon you because of this.”
Anvil cast a cold glance at her, biting his lip before deciding to lay everything bare: “If it weren’t for the sake of treating your disease, this old man would never have resorted to such desperate measures, sinking to this pathetic level.”
His wife gazed back at him, suddenly offering a pale, ethereal smile. “Your nightmare is about to reach its end. The storm will pass, and the skies will clear.”
The words she spoke were also half-true and half-false. The mountain of accumulated debt evaporated entirely, yet Anvil found himself plunged into a waking nightmare from which he could never awaken. When he arrived at the ward the following day, his eyes widened in sheer horror. In the quiet stillness of the night, a torn bedsheet had been twisted into a snake-like rope, dangling from the foot of the bed. His wife’s neck was bruised a deep purple, yet her expression remained elevated and profoundly peaceful. She sat kneeling upon the brick floor like a devout, praying nun—though her physical form rested in hell, her soul had departed for heaven for eternity.
In an instant, it felt as though the marrow had been violently vacuumed from Anvil’s bones. He collapsed to his knees beside his wife’s hanging corpse, his mind and body plunging into a absolute void.
A period of time passed before a disheveled, unshaven Anvil arrived at the Chrono-Entropy Corporation’s 2030 branch, tracking down his handler.
“This old man intends to hang up his gloves. I will no longer participate in the arena matches.”
Anvil honestly bared his soul to his handler. The man possessed an ape-like, slippery face, his eyes constantly darting about to reveal a cunning intellect. He was both the Director of the 2030 branch and a moderately renowned fighter within the arena circuit. Hearing this, Monkey Face expressed immense regret: “Oh, brother, what on earth are you saying? You are a once-in-a-century prodigy; who wouldn’t crumble beneath the weight of your fists? To cut your own future short like this is an absolute tragedy.”
Anvil replied, “My wife passed away because of me. This old man has ran this circuit for a good few years now. Moving forward, I merely wish to live out the rest of my days in peace, without engaging in the business of breaking bodies and taking lives.”
Monkey Face let out a long sigh, patting him on the shoulder. “Brother, I understand your plight. However, a sudden retirement announcement would be a bit too jarring for the public. Let’s do this instead—the Corporation happens to be grooming a rising star. You will engage in one final exhibition match with him to officially pass down the title of ‘King of Boxers.’ After that, the Corporation will award you a massive payout of lifespan, allowing you to enjoy a comfortable retirement.”
“Don’t those who suffer defeat in the arena face immediate execution on the spot?” Anvil questioned. He recalled a massive Iron Maiden stationed right beneath the arena canvas. Its doors featured hundreds of perforations; once the audience paid the premium, they could hammer long spikes through the openings. Defeated fighters were routinely locked inside, their agonizing wails echoing across two full days until they drew their final breath—a cruel game catering entirely to the audience’s sadistic desires.
Monkey Face chuckled, shaking his head. “Brother, you are a superstar of legendary renown. How could I possibly subject you to such a humiliating fate?”
And so, Anvil agreed. Following his wife’s passing, his daughter, Duo Duo, was the sole family he had left. Duo Duo was exceptionally sweet and perceptive; she hadn’t shed a single tear in front of him since her mother’s funeral, a fact that broke his heart. With the lifespan earned from the arena, he could ensure that he and Duo Duo would lead a life liberated from the clutches of poverty.
The May tournament of the blood arena was about to commence. Inside the locker room, Anvil was wrapping his hands with bandages when a sudden wave of dry throat and dizziness washed over him. His ears began to ring violently, his auditory senses sharpening to an unnatural degree—a lingering side effect of the human experimentation he had undergone in the illicit clinics. His hearing fluctuated unpredictably. Through the thin partition, he caught the faint exchange of low whispers from the adjacent room:
“Was it a success?”
“It’s been introduced. He’ll lapse into a comatose state shortly.”
This was followed by the sound of hurried footsteps fading into the distance. Alarm bells blared wildly within Anvil’s mind. He scrambled to his feet, but his vision spun in a dizzying haze. He shook his head violently to clear his sight, only to spot the blood-drenched specters of his wife and daughter standing in the corner of the room, their eyeballs dangling loosely outside their sockets, leaving nothing but pitch-black, bloody craters on their faces.
Anvil clamped a hand over his nose and mouth. The sudden onset of intense hallucinations indicated that someone had likely flooded the room with a colorless, odorless neurotoxin!
He slammed his weight against the door, bursting through the frame to collapse onto the floor, gasping desperately for air. Out of the corner of his blurred vision, he caught a glimpse of figures darting around the far corridor corner.
The two fleeing individuals wore the gray uniforms of pipeline maintenance technicians. Despite pulling their caps low to obscure their faces, he recognized them as Chrono-Entropy Corporation employees he had encountered within the arena circuit.
Why would the Corporation conspire against me? His mind was a chaotic slurry. Right at that moment, a mechanical colosseum attendant marched over, projecting a cold, ruthless voice:
“Mr. Anvil, your scheduled match time has arrived.”
LED moving lights strobed overhead, casting a blinding glare across the canvas. Anvil staggered his way onto the elevated platform. No combatant in the blood arena was permitted to flee from a match, as truancy incurred a catastrophic fine of a full century of lifespan. Even knowing he had been sabotaged, he had no choice but to fight.
The stage was illuminated by seamless, omnidirectional spotlights that simulated brilliant daylight, while the spectator stands were a vast, dark ocean from which countless frantic roars echoed. The fighter stood as a solitary reef battered by the tide.
Anvil saw flashing stars in his eyes, his lungs gasping for oxygen. His opponent stepped onto the canvas, halting right before him. Anvil raised his head to look, completely struck dumb.
His opponent deliberately unclasped a rich sable coat, revealing a physique of sharply defined, powerful muscle arrays, topped with an ape-like, mocking grin. The challenger was none other than the Director of the Chrono-Entropy Corporation’s 2030 branch—Monkey Face.
“Director… why are you… out here?”
“Brother Anvil, you seem to be experiencing some physical discomfort. Why force yourself onto the canvas like this?”
“Are you… this old man’s opponent?”
Monkey Face nodded with a slick smile. Anvil recalled that the director was a frequent occupant of the arena rings, boasting an incredibly agile, unpredictable combat style. Opponents routinely collapsed before him like water.
“Indeed. I wished to share a friendly exhibition match with you, Brother Anvil. As long as you yield the fruits of victory to me and allow the title of ‘King of Boxers’ to change hands, all will be perfectly well.”
Anvil suddenly caught the distinct clanking of heavy iron chains behind his back. Twisting his head around, he saw that the Iron Maiden beneath the platform had already unlatched its grim doors. This was a routine psychological tactic deployed by the arena—exhibiting the torture implements to the combatants prior to the match to invoke a profound sense of terror and desperate fighting spirit. From within the stained interior of the Iron Maiden, bits of dried flesh from past victims flaked away, revealing a pitch-black shaft below. Once the mechanism was tripped, a corpse pierced by hundreds of spikes would plummet into the depths. Sensing an ominous trap, Anvil knit his brows tightly, questioning Monkey Face:
“Didn’t we agree… that we wouldn’t use that thing?”
Monkey Face offered no verbal response, merely staring back with a practiced, corporate smile. Anvil suddenly detected the profound falsity hidden beneath that grin. The odorless neurotoxin introduced into his locker room, the corporation personnel fleeing in haste, and the Iron Maiden brought out to the frontlines—
Every single clue pointed to Monkey Face as the architect pulling the strings from the shadows. He had never intended for this to be a peaceful exhibition match. Only by thoroughly grinding Anvil into the dirt could he skyrocket his own reputation to absolute heights.
“The toxin in the locker room—was it introduced by your lackeys?” Anvil’s gaze turned freezing cold. “This matter could have been resolved peacefully, yet you choose to break your word?”
“Mr. Anvil, the audience doesn’t crave a lukewarm, staged bout. They have grown accustomed to your absolute victories, and they yearn to witness a new superstar rise by trampling over your shattered bones.” A twisted grin broke across Monkey Face’s features. “You know as well as I do that a fighter requesting a clean retirement holds zero commercial value. Only a spectacular, catastrophic demise right here can maximize the viewership ratings for the blood arena.”
“Didn’t you claim… that this old man merely needed… to put on an exhibition?”
“Exactly, it is an exhibition. An exhibition depicting the fall of the legendary ‘King of Boxers’ right here, followed by his brutal destruction inside the Iron Maiden. Let’s not forget, Mr. Anvil—no matter how high you’ve climbed, you remain a lower-district dweller. You are ultimately nothing more than temporal fuel to be consumed by the Corporation!”
The moment the words left his mouth, Monkey Face violently kicked off the ground, twisting his hips to channel his entire physical output into his fist, launching forward like a coiled spring. Anvil scrambled to raise his guard, but as Monkey Face’s fist closed in on the tip of his nose, a sudden blast of white vapor erupted directly into Anvil’s face.
Anvil’s knees buckled instantly. A concealed micro-orifice had opened on Monkey Face’s gauntlet, expelling a concentrated stream of BZ gas powder. This was a military-grade incapacitating agent used to paralyze enemy forces; having accidentally inhaled the dust, Anvil felt his head erupting in a blinding headache.
Monkey Face was a master of underhanded tactics. Anvil recalled past footage of the director’s matches; his opponents invariably appeared incapable of exerting their true strength, likely due to covert sabotage prior to entering the ring. Anvil cast aside all remaining reservations, biting down brutally on the tip of his tongue to force his consciousness awake through the sharp pain. Sidestepping a lunging strike, he leapt into the air, bouncing his weight off the boundary ropes to hurl his entire mass down upon Monkey Face.
Monkey Face was no amateur. Executing a sharp spin, he evaded the incoming trajectory, his gauntlets unleashing a sonic boom under the propulsion of built-in thrusters. Trapped mid-air, Anvil should have been entirely incapable of evasive maneuvers. Yet, like a bird with a shattered wing, he suddenly dropped straight down, planting his palms against the canvas to launch a ferocious kick directly into Monkey Face’s jaw!
Monkey Face let out a sharp cry of agony as his jawbone shattered, but he countered with lightning speed. Retractable spikes erupted from his gauntlets, driving deep into Anvil’s calf. Pierced by the pain, Anvil was on the verge of collapsing when a sudden, fanatical roar erupted from the spectator stands:
“Anvil! Anvil, the King of Boxers!”
Whether that roar stemmed from genuine devotion or was merely the product of infected herd mentality, Anvil didn’t care. His thoughts flashed solely to his daughter, Duo Duo. In the quiet stillness of the night, she would stay up alone at home, her eyes glued to the glowing display terminal in the dark, watching her father fight with everything he had. If he collapsed here, he would destroy the image of the father she held sacred.
In that single fraction of a second, every vein across Anvil’s body bulged violently. He unleashed a roar that threatened to tear his lungs apart! He swung a fist—a strike that carried the crushing weight of a falling mountain, tearing through the air to send a howling shockwave past the ears of the crowd. Monkey Face’s physical frame absorbed the full impact, launching into the air like a scrap of loose paper before crashing back down to earth.
The cheers were absolutely deafening.
For Anvil, the King of Boxers, this was another standard victory. The masses occupying the stadium seats would likely never comprehend the terrifying undercurrents churning behind that triumph.
Monkey Face lay splayed on his back, a gaping crater torn open across his chest cavity. Yet, no blood flowed; instead, a complex network of colored wiring resembling artificial blood vessels lay exposed. He was a pioneer of the new era—a human who had completely bartered away his organic flesh for cybernetic machinery. A crinkling sound, like crumpled wax paper, rasped from his throat.
“An… vil.” A faint smirk forced its way onto Monkey Face’s features. “You defeated me here, but you are far from a winner in this life.”
Staring down at the mechanical chest rising and falling, a sense of profound foreboding blossomed within Anvil’s heart, expanding like a dark void. Monkey Face choked out, “Take your prize money and hurry back home. This portion of lifespan is far too meager for two people to split, but it’s an absolute surplus for one. Congratulations, you get to hoard this wealth all to yourself.”
The image of his daughter, Duo Duo, flashed through his mind, and the tightly coiled strings of his sanity snapped. Anvil vaulted over the boundary ropes, charging out of the arena.
Their home was situated along the flagstone streets of the lower district, where long lines of armored transport trucks routinely choked the pathways at night, filling the air with a pungent reek of exhaust. Neon signboards clung to the residential facades like ivy with suction cups, illuminating the alleys in messy patches. The deep interior of the concrete apartment complex housed Anvil’s home.
Anvil kicked the door open. The metallic frame was heavily dented, and the lock cylinder bore a chaotic array of scoring marks left behind by sharp entry tools. The furniture inside had been smashed to pieces, scattered across the floor like the aftermath of a violent brawler’s rampage. Duo Duo’s treasured Ace Clown plush doll lay decapitated, its internal cotton stuffing trailing outward like synthetic intestines. Someone had launched a calculated raid on his home while he was trapped in the arena, abducting his daughter.
His mobile terminal vibrated. Anvil retrieved the device to find an encrypted message containing a video file.
“Mr. Anvil, you breached your agreement. This is the price of defying the Corporation. Following standard protocol, we have secured your asset as collateral. The asset will now enter the auction phase.”
“What fucking collateral?!”
“Per the terms of the explicit contract executed by every combatant prior to entering the blood arena, the Corporation reserves the absolute right to seize the lifespan resources of the combatant and their immediate kin in the event of an operational breach.”
An image file arrived shortly after—a copy of the contract executed between the Corporation and the arena fighters, complete with Anvil’s precise signature. Yet, Anvil had never seen this document in his life.
Needless to say, this was the handiwork of the Corporation; forging contracts was an elementary task for an entity of their stature. Standing at the edge of an abyss, Anvil suddenly realized that lower-district dwellers were nothing more than disposable playthings to the Corporation—to be squeezed dry of value and ruthlessly cast aside the moment they displayed a hint of rebellion.
Opening the video file, he saw heavy crimson drapes parting slowly, mimicking the grand opening of a theatrical performance. Inside a massive wrought-iron cage sat a young girl wearing a pale pink, floral Rococo dress. Rested atop a plush velvet cushion, she was being displayed as an auction item, her expression as petrified as a cornered deer. Surrounding the cage sat a crowd of bidders wearing ornate Venetian masks.
The girl was his daughter, Duo Duo. A roaring inferno of fury instantly consumed his consciousness. Anvil unleashed a bestial roar, bursting through the doorway like a madman.
He possessed a vague memory of this specific auction house’s location. It was a playground frequented by the upper-district elite; back when he was a celebrated superstar, he had been granted the credentials to enter, though he had always disdained the place. Storming into the 2030 branch headquarters, he shattered the mechanical security attendants standing in his path with his bare fists. Forcing his way into the elevator bay, he jammed the controls, overriding the cabin to halt precisely at the temporal coordinates of “February 2030.” Ripping through the reinforced steel plating of the elevator shaft, a concealed security door manifested before him. Beyond the worn portal lay a sprawling, golden corridor lined with terracotta-colored Ziegler-Mahal carpets, the air infused with the sweet aroma of green grape gummies.
Anvil charged down the hall as dozens of four-wheeled security drones encased in neon-yellow plating converged on him, extending automated gun barrels from their chassis. Bullets kicked up sparks around his boots, but Anvil roared, smashing through the machinery with his bare mass.
The occupants of the auction hall turned in unison to stare at the intruder. They comprised an eclectic crowd dressed in bizarre garments—some sported rich otter-fur coats coupled with disc-shaped headpieces, while others wore high-collared trench coats integrated with quantum coatings, appearing as if they hailed from entirely disparate centuries. A gavel strike echoed beneath the towering dome of the auction house; a bidding round had just concluded. Anvil locked his eyes onto the display stage. The iron cage still held the silhouette of a young girl, but he knew with absolute certainty that he was too late.
In an instant, a network of bloodshot veins mapped across Anvil’s vision. Rested upon the velvet cushion was a head—the severed head of his daughter, Duo Duo. The tiny legs that used to sprint toward him like a homing bird, the delicate hands as smooth as lotus roots, and the slender torso that usually wore lace dresses—all of them had vanished without a trace.
“What is the meaning of this?” Anvil ground out through clenched teeth, his facial features taut, the skin over his cheekbones threatening to split apart under the tension. “What did you monsters do to her?”
No one offered a response. Anvil’s gaze shifted to the electronic ledger scrolling beside the display platform. It listed the anonymous bids placed by the buyers; the immediate prior item settled was Duo Duo’s arm. The realization struck him like a bolt of lightning. Duo Duo had been systematically partitioned like raw cargo, her limbs, organs, and torso auctioned off and scattered across entirely different timelines.
The eyes of the severed head were tightly closed, her nostrils twitching imperceptibly as if she still retained a phantom breath. She had lost consciousness entirely; because her constituent components existed across disparate temporal planes, she no longer constituted a complete human being within the current timeline. Suddenly, Anvil unleashed a soul-shattering shriek of agony, hurling himself forward.
Rage heated his eyes to a boiling point, and following that moment, the entire world dissolved into a sea of absolute crimson.
Through the blood-red haze, he envisioned a pasture of lush green grass where Duo Duo sprinted before him in a geometric daisy-patterned dress, playing a game of catch. He hurled a frisbee toward her, but she failed to secure the catch, the disk clattering to the ground. She let out a bright giggle, calling out: “Dad, I can’t catch it.” When he raised his eyes to look, he realized Duo Duo’s arms had been completely erased from existence.
He sprinted forward desperately, but his daughter’s physical form began to vanish piece by piece, as if excised by a pair of scissors. By the end, he was left cradling nothing but a severed head in his arms. Duo Duo closed her eyes, murmuring her final words:
“Goodbye, Dad.”
The crimson mist grew increasingly suffocating, burning itself into the deep recesses of his retinas. Anvil felt his soul drifting aimlessly through the void before finally crashing back down into his aching, battered limbs. After an unknown period, his surroundings slowly came into focus. The auction house had been transformed into a literal sea of blood. The mangled remains of guests and security drones lay strewn across the floor, and the handful of survivors left with a breath of life stared up at him with the sheer horror reserved for a demonic entity.
Anvil slowly lowered his gaze. He found the severed head of Duo Duo resting peacefully in his embrace, her features serene, appearing as though she had merely drifted off into a routine afternoon nap. Even though he had slaughtered everyone within the auction house, the damage was entirely irreversible; her body had been systematically dismantled and scattered across the streams of time.
The surviving witnesses watched as a solitary silhouette slowly rose to his feet, cradling a young girl’s head as he walked entirely alone through the ruins of the auction house toward the exit.
The man had arrived completely alone, and ultimately, he departed completely alone.
The legend of “Anvil, the King of Boxers” shattered and fell that day. Yet, a few days later, a brand-new myth was born within the lower districts of the Spiral City:
There was a man built like a colossal bear and fierce as a predatory lion who, carrying an absolute hatred toward the Chrono-Entropy Corporation, planted the sparks of rebellion deep within the soil of the lower districts.
