Chapter 41: The Fight of His Life

The underground arena reeked of sweat, blood, and desperation. The air was thick with smoke and the deafening roar of gamblers placing their bets, their voices a cacophony of greed and bloodlust. Harsh, fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows over the steel cage that enclosed the ring—a pit where men were devoured, either by fists or by fate.

Alexander stepped forward, his boots heavy against the bloodstained concrete. His body was battered, scars mapping out the wars he had survived. He had fought in countless battles, but this one felt different. It was personal. He wasn't just fighting for himself; he was fighting for Eve, for freedom, for the chance to silence the ghosts in his head once and for all.

Across from him, the undefeated champion loomed like a monolith of muscle and malice. Sergei "The Executioner" Volkov—Carver's personal enforcer. A man who had broken necks with his bare hands and left bodies in his wake. His presence alone sent a ripple of unease through the crowd, and the way he cracked his knuckles was a silent promise of pain.

Alexander's grip tightened around the wraps on his hands. Fear had no place here. Pain was temporary. And death? Death was a luxury he couldn't afford tonight.

The bell rang.

Sergei struck first, a brutal right hook that could've caved in a lesser man's skull. Alexander barely dodged, the wind of the punch cutting against his cheek. He countered with a sharp jab to the ribs, but it was like hitting a wall. Sergei smirked, eyes gleaming with sadistic amusement, and retaliated with a vicious elbow to Alexander's temple.

Stars exploded in his vision, but he refused to go down.

He staggered back, rolling his shoulders, blood dripping from a cut above his brow. Sergei was stronger, but brute force wasn't enough to break him. He had fought men like this before. Men who thought size was everything, that raw power could crush strategy. But Alexander knew better.

He shifted his stance, light on his feet, analyzing every movement. Sergei moved like a predator, confident, overconfident. That was his weakness. Alexander baited him with an opening—just enough to make him take the shot. When Sergei lunged, Alexander twisted, dodging at the last second and delivering a devastating knee to his ribs.

A grunt escaped Sergei, but he didn't falter. He swung again, a hammer of a fist aimed at Alexander's jaw. This time, Alexander wasn't fast enough. The impact sent him crashing against the cage. Pain radiated through his skull, but he used the momentum, pushing off the steel to drive a sharp uppercut into Sergei's chin.

The champion's head snapped back, a crack echoing through the arena. The crowd erupted, some cheering, some jeering. Blood dripped from Sergei's split lip, but he grinned—a feral, unhinged grin.

"You fight like a man with nothing to lose," Sergei taunted, wiping the blood from his mouth. "That makes you dangerous. But not invincible."

Alexander rolled his neck, exhaling slowly. "I don't care about winning. I only care about making sure I'm the last man standing."

Sergei laughed, but it was cut short as Alexander launched himself forward. He didn't let up, striking with precise, calculated brutality. A hook to the liver. A cross to the temple. A knee to the gut. He fought with the rage of a man who had been hunted his whole life, with the desperation of a man clawing his way out of the abyss.

Sergei swung wildly, but his punches lost their precision. The beast was tiring.

Alexander saw his opening.

He feinted left, drawing Sergei's guard just enough, then drove his fist into his opponent's throat. Sergei gagged, stumbling, hands instinctively flying to his neck. That was all the opening Alexander needed. He delivered a final, crushing blow—an elbow straight to the temple.

Sergei collapsed.

Silence fell over the arena, shock gripping the audience. Then, the cheers came, thunderous and primal. But Alexander didn't hear them. His ears rang, his body screamed, but he stayed standing.

Carver watched from the VIP section, expression unreadable. Alexander met his gaze, blood dripping down his face.

The message was clear.

He wasn't just a fighter.

He was a survivor.