The Underdog’s Ring

They were walking through dirt roads that looked like they hadn't seen rain in decades.

Dave held the wrinkled flyer like it was a golden ticket. "Found this near a broken vending machine. Underground fight. No powers. No rules. Fists only."

Krane raised an eyebrow. "So we going back to caveman days?"

"Basically," Dave said. "But there's info in there. Fighters talk. Someone might know something about the Cipher or Vaelen."

Atlas looked at the paper, unimpressed. "You dragged me out of the dirt for a street brawl?"

Jonas slapped his back. "C'mon, old man. Let's see if those ancient bones still got juice."

Atlas gave him a side-eye. "You're brave for a guy with noodle arms."

Jonas grinned. "Noodle arms? Please. These arms saved Mira's life—twice. Ask her."

Mira didn't even look up. "They saved me from boredom maybe."

Lucien smirked. "This could be good for us. No magic means no advantage. If Atlas can still throw hands, it'll show."

They arrived at the edge of the fight grounds—an abandoned stadium carved out from ruins. Fighters stood around shirtless, sweating, sizing each other up like animals before a storm.

"Why do I feel like this is gonna end in medical bills?" Krane muttered.

Atlas cracked his knuckles. "Because it probably will."

One of the organizers walked up. Tall, mean, chewing on something. "You fight?"

Atlas nodded.

"Name?"

Jonas leaned in. "Put him down as The Last Problem."

The guy raised a brow. "Cute."

Jonas grinned. "He's not."

Mira looked around, crossing her arms. "You really think this is gonna help us?"

"No," Dave said. "But I think it'll shake something loose."

Lucien nodded. "One fight might be all we need."

Atlas rolled his neck with a deep breath. "No powers, huh? Just pain and sweat. It's been a while…"

Jonas leaned over, whispering, "Don't trip over your sandals, Gramps."

"I'll make sure you're my warm-up," Atlas replied, grinning like a man who once punched a god for blinking wrong.

The bell rang in the distance.

And just like that… the crowd started cheering

The arena was nothing but noise and dust. Bare fists, bare bones, and no mercy.

Atlas stepped into the pit like he'd done it a thousand times before… but his body felt different now. Slower. Older. Dimmer.

No shirt. No armor. Just scars and muscle memory holding him together.

Jonas leaned over the railing with a dumb grin. "Try not to snap a hip, old man!"

Atlas smirked. "Try not to pee yourself from excitement."

The bell rang.

Before he could brace, a punch slammed straight into his ribs.

He grunted. No block. No reaction.

The next one hit his jaw—hard. His head snapped sideways.

Mira blinked. "Wait—is he… getting cooked right now?"

Dave winced. "Yeah, that's not the look of a tier-god to me."

Krane crossed his arms. "Man's getting flashbacks and fists."

But Lucien? She said nothing. Just watched. Focused. She'd seen that stare before—the kind of stare that wasn't about the fight. It was about memory.

Atlas took another hit—gut shot. Folded a little. Coughed.

The crowd booed.

His opponent—a mountain of muscle with more tattoos than brain cells—grinned wide. "This the so-called legend? What a joke."

Atlas wiped blood off his lip, laughed through it. "It's coming back to me… just give it a sec."

He rolled his neck. Something clicked.

Then—tap—his right foot slid back a few inches.

Barely noticeable. But it meant everything.

Next hit grazed past his shoulder.

He pivoted. Footwork clean. Still slow. Still clunky. But… familiar.

Jonas leaned forward, squinting. "Hold up… is he dancing?"

"No," Lucien said under her breath. "He's waking up."

The memories flooded in—sparring in temples, roaring crowds, bare knuckle brawls across forgotten worlds. He remembered the pain. The rhythm. The way his body used to know before his mind caught up.

Another swing came at him.

He caught it.

Twisted the arm. Drove his elbow down hard.

CRACK.

The crowd went quiet.

Atlas exhaled—low and steady.

"I didn't become the king of hands 'cause I was fast," he muttered, circling now, eyes locked in.

"I became it 'cause I never forgot."

Left jab. Right cross. Gut shot. Elbow. Leg sweep.

Boom. Boom. Snap. Slam.

The brute crashed into the dirt like a statue getting dropped from heaven.

Atlas didn't even look at him. Just wiped his nose and turned to the crew.

Jonas was hanging halfway over the edge of the wall, losing it. "YES, GRANDPA! WHO NEEDS A HIP REPLACEMENT NOW?!"

Even Krane gave a slow nod. "Took him long enough."

Atlas grinned, breathing heavy, blood still dripping. "Next time… remind me to stretch before I fight a damn mountain."

Lucien chuckled softly. "Welcome back."

Mira crossed her arms. "One warm-up fight doesn't mean you're ready."

Atlas shrugged, heading to the exit. "Maybe. But that one felt… right."

The crowd went quiet again. Too quiet.

Atlas staggered, blood dripping from his lip, his arm dangling like it forgot how to work. His chest rose and fell like he was chasing his last breath.

This guy… this second opponent wasn't like the first.

He was faster. Meaner. Built like a damn rhino with hands made of lead.

Lucien gripped the edge of the railing. "I'm going in."

Mira grabbed her arm. "You can't. You heard the rules—outside interference equals death."

"He's not gonna make it."

Atlas hit the ground hard. His body curled slightly. His ribs weren't just cracked—they were shattered.

And the bastard across from him was still smiling. "I thought you were supposed to be a legend."

Atlas coughed. Blood hit the sand.

He looked up, grinning through crimson teeth.

"Oh, I am," he said. "Just… not on Tuesdays."

The crowd didn't laugh. But Jonas? Jonas let out a full snort.

"Okay! Okay, that one was good!"

Krane wasn't laughing. His eyes narrowed. "He's stalling."

Lucien's fists clenched. "He's dying."

Atlas pulled himself up slow. Like his whole body weighed ten tons. The arena shimmered under the heat, the air thick with tension.

"Can't lie," he wheezed. "Thought I had more left in the tank…"

He took two steps back. Wobbled.

Then stopped. Breathing still.

And remembered.

A kid. Cold nights. Bare floors. Fists up. Bones broken.

Not a god. Not a champion.

Just a kid who refused to stay down.

His knees gave out.

Lucien took a step forward again. Mira blocked her.

"I'm serious," Lucien hissed. "We let him die out there, that's on us."

Jonas whispered, "Wait…"

Atlas coughed again. Then chuckled.

"Alright… now this just getting disrespectful," he muttered. "Dying? In front of my fans? Nah."

He tilted his neck—CRACK.

Then his spine—POP.

And something shifted.

His body straightened. Slow. Controlled. Wounds stitching. Flesh resetting.

Even his damn hair looked cleaner.

Dave blinked. "Wait… is he healing?"

Krane leaned in. "No. That's… muscle memory activating."

Jonas: "That man's body just rebooted like a Wi-Fi router."

Atlas rolled his shoulder. No more wince. No more limp.

He raised his chin.

"Okay. I don't know what the hell that was… but it felt refreshing."

The opponent growled, launching off the ground with full force—faster than before.

Atlas?

He closed his eyes.

Krane said, "Oh boy… did he just close his eyes?"

Lucien: "He's bluffing…"

Then—

BOOM.

One punch.

Just one.

Atlas's fist caught the man mid-air. Right in the gut. Sounded like a bomb went off.

The guy didn't just fall—he folded. Mid-air. Dropped like a dying star.

The sand didn't even catch him right. He hit the ground like a puppet with the strings yanked out.

Silence.

Then chaos.

Jonas jumped. "THAT'S MY BOY! WHO NEEDS A PHOENIX DOWN WHEN YOU BUILT DIFFERENT?!"

Atlas cracked his neck. "Told y'all… I just needed to stretch."