The Rookie at Club Harlem

People who need money will do anything to get it, no matter how. Sometimes, they don't hesitate to take dirty paths just to survive.

Ryder Cruz, a twenty-two-year-old man, is now a street fighter in Blaze City. Before this, he was just a cashier at a bakery near his apartment. But for Ryder, a cashier's salary was never enough to pay for his mother's medical treatments.

Since school, Ryder was used to working part-time jobs. He remembered how he saw men in their forties collecting and selling cans on the streets of Blaze City. Ryder followed in their footsteps, selling empty bottles just to afford food and drinks without asking his mother for help.

He didn't care what others thought. After all, everyone was busy with their own problems.

Tonight, Ryder was at Club Harlem, sitting in front of the committee table while filling out the fight registration form. He wrote down his name, age, place of origin, and the amount he wanted to bet on his first fight.

"Here's my form, please check it. If there's anything wrong, I'll fix it immediately," Ryder said as he handed the form and a pouch of coins to the man with glasses in front of him.

The man took Ryder's form and pouch, reading quickly, then raised his eyebrows at him. "Seems like you're a new fighter, huh?"

"That's right. This is my first time joining a one-on-one fight at Club Harlem. I need the money."

The man rubbed his chin, giving a slight smile. "Be careful. Your opponents here aren't easy. They're all strong. Make sure you're ready before stepping into the arena."

"I know. But can you show me who my opponent will be later?" Ryder asked, curiosity clear in his eyes.

"You're in luck. Your name is Ryder, right?"

"Yes. Your name is Dog, if I'm not mistaken?"

The man laughed, slapping the table, clearly entertained that a rookie had guessed his name.

"Is something funny?" Ryder asked flatly.

"Nothing, Ryder. Alright, your opponent's name is Brizks."

Hearing that name, Ryder grew even more curious. He hoped Brizks would give him a worthy fight.

"He's strong, Ryder. Be careful," Dog said.

"Thanks, Dog."

After that, Ryder glanced around. The atmosphere in Club Harlem tonight was lively. Neon lights flickered like fireflies, making the air more tense. The smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke filled the air, making Ryder's nose slightly uncomfortable. He never smoked or drank.

Ryder walked over to an empty chair in the corner of the room, waiting for his name to be called by the announcer to head to the arena.

Not long after, a man approached him, raising both eyebrows. "Hey, you're new here, huh?"

"Yeah. This is my first street fight."

"How much did you bet tonight?" the man asked as he sat down next to Ryder.

"Not much, just one gold and thirty Crowns," Ryder replied casually.

In Blaze City, Crowns were the currency that flowed through the streets like blood, coming in three types: gold, silver, and bronze. A hundred bronze would become one silver, and a hundred silver would turn into one gold.

Gold coins were used to buy vehicles, pay for medical bills, or for illegal weapons transactions in the black market. Silver coins were mostly used for food, drinks, and daily needs. Bronze coins were only enough to buy the cheap cigarettes that spectators often lit while watching fights like this.

"Hmm, that's quite a small amount. Is there even anyone willing to take that bet? Usually, no one takes bets that small."

"But Dog told me there was. His name's Brizks," Ryder replied, leaning slightly toward the man.

"Well, good for you then. Hope you win, Ryder."

Ryder glanced at the man, puzzled.

"How do you know my name?"

"Of course, I know you. Nice to meet you, I'm Fagu Gazi. I'm a staff here at Club Harlem," Fagu replied calmly.

"I see."

"Good luck, Ryder."

Fagu left Ryder with a thin smile, but Ryder still felt suspicious of him. He thought Fagu might be a street fighter just like him.

Suddenly, the announcer's voice echoed through the room.

"EVERYONE HERE, ARE YOU READY TO WITNESS OUR FIGHT TONIGHT?!"

People quickly moved toward the fighting arena, leaving their seats with half-finished glasses of alcohol. The atmosphere in Club Harlem turned into a sea of cheers, signaling that the fight was about to begin.

"TONIGHT, WE WILL SEE A NEW FIGHTER AT CLUB HARLEM, RYDER CRUZ…!"

"I'm betting eighty silver tonight!" yelled a man with glasses in the middle of the crowd.

"Hahaha! I'm putting thirty silver on Ryder! Knock him out!" shouted another man wearing a backward black cap.

"AND RYDER CRUZ'S OPPONENT… BRIZKS!"

"Beat him up, Brizks! I've already bet eighty silver on you!!" shouted a shirtless man with a raspy voice.

Hearing his name called, Ryder immediately walked toward the arena while thinking about the man who had greeted him earlier, wearing a backward blue cap and a shirt that read "I Will Not Lose."

People now called Ryder "Rookie."

"Our Rookie is here!" shouted the man with glasses.

The fighting arena was spacious, surrounded by spectators forming a tight circle, eager to witness the bloody fight tonight.

Ryder wore a red hoodie and long black sweatpants. His head was shaved with a single lightning bolt carved on the right side. He stood in the middle of the arena, facing his opponent.

Brizks, a man with a more muscular build, wore only a white tank top and short jeans. His arm muscles tensed as he smirked.

"So, you're my opponent?" Brizks looked at Ryder with a mocking stare.

"That's right. I'm your opponent. I hope you can give me a proper fight," Ryder replied, eyes unblinking.

Brizks laughed loudly at Ryder's words, then stared back sharply.

"Don't cry when I beat you later, Ryder."

Ryder stared back, unafraid. The corner of his lips lifted.

"We'll see later who will be wearing diapers after this fight."

Ryder's provocation made Brizks' eyebrows furrow, his jaw tightening.

"When does this start? I can't wait to beat him up." Brizks flexed his fingers repeatedly.

Brizks' emotions boiled like a volcano ready to erupt.

The atmosphere in the arena grew hotter, the cheers of the crowd deafening. Bets were already placed, and tonight, there would only be one winner.

Suddenly, a man walked into the arena wearing a black jacket with a logo of a man blowing a whistle on the back, the official logo recognized by street fighters as a sign of a certified referee.

Tonight's match was a one-on-one fight with simple rules: lose if you surrender or get knocked out.

The referee raised both hands, signaling the fighters to approach him. Both Ryder and Bricks walked toward the referee.

Now, they were standing face-to-face, Ryder with his cold expression while Bricks was filled with burning emotion.