Excerpt:
Echoes of Battle: The Clandestine Arena Part 3. Those Who Fight in the Shadows
Inside, the air was thick, charged with restrained electricity. The walls seemed to pulse with the vibration of bass notes pouring from speakers hung in the arches, creating a rhythm that wasn’t just heard, but felt beneath the skin.
At the center: the ring.
It wasn’t a traditional square. The stone surface was marked by irregular carvings along the edges—symbols eroded by time and by something else. Dry stains darkened the floor, some so old they seemed fused into the stone itself. It was impossible to tell whether they were sweat, dirt, or blood.
Gabriel felt a dull discomfort settle in his chest.
The crowd encircled the ring like predators lying in wait. Some stood, others sat on makeshift benches, but all shared the same glint in their eyes: morbid curiosity, desire, a hunger for violence.
“What is this?” Gabriel murmured, still trying to make sense of it.
“It’s a show,” Alonso replied with a crooked smile. “And not everyone comes just to watch.”
Despite the place’s clandestine nature, the technology was surprisingly advanced. On one side wall hung a black glass panel nearly three meters wide, projecting real-time data: scheduled fights, code names, win rates, accumulated bets. The entire interface was digital, backlit in crimson and gold, moving fluidly, as if operated from some unseen control room.
Alonso pulled a wad of crumpled bills from his jacket. He glanced at the screen with practiced familiarity and pressed a button that activated a microphone.
“One hundred on Cuervo,” he said without hesitation.
He fed the money into the scanner. The terminal hummed and spat out a black plastic token etched with an alphanumeric code. Alonso slipped it into his inner pocket.
“You betting, man? Easy money,” he asked Gabriel, barely turning.
“Not interested.”
“Sure,” Alonso shrugged. “Important guy’s just here for the show.”
“I wish that were it,” Gabriel muttered.
He scanned the room. Most of the attendees had their faces covered—caps, hoods, glasses, masks. Dark clothes, hushed voices. No one wanted to be recognized. No one wanted to leave a trace.
In contrast, on the second floor behind polarized glass, a VIP area was visible: low couches, warm lighting, frosted glasses. No covered faces there—only masks. Metallic half-faces, porcelain visages. Not to hide, but to preserve power with elegance.
“Who are they?” Gabriel asked quietly.
“The ones who move the pieces. High-ranking fighters. Financiers. Or worse.”
Before Gabriel could ask more, something changed.
One of them moved.
From the VIP area, a figure tilted their head slightly, staring directly at him through the dark glass. The pressure in Gabriel’s chest grew harder to control, something inside him stirring, pushing forward—and he knew what it was.
To keep the creature within from surfacing, he looked away before the moment stretched too long.
The names of the next fighters flashed on the screen.
The crowd’s murmur swelled, dragging tension with it.
But in Gabriel’s mind, the image of that masked face remained fixed.
This wasn’t just a place for betting on fights.
This was a place to observe. To select. To calculate.
And for some reason, someone had just calculated him.
A new matchup blinked onto the screen:
[CUERVO vs. SHIVA | START IN 02:30]
The crowd stirred. Some chanted the nicknames in hoarse voices. Alonso and Gabriel moved toward one of the railings overlooking the stone circle, near a couple of guys drinking beers while waiting for Cuervo and Shiva to appear.
The bell rang, metallic and sharp, and the murmur vanished in an instant. In the stone ring, the fighters took their positions with the solemnity of an ancient ritual.
Cuervo, Alonso’s favorite, advanced with slumped shoulders and his neck tilted to one side, as if already accustomed to pain. His fists and elbows were wrapped, and his back was crisscrossed with scars forming jagged lines. Beside him, Shiva looked more focused: compact build, taut movements, eyes locked forward—like an animal that survives by anticipating the blow.
Gabriel watched the exchange with crossed arms, gaze steady but without real interest.
Cuervo had technique—precise, calculated movements. Shiva answered with solidity, but her endurance waned with every hit. The fight wasn’t sloppy, nor boring, nor lacking in brutality.
But it wasn’t what he was looking for.
A punch. A kick. A dodge. Blood on stone.
That was all.
The discomfort in his chest intensified. Nothing strange. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just people fighting.
Alonso, entertained, noticed his expression.
“Nothing?” he asked with a mocking grin. “They’re about to smash each other’s faces in. What more do you want?”
Gabriel exhaled slowly.
“There’s nothing unusual,” he murmured, almost to himself.
His mind began to untangle recent memories: the hunter in the forest, the lost orb, the mention of Black Hand. Everything suggested he was close to something important—but here… here he saw nothing that connected to it.
“What were you expecting? A dragon with knives in its ribs?” Alonso joked.
Gabriel shook his head, eyes fixed on the stone circle.
“I don’t know… something different.”
Cuervo’s final blow dropped Shiva. The fight ended with a curt count and an explosion of cheers. The bell echoed again, announcing the end of the first bout. The crowd roared; some applauded, others whistled. The loser was dragged from the Arena, her nose bleeding. Gabriel remained still, arms crossed, unmoved. Alonso was already asking who was up next.
The second fight began with two enormous men—tattooed torsos, shaved heads—swinging like sledgehammers. No technique, just brute force. Every impact made the wooden floor tremble. The crowd went wild, shouting insults and bets. Alonso wagered on the taller one and lost when the other dropped him with a brutal knee. Gabriel barely blinked, though he noticed a couple of men in the corner watching him sidelong, as if gauging his reaction.
The third was different: a woman with long braids against a much heavier opponent. The mismatch seemed unfair, but she moved with feline agility, dodging and firing quick kicks that drew cheers. Alonso shouted like he was in a stadium and won his bet. Gabriel didn’t celebrate; he was too busy feeling the weight of eyes on him from different points in the room.
Between fights, Alonso disappeared and returned with a greasy tray: barrel-cooked meat, sausages, potatoes, and two cold beers.
“So you don’t fall asleep, Gabo,” he joked, setting it down. Gabriel took a piece of meat without enthusiasm, chewing out of habit rather than hunger. Salt and beer mixed on his tongue as the Arena’s din continued to swell.
The fourth fight was slow, nearly tedious—two weathered veterans who looked more tired than motivated. The crowd began to whistle; some stood to buy more drinks. Alonso lost another bet. Gabriel used the lull to scan the room and again felt those eyes on him. He looked down, uneasy.
The fifth reignited the energy: a dark-skinned youth, quick as a street cat, against a broad man with arms like tree trunks. The contrast ignited the crowd. The kid dodged, the brute endured, and every collision drew roars. Alonso jumped to his feet, yelling. Gabriel stayed serious, though inwardly he acknowledged the boy’s skill.
The sixth was brief: a solidly built woman dropped her opponent in under two minutes. The crowd burst into laughter and mockery as the loser staggered away. Alonso didn’t even get a chance to bet. Gabriel felt the scrutiny intensify, as if someone expected him to react—to stand, to show something beyond indifference.
Time unraveled in that whirl of shouts, wagers, and cigarette smoke. Outside, night advanced, but inside it felt suspended, trapped in the echo of blows and the roar of the crowd. Gabriel didn’t know if two hours or five had passed. All he knew was that the Arena was closing in on him, each minute pushing him closer to a breaking point.
He had hoped to find something that night. A sign that he wasn’t alone in what he was.
But all he saw were humans fighting for money.
And the unsettling echo that maybe he was searching in the wrong place.
Alonso snorted.
“Sometimes people just want to watch two idiots beat each other up for cash.”
Gabriel didn’t answer. Bored with the fight, he started watching the crowd.
From the railing he could see the side stands, packed with hooded figures—caps, scarves, masks. No faces. It was as if they all shared a silent secret, a rule that needed no explanation. Some stood with arms crossed; others sat murmuring, eyes flat.
And yet, Gabriel felt they were watching him.
“Don’t do that,” Alonso said without looking at him.
“Do what?”
“Don’t stare at those people. Not so directly.”
Gabriel frowned.
“Why not?”
“Because no one comes here to be seen. Some bet. Others just… record. And a few don’t like curiosity.”
“Record?” Gabriel repeated.
“They take notes, calculate things. Not everyone’s here for the show. There are talent scouts. Or guys looking for something that isn’t in the ring.”
Gabriel lowered his gaze for a second, then lifted it again more slowly, scanning the front rows with care. His eyes stopped on a motionless figure at the back of the hall—a dark silhouette, perfectly still, not watching the fight, but watching him.
His stomach tightened. He didn’t know why. He only knew he was being observed with intent.
He blinked.
The figure was gone.
“Did you see that?” he asked quietly.
“See who?”
“No one,” Gabriel lied.
Below, the seventh fight ended with a brutal knee to the abdomen. The loser dropped to his knees, gasping, while the referee approached with gloved hands and a cold stare. The winner didn’t celebrate. He walked to the edge of the circle as if ready to leave.
Scattered applause followed. Alonso raised his black token and smiled.
“One hundred fifty grand. You lose some, you win some. See? The world’s got its logic.”
Gabriel looked at him without answering. He had hoped for a sign. Proof he wasn’t alone.
Instead, he found people beating each other for money, more doubts about the forest, and strange glances that pierced him… and vanished.
After the last bout, the board flared bright again. This time, the crowd reacted differently—low voices, nods of approval, a few nervous laughs.
[DANTE vs. EL TORO | START IN 02:00]
The murmur rose. Many moved toward the terminals, including the two friends.
“This one’s worth it,” Alonso said, grinning. “Never seen him live, but they say Dante flows in the arena like water.”
“And El Toro?”
“A brute. Straight ahead. No brain.” Already heading off, he added, “Be right back!”
Gabriel watched him disappear into the crowd, cash in hand. The screen flashed stats—height, weight, records, odds.
Gabriel didn’t move. Numbers didn’t interest him. He just wanted to see if this time… something happened.
The lights dimmed. A red line traced the ring’s edge. The music cut.
El Toro entered first—massive, tattooed, arms mottled with fresh bruises. He walked with the confidence of someone unafraid of being hit, and with little imagination about avoiding it.
Then Dante arrived.
No noise. No theatrics.
He simply appeared.
Slim. Silent.
His gait was fluid, too measured. Gabriel watched him closely, feeling a different unease. He didn’t look like a typical fighter—didn’t even seem to belong there. There was something in the way his eyes scanned the space, in how his body seemed to move before it moved.
Then Gabriel saw the tattoo.
A dark line ran from Dante’s neck to his shoulder blade, lines interweaving in a symmetrical, almost hypnotic pattern.
Alonso smiled.
“That’s Dante,” he said, eyes fixed. “Looks harmless, right? Wait till you see him move.”
The bell rang. El Toro charged brutally from the first second. A right cross. A low kick. A grapple attempt.
Dante didn’t block.
He slipped away.
Surgical precision. Minimal movement. Every shift calculated to the millimeter. At one point, he spun to evade a direct strike.
And Gabriel saw it.
For a fraction of a second, a faint blue line—like an energy trail—hung in the air where Dante had turned.
He blinked. It was gone.
“Did you see that?” Gabriel asked, unable to hide the tension.
“The spin? Yeah. Insane. They say he mixes capoeira with aikido or some shit.”
“No. I thought…” He hesitated. “…nothing.”
But it wasn’t nothing.
The fight intensified. El Toro grew frustrated, his blows missing. Dante guided him with precision, as if he already knew exactly where he wanted him to fall.
When he finally took him down, the stone shuddered.
The crowd reacted differently this time. Not just applause—something heavier, more real.
Gabriel watched Dante leave.
No smile. No celebration. Just gone, as quietly as he’d arrived.
Gabriel clenched his jaw.
He’d felt it.
And now he couldn’t ignore it.
Applause rose—real applause. Some stood. Even the VIP area stirred: a raised glass, a figure leaning toward the glass.
Dante lifted a hand briefly. No smile. He exited silently.
“And now?” Alonso asked, satisfied.
“What?”
“Still think there’s nothing interesting here?”
Gabriel hesitated.
“I’m not sure.”
Alonso laughed.
After the fight, as applause lingered, Alonso pulled the token from his jacket.
“Luck’s on my side tonight,” he said, shaking it. “Better cash out before I push it.”
“You cashing in already?”
“Yeah. Then I’ll watch. No point betting when you’re up. Besides, I want to see how the night ends.” He winked. “Places like this always save a surprise for last.”
Gabriel didn’t reply. Dante’s spin, the blue trace—it stayed with him. Had he imagined it? A technique? Or something else?
Alonso tapped his arm.
“I’m going to cash out. You waiting or coming?”
“I’ll wait.”
“Good. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t talk to anyone,” he said lightly, and vanished into the crowd.
Gabriel was alone again.
And not just here. A deeper solitude—one neither Alonso nor the fights nor the crowd’s murmur could fill.
Minutes passed, but Gabriel couldn’t stop thinking about that faint flash. A blue trail, almost invisible, that seemed to confirm what he’d been searching for. Or maybe it was just a mind starving for signs.
Around him, the noise normalized. Lights dimmed again. The screen showed the next matchup, but Gabriel didn’t register it. His gaze was fixed on a dead point in the stone circle.
The bell rang. Another fight began.
He didn’t even blink.
Then a voice rose from the stands:
“What’s with that guy? Fall asleep or too lazy to watch?”
Laughter erupted. Gabriel didn’t react. His silence, once observation, now read as arrogance.
“What, you don’t like it? Then get down there and fight!”
He stayed still. Indifferent. Enough to spark more jeers.
“Oh, the philosopher! Analyzing violence!”
“So clean-handed and superior!”
Eyes turned toward him. Murmurs grew into open mockery.
Just then, Alonso returned, cash in hand, his expression changing when he saw the attention on his friend.
“Man… what happened?”
Gabriel didn’t answer.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. That’s what set them off,” Alonso muttered. “People here hate it when someone looks better than them. And you look like a saint judging from above.”
Tension mounted. Then the organizer’s voice boomed from below—amplified, confident, commanding:
“Do we have a volunteer?”
Lights swept the stands. Spotlights froze on Gabriel. The ongoing fight vanished from relevance.
“Many come to watch… few dare to prove it. What do you say, sir?”
The crowd roared. Whistles. Chants:
“Get down! Get down!”
Then someone shouted louder:
“Tetranutra!”
Laughter exploded.
“Coward bastard!”
Heat rushed through Gabriel’s skin.
He wasn’t used to confrontation—least of all among drunk men hungry for blood. He stayed still, not responding.
The pressure in his chest grew unbearable. Too close to what he’d felt in the forest. Too close to what he’d been avoiding since that night.
A chill ran down his spine…
–Continue reading in its original Castilian language at fictograma.com–