Chapter 1: Old Man

The sound of bells clanged discordantly as the door of the lonely diner creaked open. The place was a relic of a forgotten era, grungy and dark, its long countertop snaking from the entrance to the dimly lit rear. Four booths, their vinyl seats cracked and peeling, lined the sides, facing windows that offered a dismal view of the streets. Here, in this forsaken part of town, windows were more a curse than a blessing, framing a panorama of human despair. The sidewalks teemed with the destitute, their haunted eyes peering from gaunt faces, while alien critters, grotesque and chittering, scurried between trash bins and graffiti-smeared walls. To most, this was a wasteland. To Eli, it was home.

Eli, once a promising mixed martial arts coach, now a shadow of his former self, shuffled into the diner. He was in his late thirties, but the years had not been kind. His short brown hair was cut clean but streaked with gray at the temples, a five o'clock shadow permanently darkened his jaw, more of a nine o'clock shadow now, and deep bags under his eyes told tales of countless sleepless nights. He had once trained fighters, shaping raw talent into potential champions, but every one of his protégés had met with failure, injury, or worse—death. The years of heartbreak had carved lines into his face and eroded his spirit, leaving him scraping by as a low-tier news reporter covering local fight promotions.

Eli made his way to the third booth, the squeak of the worn leather seat a familiar comfort. He reached into the pocket of his long, weathered brown trench coat and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Lighting one, he drew a deep breath, the smoke curling upwards, blending with the stale air of the diner. His eyes, tired yet still sharp, flicked to the holoscreen above the counter. It was displaying the latest news on the upcoming fight between Denole Rezcarr and the Eastern Cosmo Champion Reyark Xser.

Reyark Xser was a formidable figure, hailing from the distant planet Zeptar. His green skin had a strange, iridescent quality, and his head was crowned with two protruding bones that resembled horns, though they were blunt and not sharp. His yellow eyes glowed with an intense, predatory focus. His body, ripped and muscular yet slim, was a testament to his grueling training and the brutal nature of his homeworld.

Denole Rezcarr, by contrast, was a native of Riptun, a planet known for its fierce warriors. His blue skin, smooth and sleek, contrasted with his piercing green eyes. Denole's pointed ears and cat-like facial features gave him an almost ethereal appearance, but his slim, muscular physique spoke of lethal power and agility. His race, the Riptunians, were renowned for their speed and deadly precision in combat, traits that Denole embodied to the fullest.

"That's gonna be a good fight," Eli thought to himself, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. Micky, the waitress, approached his table. She was a fixture in the diner, her holographic wrist display glowing softly as she took orders.

"Same old, Eli?" Micky asked, her voice a mix of weariness and familiarity.

"Coffee, black. Thank you," Eli replied, his voice roughened by years of disappointment and too many cigarettes.

"Be right up," Micky responded, shuffling back to the counter, her fingers tapping on the hologram projected from her wrist. The diner hummed with a low, persistent buzz, the kind of sound that one could only hear in the presence of old machinery and forgotten dreams.

Eli's gaze drifted back to the holoscreen, the flickering images of the fighters igniting a spark of the old passion within him.

The thought of the upcoming bout stirred something deep inside, a reminder of the man he once was and the glory he once chased. "Fuck me," Eli muttered, sliding his hand through his hair in frustration. Micky came back with his coffee, her cute diner outfit—a black short skirt and a white blouse—flapping as she moved.

"Here ya go, Eli. Coffee, black as the bags under your eyes. You sure you need more caffeine?" Micky joked, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Ha ha," Eli replied sarcastically, taking a sip of the steaming coffee. "You know, I had fighters in the GUFA. Some were climbing up to get a title shot. I was so damn close."

"Yeah, yeah, I know the story, Eli. Don't be so gloomy. Smile every now and then. Looking like that can't be good for your health," she said, giving him a playful wink before heading back to the counter to take more orders.

Just then, the door opened again, the bells clanging together, alerting Micky to the new arrival. "Welcome! Have a seat at the counter. I'm afraid the booths are taken at the moment. Sorry for any inconvenience," she greeted, her short black hair adorned with a cute red bow on the left side, barely touching her shoulders.

The man grunted, brushing her off with a dismissive wave of his hand. His heavy, worn-out boots stomped on the ground, his ripped and torn jeans and long black jacket giving him a rough, almost menacing appearance. An orange toque sat on his head, and a strange, pungent smell followed him. He walked up to the booth where Eli was sitting and plopped down directly in front of him.

"Um, sir, do I know you?" Eli asked, confusion evident in his voice.

The man stared at him for a moment, then grunted and mumbled, "Cigarette."

"What? You want a cigarette?" Eli asked, trying to decipher the man's intentions. He knew better than to overreact, especially with someone who might be unstable. "Must be homeless," he thought, pulling out his pack of cigarettes and tossing one to the man.

The man placed the cigarette in his mouth and leaned forward, gesturing for Eli to light it for him. Eli hesitated but then obliged, flicking his lighter and igniting the cigarette. The man took a deep drag, his eyes never leaving Eli's.

"What the hell is going on?" Eli thought, his instincts on high alert. Despite the man's disheveled appearance, there was something about him that felt off. Eli, however, was confident in his ability to handle himself if things got out of hand.

Micky walked over, her expression concerned. "Eli, you okay? Want me to get this guy out of here?" she asked, staring warily at the strange man sitting across from Eli.

"No, it's alright. He isn't disturbing me," Eli replied, a hint of empathy in his voice. He felt a pang of remorse for the man; it wasn't hard to imagine himself in a similar situation one day.

The man took another drag from his cigarette and finally spoke, his voice a gravelly whisper. "You Eli Harrow?"

Eli's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, that's me. And you are?"

The man leaned closer, his breath reeking of alcohol and desperation. "Name's Jarek. I'm a Depth Dweller. You used to train fighters and whatnot, correct?" His words were barely audible, but somehow, Eli could understand him.

"Y-yeah, a long time ago," Eli replied, curiosity piqued by the stranger's sudden approach.

"You ever hear of the Underground?" Jarek asked, the wrinkles in his face telling tales of a hard-lived life. Eli had heard whispers of the Depths, the lawless, poverty-stricken underbelly of the city, but he had never ventured there himself.

"No, what is that?" Eli finally responded.

"It's a fighting club, like the GUFA, but it only exists in the Depths," Jarek explained, his tone serious despite his whispering.

"So, what of it?" Eli replied, not taking it seriously at all. "The Underground," he thought. "What a lame name for a promotion, but I guess it makes sense for Depth Dwellers." He sipped his coffee and took another drag from his cigarette.

"Well, word in the Depths is there's a mysterious fighter who appeared out of nowhere and has been taking out all the fighters down there with ease," Jarek paused, his eyes glinting with a mix of fear and awe.

"Listen, Jarek, I'm not in the business anymore. I've burned a lot of bridges and lost a lot of good people," Eli said, a tinge of sadness coloring his voice.

"I'm aware of your failures, silly man, but I'm not asking you to train anyone. I'm just telling you a story," Jarek replied, a grin forming on his face, revealing teeth stained from years of neglect.

"So that's it? Some person beating up a bunch of nobodies in a low-tier fighting organization. Why even tell me this stupid fairy tale?" Eli finally said, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

"This person... killed Gorgra," Jarek said, his face growing pale.

Eli spat out his coffee, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. "Gorgra the Ogre! Now I know you're crazy," Eli laughed, but Jarek's serious demeanor didn't waver. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a holophone. He tapped it, and a holographic photo appeared in the air between them. The image was unmistakable—Gorgra, lying flat on his belly, his neck grotesquely twisted, his lifeless eyes staring blankly upward.

Eli's laughter died in his throat, replaced by a creeping fear that settled in the pit of his stomach. He glanced at the photo again, trying to make sense of it. Gorgra was a legend, a brutal fighter who had once dominated the GUFA. The idea that someone could take him down so easily was almost unimaginable.

"How... how did this happen?" Eli asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Jarek leaned back, his expression grim. "They said it was a mere teenage boy. He showed up out of nowhere and took Gorgra down like he was nothing. People are saying he's not human. Some folk have even called him the devil himself."

"The Devil? Isn't that some old Christian character that humans before us believed in?" Eli replied, raising an eyebrow.

"After seeing Gorgra like that, I believe it," Jarek said, taking another drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his face like a sinister halo.

"Why are you telling me this, Jarek?" Eli asked, his voice steadying. "What do you want from me?"

Jarek's grin returned, more sinister this time. "I thought you might want to see for yourself. Redemption, perhaps. A chance to be part of something big again. You're washed up, Eli, but this could be your ticket back. Consider it a good deed from an old friend."

Eli's mind raced. The Depths were dangerous, and getting involved with an underground fighting ring was asking for trouble. But the lure of glory, the chance to reclaim some of his lost pride, was too tempting to ignore. "And what's in it for you?" Eli finally asked.

"Absolutely nothing. I too am washed up, a has-been. I just want to come along for the ride," Jarek said, his voice now calm with a hint of sorrow.

Then it clicked into Eli's mind who this person was. Beneath the wrinkles and musty beard, the face was unmistakable. "Jacko Rosencurt?" Eli whispered in shock, still trying to make out if it was actually the great Jacko Rosencurt, the Northern Champion of the GUFA from over twenty years ago. Eli remembered watching him on his holoscreen as a kid, dominating the ranks, climbing to the top, then winning all the glory only to vanish mysteriously.

"See, you're not as dumb as you look. But don't call me that. No one has called me that name in a long time. That man died years ago," Jacko said, a grin on his face.

"What happened to you?" Eli asked, his voice tinged with awe and sadness as he realized he was speaking to his once idol.

"There's a time and place for that, and right now isn't the time," Jacko replied, his eyes hardening. "So, do you want to go to the Underground?" Jacko said, putting out the butt of his cigarette with a decisive twist.

"Can you get me in?" Eli asked, his heart pounding with a mix of excitement and fear.

"Of course I can. I'm a Depth Dweller, ain't I?" Jacko said with a crooked smile, standing up from the booth. "Let's get going before you change your mind."

Eli hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the diner and Micky, who was watching them with a mix of curiosity and concern. He nodded at her, giving a small reassuring wave, and then followed Jacko out into the night. The bells clanged behind them, echoing in the empty street as they descended into the heart of Mira's darkness.