High Class of the damned

In the stone city, a man was projecting his voice while walking down an old stone street.

Welcome, my fine losers! Welcome to the Pitt! Ptooey!

Saliva flew to the ground as Arno raised his hands into the sky and yelled.

PRAISE THAT DEMON!

With a soft thump, a long object hit Alden's leg.

whoa! With a light plop, Arno fell to the ground on one knee.

Arno groaned, reaching down towards his pained leg.

Be quiet, oldy! An old female voice was yelling from inside an open window.

We don't want to hear your old backside every darn night!

Be quiet, old lady, in the face of a rising star! Arno yelled back.

No, not just you, Arno got up, lifted his arms in the air, and began turning.

You'll all regret getting in my way!

Whatever, just be quiet! yelled the old lady.

-----

Arno was drunkenly stumbling left and right as he recounted the past in his head.

Most people would just believe the Pitt was just some small fighting ring in the middle of nowhere, but that was just what the shadow owners wanted you to think.

The Pitt was a big fighting organization in the slums; everyone who was somewhat important knew about it. Even the stuck-up middle and high class would go there just to see some good fights.

The Pitt had completely monopolized the entertainment fighting industry in the city; most people would wear a mask or disguise, and of course it caused rumors. There was even a rumor that the guard captain was one of the fighters in the Pitt.

Being a native of the stone city, Arno was well versed in the Pitts; it was one of the best places for bets.

Sometimes some rich kid would place bets with their daddy's money, and all he needed to do was convince them to make a large but stupid bet. He would be rolling in dough for a while.

If you were a veteran onlooker like Arno, the Pitt was a pretty easy place to make money; all you had to be was a swindler, gambler, or some sort of tactician, and luckily Arno was all three.

Being a swindler was only a given; to survive in the slums for so long without joining any gangs or selling yourself was trivial.

But like my great-grandfather used to say, to survive in a den of snakes, you have to be an even bigger one.

Arno was barely a tactician after living for so long, and knowing how fights usually end, it was pretty easy to see some patterns.

A few speed-focused fighters against a single endurance fighter without any speed go to the speedsters. After watching for so long, he could even tell a veteran fighter about a newcomer.

Most around wouldn't notice it, but he was different; he could tell just from the look in their eyes. The most entertaining fighters had some madness in their eyes, while the experienced always had a cold and calculating feel.

All the newcomers always had this nervous look to them; they looked vigilant, but they never truly analyzed their surroundings.

A tall, rich boy who never fought with his life on the line vs. a veteran, it was pretty easy to tell who would win.

But there was an unseen killer that could hide themselves from anyone, genetics, after asking some old guy who he thought would win in a battle of newcomers. He brought up genetics and selective breeding.

It wasn't easy figuring out what each person had with just a first glance; even a regular-looking third eye could turn out to be an acid-spitting mouth or a feces shoot.

It was such an interesting concept that these families would up and get rid of their freedom to be like us. Forced into circumstances that we aren't in control of.

Those high and mighty high society losers don't care about love or trust; their entire relationship was based on whether, if I had a baby with this girl, my long monkey tail combined with her short scorpion tail would create a longer, more flexible, and more venomous tail.

It was horrendous, evil, vile, and wicked.

But if they could do it, why couldn't I?