The cage lights buzzed overhead, burning bright through the hazy smoke of a hundred cigarettes and half as many joints. The air inside the pit stank of blood, stale beer, sweat, and desperation. But to the crowd, it was holy ground.
They packed the rafters and ringside alike—ex-cons, gangers, drunk tradies, slumming rich kids and strung-out hookers with nothing better to do than bet on bodies. Money changed hands in furious bursts, and the roar of a hundred names rang through the pub-turned-gladiator pit like a tidal wave of lust and violence.
And right now, they were screaming for one man.
"AND NOW, YOU DIRTY FUCKIN' ANIMALS," yelled the hype man, stomping into the ring with a mic in one hand and a bottle of rum in the other, "IT'S THE MOMENT YOU ALL BEEN JACKIN' OFF TO FOR TWO MONTHS STRAIGHT—YOUR UNDEFEATED CROWD-KILLIN' FAVORITE, SIX-AND-OH, THE MAN WITH THE METAL FIST AND THE IRON BALLS…"
He paused, raising his arms as the crowd began chanting.
"JACKIE! JACKIE! JACKIE!"
The hype man pointed toward the fighter's tunnel. "GIVE IT UP FOR THE LEGEND HIMSELF—JACKIE FUCKIN' CHANG!"
Wang stepped out into the spotlight.
The noise exploded.
He wore black fight shorts with white tape wrapped tight around his wrists and knuckles. His cybernetic arm gleamed under the lights, half-hidden in a tattered hoodie he stripped off and tossed into the crowd. He didn't smile. Didn't play up the cheers. Just walked slowly to the ring like a soldier reporting for war.
He slid under the ropes and rolled his neck. His eyes scanned the cage, then locked onto the other tunnel.
Where the monster was coming from.
The hype man waited for the crowd to calm, grinning like a man on bath salts.
"AND NOW… THE CHALLENGER… OR SHOULD I SAY… THE EXECUTIONER."
The lights dimmed.
Dark music began to rumble through the speakers—a distorted remix of chains clanking, butcher knives sharpening, and deep industrial drums.
"HE AIN'T JUST A FIGHTER. HE AIN'T JUST A KILLER. HE'S THE ONE WHO CLEANED OUT THIS RING WHEN CHUNGUS'S LAST ENFORCER WENT MISSING."
A heavy metal door slammed open behind the second tunnel.
The crowd hushed.
"WITH SEVEN BODIES ON RECORD AND GOD KNOWS HOW MANY OFF—GIVE IT UP FOR THE MAN WHO DOESN'T NEED GLOVES…"
A figure emerged from the shadows.
"...BECAUSE HIS HANDS ARE FUCKIN' WEAPONS."
The spotlight hit him.
The crowd roared in awe and horror.
"IT'S THE GODDAMN BUTCHER!"
The man—no, the thing—stepped into full view. Tall. Broad. His chest was bare save for a bloodstained apron and a leather harness strapped across thick, scarred flesh. His arms were mismatched nightmares.
His left arm was fitted with a rusted meat hook that curved like a question mark and gleamed under the light. His right arm? A cleaver—welded directly into the stump of his wrist, the blade pitted and notched with use. His eyes were sunken, dark, and wild. His face was covered by a cracked butchers' mask, like something stolen from a meat locker murder scene.
He didn't walk. He stomped. Heavy boots thunking on the mat like drumbeats.
Wang watched him climb into the ring, eyes narrowing.
Rocky, standing on the outside of the cage, leaned in and growled through the chain-link. "That's the pit boss, kid. Runs the late-night circuit. Fights twice a year. Last guy who faced him? Got hooked through the ribs."
"Great," Wang muttered, bouncing on his heels, eyes never leaving the Butcher's cleaver arm.
The Butcher didn't say a word. He just raised both of his cursed hands to the crowd and let out a deep, animalistic grunt.
The crowd chanted his name, too.
"BUTCH-ER! BUTCH-ER! BUTCH-ER!"
The hype man backed into the corner like a rat dodging a broom. "REMEMBER, KIDS—THIS AIN'T A SPORT, THIS AIN'T FOR POINTS—THIS IS FUCKIN' PRISONLAND! ANYTHING GOES—'CEPT SHOOTIN', FUCKIN', OR BITING OFF DICKS."
The bell hadn't rung yet.
Wang's fists clenched.
The Butcher tilted his head.
DING DING DING.
The cage door slammed shut. The bell rang like a gunshot. And in a flash, The Butcher was already moving.
Wang barely had time to adjust his footing before the monster charged.
For a man that size—easily over 260 pounds of pure homicidal meat—the Butcher moved fast. Disturbingly fast. Boots thundered across the mat as the bloodstained apron swayed around his legs, and his cleaver-arm came swinging in a wide, downward arc like a guillotine aimed to split Wang in half.
Wang ducked at the last second.
The cleaver whooshed past his head, missing by inches. Wang pivoted and parried the follow-up cleaver swing with his cybernetic forearm.
CLANG!
A shriek of metal-on-metal exploded through the cage, so loud and sudden it made people in the front row flinch and cover their ears. Sparks flew. The crowd groaned in unison, the pitch of the collision scraping into their skulls like nails in a blender.
Wang's arm held, but the impact rattled up to his shoulder. His bionic muscles hissed and flexed against the stress. He gritted his teeth and shoved the cleaver arm aside, just in time to see the hook hand slashing horizontally from the other side.
SHINK.
The hook skimmed across Wang's cheek with a hiss of red. Not deep, but sharp. A single crimson line opened along his face.
Wang stumbled back, then flipped.
He rolled backward into a clean, instinctive backflip—his boots skimming the mat, momentum carrying him into a three-point crouch near the edge of the ring.
The crowd howled.
"OHHHHHHHH SHIIIT!"
"FUCKIN' JACKIE!"
"HE'S STILL BREATHIN'!"
From the other side of the cage, Rocky grunted. "Alright, Chang. Get your fuckin' head in it. That wasn't shit."
Wang blinked the sting of blood from his eye. He kept low, scanning the Butcher.
Too slow to outpower him. Too thick to wear down. Can't aim for the arms—he'll just cut me up. So what's left…
Then he saw it.
The legs.
Despite his speed, the Butcher's lower half was unarmored. His thighs were exposed beneath the apron. No guards. No steel. No padding. The joints moved awkwardly when he shifted. Heavy steps, shallow base.
That was the weak spot.
Wang narrowed his eyes.
Go low.
The Butcher snarled and lunged again—another massive swing with the cleaver, high and to the left.
Wang charged.
He ran straight at him.
The Butcher raised the cleaver high, expecting a head-on collision. He roared, muscles flexing, ready to bring it down—
But Wang dropped.
He hit the mat feet-first, then slid forward on the sweat-slick floor like a baseball player stealing home. He slipped under the arc of the attack, his metal hand cocked back—
—and punched The Butcher square in the nuts.
THWACK.
The impact echoed like a brick dropped on concrete.
The crowd winced. A collective howl rang out.
"OOOOHHHHHHH FUUUUUUUUUCK!"
The Butcher froze. His cleaver hung mid-swing. His whole body locked in place, knees bowing inward. His eyes went wide behind the butcher's mask.
Then—collapse.
Like a beached whale, he crashed to his knees, then slumped forward with a groan of absolute agony, both weapon-arms scraping the mat uselessly.
Wang wasn't done.
He scrambled up, breathing hard, and grabbed the hook arm with his cybernetic hand.
With a roar, he yanked—metal groaning under the pressure—and ripped the attachment free from the brace that held it.
Wires snapped. Screws clanged to the ground. The hook dropped limp onto the mat.
The Butcher groaned, dazed, still hunched.
Wang spun around to the cleaver arm. It took a little more effort. He gripped the hilt near the base, twisted hard, and then tore the cleaver out with a scream of mangled hydraulics and old metal.
RRRRIIIIIIIIIP!
The cleaver clattered to the floor next to the hook.
The Butcher howled like a dying beast—but it was too late.
Wang stepped behind him, lifted his cybernetic elbow—
—and slammed it down into the back of his head.
CRACK.
The Butcher's body spasmed once—then dropped.
Flat on the mat.
Unmoving.
The entire arena went silent.
For one long moment, the crowd just stared.
Wang stood over the body, chest heaving, blood trailing down his cheek, fists still clenched.
Then the place erupted.
"JACKIE! JACKIE! JACKIE!"
"HE RIPPED HIS FUCKIN' ARMS OFF!"
"SEVEN AND OH, BITCH!"
Beer flew. Hats were thrown. Cash rained from the stands as the hype man scrambled into the ring, mic in hand.
"YOUR WINNER BY DEATH OF DIGNITY—SEVEN STRAIGHT, METAL FUCKIN' FIST—JACKIE CHAAAAAAANG!!"
Wang turned toward the crowd, breathing heavy.
Rocky was at the cage wall, grinning from ear to ear.
Cass, in the crowd, gave a slow nod, arms folded, eyes locked on him.
Big Chungus? Somewhere in his VIP lounge, grinning like the fat bastard he was.
Wang looked down at the bloodied cleaver still on the mat.
Then raised his cybernetic fist.
The crowd lost it.
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