The Greatest Fight [progression cultivation isekai]

A Dump Named Grayshroud

"What's with all this smog?" Roa woke up coughing.

"Where the hell are we?" said his friend, covering his nose and mouth, "weren't we just with the cats?"

The quaint, clean space of the secret study was now replaced by more oppressive surroundings. Hues of gray, black, and white were occasionally dotted by blinking red lights. A toxic haze filled the sky, and the silhouettes of many industrial chimneys, plants, and other metal monstrosities, covered the horizon. The constant humming of machinery, along with the occasional crash from a scrapyard, echoed, irritating the explorers' ears. The boy rubbed his eyes and then recalled that they had used the Exit that the cats had advised against using.

"This must be Grayshroud. Why do we get this short-term, temporary amnesia when we jump through these portals?" wondered Roa, standing up as he ruffled his white hair. "At least we didn't get the nausea—"

Rosso's vomit splattered on the floor, causing Roa to pause.

"Did you forget to hold your breath? You shouldn't be feeling sick since we jumped from one floor of the Palace to another. The natural laws here are the same, I believe," reasoned the boy, as his friend shook his head. "Although, I preferred the medieval-looking rooms more than this—industrial wasteland-looking place."

"I held my breath when we jumped—it's not that. It just smells awful here—like putrid garbage and something chemical. My throat is burning," said Rosso, massaging his neck.

They had woken up next to a black lake where children played and bathed.

"I don't think that water is safe for you kids," shouted Rosso in their direction.

The children ignored him, carrying on splashing among the filth. A dead bird, its wings frozen in a tragic spread, jutted from the sticky sands of the beach like a morbid statue, immortalizing the bleakness of the place. Stretching as far as the eye could see, a line of dead fish dotted the shore, their lifeless bodies swaying back and forth in the gentle waves. The air, thick with the stench of rot, hung heavy and suffocating, the absence of breeze amplifying the pungent stillness.

"Back to Default World," said the Sunflower in a somber tone.

"Back? You've been here before?" asked Rosso, tilting his head.

"Not here exactly. My old life—I spent it in a cageless prison." The boy scoffed and shook his head. "I thought it was Earth, but Nirvana—she said it was a world under the Old Order—a part of Default World. I never noticed my chains until that pink-haired girl came along. That place wasn't as bad as this one, but something about it feels—just like my old life did."

"Yeah—like what?"

Roa thought about it, waved his arms around with a look of disgust on his face and said, "this sea of—gray everywhere. This cold—heaviness." He paused for a moment as his eyebrows furled, "and the way that it just—pisses me off—just being here."

"I can see why the Jumpers call it the Great Death. Why would anyone create this?"

"I'm not sure, my friend."

Making their way into the rundown city, they sat at a shack run by a young woman and her kid.

"Life's tough here in Sector 77. We locals call the city Grayshroud for a reason," she said, pointing to one of many giant chimneys. Smoke billowed out as the rhythmic, flashing, red lights above seemed to hypnotize them.

"There's not much to offer our kids these days—other than poverty, pollution, and an air that will slowly kill you," she explained, offering a very modest serving of coffee in two misshapen cups made from refurbished metal.

Rosso leaned over and whispered into the boy's ear: "We're going to get the bubble guts in this place—prepare yourself."

When asked about the unrest, the lady explained the situation.

"Life's crazy here—unlivable, I tell you. The toxic waters keep going up, flooding people's homes and shops. The police keeps telling us not to worry, but everyone in town is afraid the dam will burst one day."

"What dam?"

She pointed to the lower part of her shop where water had pooled, sluggishly creeping through the seams of the metal sheets. It seeped across the floor, inching up to the first few centimeters of the modest tables and chairs, as if the place itself was surrendering to the relentless advance of decay.

"See that? That's just from the cracks of the dam on Tar Lake. That dang company who runs it, polluted the lake with the oil runoff and other waste. They don't want to pay for maintenance because it costs them money. So instead, they just—patch it up once in a while. I've seen cracks grow to the size of trees. I don't know nothing about constructing, but I know that isn't good."

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"What's the name of this company?"

"Oilworxx—they tore down every tree and bought every inch of land—now we depend on them to survive. A damn shame—this place used to be beautiful. They raise the prices of rent, food—everything we need. That's how they tighten the nooses around our necks. Well, they choked us too hard this time and the people have had it! The streets—they've been on fire for weeks. Them idiots all be fighting each other for scraps, though, instead of taking back our city—and lives. They are worse than the police sometimes."

"Who?"

"The leaders of the gangs," explained the lady.

The two wandered the streets noticing that there wasn't a single blade of grass, or leaf, or bird—just concrete, metal—and garbage. It was a place that felt as if the very color had been sucked out of it. The Jumpers' legs were coated in mud and oil up to their shins, as each step sank into the sticky, toxic sludge, the goo clinging to their soles. Bright white delivery trucks sold their precious goods on the street as people amassed around them, screaming and pushing like starved animals.

"Oilworxx Ultracorp. Oil that works for you," read Roa on the side of one of the vehicles. He scoffed.

"It looks like that corporation runs this place. Want to bet one of the Shadows is in charge of it?"

Screams from a crowd nearby caught their attention, along with the occasional glass bottle exploding unto the ground. They reached a large plaza. On one side were the locals of the wretched city, scattering in all directions as the riot police charged their way. On the other side was a well-organized legion of soldiers, officers and private guards. The Jumpers approached some children standing at the edge of the riot, and asked what was going on.

"They won't let us live—those twats, so we won't let them sleep tonight. No justice, no peace. Until things get better, they better get used to this. We've had it!" one of them explained.

The youngest one among them lit up a glass bottle filled with alcohol and threw it. The thing flew above the heads of the protesters, exploding in front of the enemy's feet. The officers stood unmoved, their eyes hidden behind plastic visors and the glare of the flames.

Someone in the crowd then threw a punch, and a fight broke out amongst the protesters. The police laughed, as the mob began turning onto itself.

"Hunger and abuse will make any animal snap, eventually," said Rosso, shaking his head.

"These are not animals, man—these are people," said the Sunflower.

"Well—technically, we are all animals. I didn't mean it like that."

Two muscular men wrestled on the ground in the center of the crowd, tearing their clothes apart as they pummeled each other.

"Brothel Borough and Market Street will never be at peace, not until you dogs give us back control over what's ours!" said one of them, landing a punch that exploded in blood, splattering red across the white tank tops of the people standing next to them.

"Why are they fighting?" Roa asked the kids, as the cheers and grins of the people watching slowly twisted his face in disgust.

"They want to run the streets, but my mom says they fight over the scraps Ultracorp leaves us," a girl said.

The kids giggled at the violence. The Sunflower's eyes narrowed and his fists began to shake as he stared at them. Remembering the women of the desert, the selfish Jumpers of Theya's bathhouse, and the kind islanders who had left their homes, his mind brought him back to the emptiness of the life he once lived. The blank, hopeless stares of the people on his old commute lingered in his thoughts. Eralay's gloomy eyes flashed in his mind—as well as his own intense and desperate gaze, staring back in the mirror, during one of many hopeless moments. He was glaring at the children of that forsaken city when something drove him forth. He had enough of always—standing by.

"Do something about it," Eralay's words echoed in his head as his legs moved forward, as if controlled by some unknown force.

Rosso scrambled, his hand reaching out too late to catch him, and the white-haired boy from Earth made his way through the crowd.

"Don't do it," pleaded his friend to no avail.

Pushing the onlookers apart, the Sunflower forced himself between the fighters, interrupting the scuffle, and taking a punch to the side of his head in the process. After regaining his balance, he shoved the two apart.

"What—you want some too, boy?" shouted one of the burly men, blood dripping down his shaking fist.

"Is this the example you give to the children? You fight each other like starving dogs. Are you so blind that you can't see the leashes around your necks—nor the ones who are holding them?" said the Sunflower.

"Is this one of your punks?" asked one thug to the other.

"Nah—this must be one of your girls, son," responded his opponent, spitting a mix of blood and saliva on the ground.

Insults gave way to shoves. Rosso made his way to the front, his eyes darting from one place to the next, his breath heavy, and his heart pounding in his chest.

"There he goes again—looking for trouble in the worst places," complained Rosso as he massaged his temples, his eyes fixed on his friend.

The Sunflower, having spent his life long lost in dreams of change, discovered a courage and words he hadn't known were his—unfolding with a clarity that came from a genuine, and very old place within his heart.

"I'm not here to fight you. I am here to take the chains around your necks—around all of our necks off. We should all be fighting our common enemy, not each other," said Roa.

"Shut the hell up, idiot!" yelled someone from the crowd.

The dim light of the moon flickered for an instant on a blade. The boy's eyes moved, his sharp gaze noticing it as the assailant lunged from his side. Roa's leg blurred from the speed, kicking the knife out of his hand. Spinning in the air, the weapon landed in front, firmly sinking into the toxic soil. The crowd was in awe, letting out loud cheers.

"Shut up! Why are you cheering? Stop fighting one another!" his roar made the crowd turn quiet. "Are you so used to violence that you applaud it like some—show?" he shouted.

"This town is a dump, and we're its trash. Nobody cares about us, man. So, what if we cheer?" someone responded amidst the sea of people.

"At least we're going to have some fun tonight," said another, causing some to chuckle.

Feeling the shifting air behind him, Roa's body moved on its own, as if long-forgotten instincts were coming back to him. He ducked, pivoted, and landed a decisive blow onto the second assailant's stomach; his raised elbow shook like a hammer hitting an anvil. Unable to take another breath, the man collapsed onto the ground with a heavy thud, raising a cloud of dust around him.

"Anyone else?" he screamed, turning to the crowd. "Anyone else?" he cried even louder, his arms wide open as his fiery stare gazed into people's eyes.

No one moved.

"I am not your enemy—that's your enemy!" the Sunflower pointed up. Towering ominously above the skyline of the city was a single skyscraper, the red letters 'Oilworxx Ultracorp' blurring into view through the toxic haze. "And you are not trash. Even the words in your mouths reveal the chains of your oppressors—you're so used to being prisoners that you aren't even aware of being in prison—just like I was. You're not trash; you are the victims of an unrighteous system—a profane caste—a monstruous Old Order." He then paused, and said with a smile as his eyebrows raised, "now—where can we get a drink together?"