The Seven Demon's Tamer

The number of people in the warehouse was easily a thousand or two, if not even more. Every breath Ryder took felt like inhaling a cocktail of cheap alcohol and stale cigarettes.

Bodies pressed against one another, creating a suffocating atmosphere with every breath. The warehouse—once used for storing imported goods that never made it past customs—now housed a different kind of contraband: violence for profit.

It was dominated mainly by gangsters. Men and women with hard eyes and harder knuckles, bearing scars all over as if their bodies were illustrating the intensity of their misdeeds with scars that spoke louder than any confession.

Although various other criminals were there, they weren't there for the fight but to carry out some more illegal activities that could help them bag a great deal of cash, mostly gambling.

"Five grand on Crusher breaking at least three bones!" shouted a man with a face that looked like it had been rearranged by an angry butcher—one he had refused to pay for his purchased meat.

His voice carried the raspy quality of someone who had inhaled more smoke than oxygen throughout his life. A gold tooth glinted as he grinned, counting bills openly while he was surrounded by a group of people who would most likely serve as his bodyguards.

"Ten says he makes the new guy cry for his mama within the first thirty seconds of the fight!" another shouted, his fake but glittering gold teeth catching the dim light as he laughed.

Money changed hands faster than loyalties in this crowd. Gamblers exchanged their coins; pickpockets worked the distracted masses. For the money, some were quite new, while others were abnormally old; they were literally carrying the story of how they were acquired. Speaking of talent, Ryder watched a thin boy, no older than fourteen, lift the wallets of three different men without any of them noticing.

The kid caught Ryder's eye and froze for a split second before melting back into the crowd.

It was, in its own twisted way, a perfect ecosystem of crime.

"Nervous?" Brok's voice cut through Ryder's thoughts. He had been walking by his side all this while, somehow moving his bulk through the crowd without disturbing it.

"Observing," Ryder corrected, not taking his eyes off the crowd.

A defiant roar erupted as two figures stepped onto the platform. The makeshift arena was nothing more than boards of wood nailed together and raised three feet off the ground, illuminated by locally made light bulbs hanging from chains—the light bulb on the platform was one of the few in the entire warehouse. Candles were most rampant.

One of the fighters had a distinctive feature. He was shirtless and covered in tattoos that seemed permanent due to how they bled into his skin—not just ink on flesh, but stories carved like scripture of ancient man. Dragons breathed fire across his chest, while stickmen danced along his arms.

Each image seemed to move with his muscles, giving the illusion that his skin housed living creatures struggling to break free.

His eyes weren't complete. His left eye was intact, but his right eye reflected otherwise. It was like a deep hole of endless darkness.

"That's the champion," Brok introduced. "Crusher. Been undefeated for the past seven tournaments. Think you can take him?"

Ryder studied the man for precisely three seconds before letting out a loud yawn that drew intriguing glances from nearby spectators. "Why not?" he replied nonchalantly, as if Brok had asked if he wanted extra ketchup with his fries.

Brok's eyebrows shot up in puzzlement, then a slow smile spread across his face. "I like this guy," he thought, not realizing he'd said it aloud until Ryder glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

He knew he would win for sure, but still... if one were to watch closely, they'd notice his legs shaking. Not violently—not enough for casual observers or even Brok to notice—but enough that Ryder cursed internally.

His body was betraying him, responding in opposition to his words.

"Gets the job done, doesn't he?" Brok commented with a smile while Ryder stood in his spot, lost in his thoughts.

"Last guy who fought him woke up three days later speaking a language no one recognized," Brok explained to Ryder in a fascinated tone, laughing along. "Doctors said it wasn't even a real language, just gibberish his scrambled brain invented due to the series of punches he received from Crusher, which had a serious mental impact."

Ryder was too lost in his thoughts to even notice if Brok was speaking.

He just couldn't get rid of this reaction—this was fear. Even after all he had gone through, his body still didn't eradicate the fear of a tough-looking and intimidating opponent. His phobia for fighting remained.

Luxy, deep down inside his mind, was boiling with rage. Ryder was pissing him off with his embarrassing emotion—fear.

"You pathetic, worthless sack of meat," Luxy's voice barked through Ryder's consciousness. "After everything I've given you, you still tremble like a child. What kind of vessel are you?"

Ryder kept a poker face on the outside, but internally he pushed back. "I'm handling it. Just processing the situation."

"Processing?" Luxy laughed unhealthily. "What is there to process? You climb onto the platform and punch his gut until you render him unmoving. Simple."

"Come with me, Ryder," said Brok, snapping him out of his inner conversation with Luxy.

"Right!" responded Ryder.

Brok led him to a registration table where a thin man with old round glasses was making notes in a large ledger.

"Got a new challenger for Crusher," Brok alerted. "Black Devil."

As Brok said the name "Black Devil," he pointed behind Ryder with his thumb.

The man looked up, peering at Ryder through his spectacles and trying to get a good glance at his face. Ryder's hood was doing a good job of masking his presence.

Still unable to see through the hood, the man sighed. "Black Devil? Interesting choice of name. Any particular reason?"

"No, not really," Brok replied. "It's just an arena name."

The man tilted his head slightly, studying Ryder one more time. "Most choose names that intimidate or impress—names with meaning." He adjusted his glasses, a nervous gesture that somehow made him seem more dangerous, not less. "But I suppose 'Black Devil' works well enough for its purpose."

Splash!

Blood suddenly spilled violently from the side onto their bodies, bathing them instantly; cheers followed. Brok's familiar beast just punched his opponent's face as a finishing move, spraying blood everywhere.

A few people nearby cursed and wiped their faces with their hands. Others laughed, wearing the blood like war paint. One woman licked her lips, tasting it, her eyes never leaving the ring. A win for Crusher is a win for all, after all; nearly all the gamblers placed their bets on him.

Ryder could feel his legs weakening, and he struggled to stand in place. Turning toward the platform, his eyes shook in fear.

Out of instinct, he stretched his hands outwards and slapped his cheek. Finally, he was able to regain his composure and focused on Brok, who was getting him registered.

The man seemed satisfied and didn't press the issue. "Very well. You'll be the last fight of the night. Crusher versus Black Devil." He wrote something in his ledger as he explained the necessary rules to Ryder.

"Rules are simple: no weapons, no deliberate killing, and no quitting once you're in the ring. Win by knockout or submission. Break any rules, and the bouncers will deal with you. Understood?" he gestured toward several mountains of men positioned around the warehouse, each wearing identical black shirts stretched tight over muscles.

Ryder nodded like a bobblehead doll. "Yeah."

"Shit!" he cursed inwardly immediately after. "Why did I do that? They might be able to guess I'm afraid now. Damn me!"

"Good. Wait by the stage. You'll be called when it's your turn."

Ryder obeyed, and this time, Brok didn't follow him.

"I'll be waiting for you by the corner," Brok screamed before Ryder finally got lost in the crowd. The big man's voice carried an odd note—something almost like concern, quickly masked by his usual gruffness. Who wouldn't be concerned about his money, after all?

The first opponent on our list in the underlings' tournament is none other than Greeeeeen Blooooody. The lady's voice hyped through the microphone, overpowering the noise of the crowd and allowing everyone in the warehouse to hear her clearly.

Cheers erupted as soon as the announcement was made. Some of the people were cheering for Greeeeeen Blooooody, while others were cheering for Crusher.

Make your bets now, as the battle is about to start.

Suddenly, multiple people began to recede, all heading in one direction, which startled Ryder.

"What's going on?"

This time, Brok wasn't around to answer Ryder's random questions, so he had to figure it out by himself, which he did after a moment of observation: "They were heading for the betting counter to make their bets."

The counter was occupied by men in matching vests, their expressions blank as they took money and issued betting slips.

"There won't be bets on individual matches; you can only bet on who you are most certain will win the entire tournament," Ryder overheard, using the sharp hearing ability he had derived from Luxy.

"But what if my guy wins the first fight but loses the second? Do I lose everything?" a woman asked from the crowd, her voice sounding like that of someone used to systems working in her favor.

"That's the game, sweetheart," a burly man at the betting counter replied with a predatory smile. "High risk, high reward. House rules."

Despite the announcement, which should have discouraged many people, it never did.

Ryder glanced toward the source of the voice. The announcer was a woman in her forties, with bottle-blonde hair and makeup.

Her red dress sparkled under the dim light, unveiling true beauty. She smiled widely, revealing teeth too perfect to be real, as she worked the crowd with the skill of someone who had clearly been doing this for years.

They stubbornly placed their bets on none other than Crusher, since it was the most reasonable bet they could place. Crusher, after all, had a streak of seven consecutive victories in the duels that had been hosted in recent times.

A man nearby was explaining Crusher's history of victory to a wide-eyed newcomer.

"Seven straight tournaments, twenty-one fights, forty-nine knockouts. Twelve opponents never fought again, and three were crippled."

"What about injuries?" the newcomer asked, clearly trying to decide if betting his entire month's salary was a smart choice.

"That's the most important aspect: how much time do you have?" the man laughed. "Broken bones, internal bleeding—one guy lost an eye and ended up with an empty eye socket, like Crusher. Crusher doesn't just win—he destroys."

Ryder listened, taking in all the interesting information around him.

The announcer took some time to wait for them patiently. The betting process was surprisingly fast, and so...

"Ladies and gentlemen, degenerates and high-rollers," he bellowed, his voice amplified to reach every corner of the warehouse. "Welcome to tonight's main event!"

"In the red corner, standing at six-foot-eight and weighing in at two-hundred and ninety pounds of pure muscle—the undefeated champion of the underground circuit, the man who's sent thirty-seven opponents to the hospital and three to the morgue—the one, the only, CRUSHER!"

"And in the green corner," the announcer continued, "our challenger. Standing at six-foot-one and weighing in at one-hundred and eighty-five pounds—the man they call GREEN BLOODY!"

"Here is a quick note," the announcer shouted. "No weapons. No eye-gouging. No targeting the groin. Everything else is fair game. The fight ends when one fighter surrenders, is knocked unconscious, or is thrown from the platform."

Let the fight... begin.

Crusher wasted no time with his offensive strikes.

He blasted forward with a leap, covering the distance between him and his opponent nearly instantly.

Whoosh.

He swung his fist straight at Green Bloody's face. With the power enhancement he had gotten from his familiar, the punch was catastrophic. The air itself seemed to compress around Crusher's fist, creating a small shockwave that ruffled Green Bloody's hair.

No, more appropriately, the punch would have been catastrophic if it had hit.

Green Bloody dodged the punch, much to Crusher's greatest shock, by ducking under his arm and swiftly appearing behind him. His movement was fluid in its grace.

Unlike the few others Crusher had fought, he instantly recognized that Green Bloody wouldn't be easy.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. No one had ever made Crusher miss so completely since today's tournament began.

Wham!

A punch that connected with Crusher's jaw in the next instant caused a temporary brain shutdown for Crusher. It wasn't just the force—which was impressive coming from the smaller man—but technique implementation. Green Bloody had struck with his punch, carefully targeting the area that momentarily scrambled Crusher's neural pathways.

His legs staggered, momentarily forgetting their purpose, while blood spewed out of his mouth.

Leaping upwards, Green Bloody spun around clockwise, just to gather momentum for his next strike, which came too fast for Crusher to process. It was a kick. Green Bloody's leg arced through the air with blinding speed. His foot connected with Crusher's chest with a sound like thunder.

"That is a martial art technique from the Eastern Isles," one of the spectator commented. "Dragon's Tail Sweep. Supposed to be impossible to master unless you train from childhood."

Crusher's whole body was lifted off the ground, heading off the platform. For a moment, he was suspended in the air, his face frozen in genuine surprise—perhaps the first time in a long time he'd felt that particular emotion.

Everyone was stunned, and most clenched their fists.

"What the hell is going on?" was the thought on their minds. It was just too surprising for them. They had all placed their bets on Crusher, and now... he was about to lose.

Ryder watched in fascination as Crusher's massive frame flew through the air. There was something almost beautiful about seeing such a feared fighter brought so low.

Crusher's whole body was halfway off the platform, still in the air, when suddenly, it halted.

To be more precise, it was grabbed by something—a beast with distinctive features, none other than his very own familiar.

The entire audience, who held their tongues in hope, suddenly erupted into cheers. The sound was like a wave crashing against a shore—starting small but building to a thunderous sound wave.

"He summoned it!" someone shouted. "Crusher summoned his familiar!"

"That was close," muttered the well-dressed man in suit who had bet ten thousand Terra gold coins on Crusher. He wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

Crusher's familiar, an iron golem, was standing ten feet tall, towering above all of them. It wasn't just tall—it was massive. It looked like someone had taken an entire mountain and compressed it into humanoid form.

Its eyes were red, constantly emitting black smoke—a fireless smoke that curled and twisted in the air.

Its body was hard; one could tell with a single glance. The surface resembled metal that had been repeatedly heated and cooled over and over again, creating a complex pattern of ridges and valleys. Cracks ran through its body, where a red light could be seen glowing from within—as if magma flowed through its veins instead of blood.

"What the hell." Ryder's eyes widened.

The iron golem placed Crusher gently back on the platform, its movements surprisingly delicate for something so massive. It seemed to possess intelligence to some extent due to the way it took up a position behind its master, crossing its arms across its chest in a stance that somehow made it appeared like a professional bouncer.

Crusher straightened, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. He grinned, revealing teeth stained with blood.

"That," he said to Green Bloody, his voice a rumble as he cracked his neck, "was a good shot. It's been a while since I last tasted my own blood."

One of the major downsides he had noticed about summoners while summoning their familiars is the fact that summoning process is time-consuming.

Usually, a summoner needed at least a few seconds of concentration, often accompanied by specific gestures especially for weaker summoners .

Smart opponents often uses this fact to their advantage, trying to take down the opposing partner. This was normal one of the few ace up green bloody's sleeve he could rely on, but unfortunately, crusher was different.

What Crusher did right before his eyes made everything he thought was the case appear like a lie.

One moment, the beast was confined in Crusher's mark, and the next moment, it was outside, holding on to him.

There wasn't any fog materializing in the air to form his familiar.

It was just so surprising... and hard to believe. He summoned his beast in a fraction of a second.