CHAPTER 37: CALL OF THE ARENA

  The airlock of the bunker had barely sealed behind Vega's "Black Obelisk" when the silence of the workshop was shattered by a sharp, piercing signal.

  Vance, Marcus, and Spark simultaneously grabbed the backs of their necks. Their new Guild chips vibrated intensely, broadcasting an urgent message directly into their visual centers, overriding all other inputs.

  **[GUILD "SPECTRUM" | PRIORITY: RED]**

  **[MESSAGE: Mobilization Order]**

  **[TARGET: "Iron Fist" League]**

  **[TIME UNTIL COMMENCEMENT: 5 Days]**

  **[NOTE: Previous Team "Spectrum-Alpha" confirmed destroyed. You are designated as replacements.]**

  "Five days?!" Spark exclaimed, projecting the holographic message onto the main screen with a frantic wave of his upper manipulator. "We just got back! My servos haven't even cooled down! They didn't even give us time to change our oil!"

  "We signed the contract," Marcus reminded him calmly, his optical sensors already parsing the fine print. "'Perform Guild assignments.' Here it is. The first assignment."

  ### THE RULES OF THE GAME

  Marcus jacked into the Guild's info-network to download the complete data package regarding the Arena. Information flowed into his processor in a torrent of binary code.

  "This isn't just fighting," the sniper began his analysis, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "This is politics."

  He displayed the League's schematic on the central holotable.

  "The tournament lasts all year. It's a cumulative elimination system. The Guild whose team takes first place at the end of the season gains control over city taxes, customs regulations, and licensing distribution."

  "Meaning," Vance interrupted, his deep voice resonating in the metallic room, "if we win, 'Spectrum' gets the power to rewrite the city's laws?"

  "Precisely. And bonuses for all members: zero tariffs on trade, access to restricted sectors, priority energy allocation. That is why the stakes are so high. The balance of power shifts constantly. Rarely does anyone manage to hold the championship for two consecutive years."

  Marcus scrolled to the next section of data.

  "The team composition section is interesting. Most guilds—trade-focused or digital ones like the 'Techno-Priests'—do not field their own combatants. They purchase them."

  Transfer sums flashed on the screen, numbers with too many zeros for an average scavenger to comprehend.

  "It is a legal market. You can buy a gladiator from the 'Legion of Steel' and rebrand him under your banner. The selling Guild gets a massive payout, the fighter gets top-tier upgrades. It is not considered betrayal; it is just business."

  ### THE PROBLEM OF THE THIRD

  Marcus reached the section titled "Combat Regulations."

  "Standard protocol: a team must consist of **three active participants**."

  The three of them exchanged looks. Vance's golden eyes settled on Spark.

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  The four-armed engineer twitched nervously, his lower manipulators clenching and unclenching.

  "Um... guys? I can deploy turrets, set up force fields, maybe hack a door or two... but you know I am not a warrior. I am an Architect. My combat subroutines are... minimal."

  Vance slammed his fist onto the table, leaving a deep dent in the reinforced steel.

  "Don't even think about it, Doc. You are going nowhere near that pit."

  "But the rules..." Spark began, his voice wavering.

  "Screw the rules!" Vance cut him off, his engine growling. "You are the brain of this Clan. You are our hands, our repairs, our crafting soul. If you get destroyed, or even if your neuro-chip gets damaged by some stray EMP, Marcus and I become walking scrap metal with no future. We will not risk our most valuable asset for the amusement of a crowd."

  Marcus, who had been scanning the fine print in the background this entire time, suddenly raised a hand.

  "Wait. There is a loophole."

  He highlighted clause 4.2 on the screen.

  **"In the event of an inability to field a full roster, a team has the right to enter the Arena with a minority composition (2 participants). In doing so, the team voluntarily waives any claims regarding the numerical superiority of the opponent."**

  "So, we can fight two against three?" Vance clarified, a predatory grin forming on his faceplate.

  "Yes. It is permitted. There is also a clause about 'Substitution': we can declare a third participant later in the tournament if we find someone worthy."

  "Decided," the Juggernaut rumbled. "We go as a duo. We can handle it. And you, Spark, will be our coordinator from the VIP box. Your job is to analyze the enemies in real-time and find their weak points."

  ### THE NECESSITY OF ARMOR

  Vance walked over to the mirrored panel on the wall and inspected his white, gleaming skeletal frame. The gold veins pulsed with power.

  "We are strong. Our skeletons can withstand a tank shell. But the Arena will be full of pros. They won't shoot at the plating; they will aim for the joints, the sensors, the exposed wiring."

  He turned back to his friends.

  "We are going in there 'naked'. My plates are tough, but if a lucky shot severs a servo-drive, I become an immobile target. Even though the Spark is protected by the Arena's generators, losing because of a broken leg is a disgrace. We need external armor. Real, heavy, combat-grade armor."

  Marcus nodded in agreement.

  "My 'skin' is adaptive, excellent for stealth and deflection, but it won't hold up against the focused fire of three high-level opponents. We need an additional layer of protection. Ablative shielding, perhaps."

  Spark looked at their resource inventory, his eyes dimming slightly.

  "We have ore from the Quarry, but it is insufficient for a full set of 'Elite' class armor. We need specific high-density metals. Titanium, Tungsten, maybe even a trace of Adamantium for the core plating."

  ### PREPARING FOR THE PORTAL: ALL OR NOTHING

  The decision was made instantly.

  "We have 5 days," Vance said. "That is enough for one serious raid and the subsequent crafting cycle."

  They approached the Portal Generator.

  Spark took his place at the console, his fingers flying across the keys.

  "Right, let's skip the heroics this time."

  He pulled up the graph of previous launches.

  "Remember that 'hellish' raid with the Tyrannosaurus? The energy spike hit **58%**. That is bordering on the Red Zone."

  He reached for the power regulator.

  "I am setting it to **40%**. That corresponds to levels 40-50. Armored mobs, tough but manageable. No surprises."

  "Stop," Marcus's hand intercepted Spark's manipulator with calculated precision.

  "What is wrong?" the Engineer asked, surprised.

  "40 percent is for scavengers," Marcus said coldly, his voice devoid of emotion.

  "But 58% almost killed you!" Spark argued.

  Marcus shook his head, his single red eye flaring in the dim light of the lab.

  "You are forgetting the details, Doc. That 58% was hell not just because the level was high."

  He held up a finger.

  "First, we were in old, rusty bodies. We were tin cans. Now, we have evolved. We have **[EVO]** class bodies and Relic-tier weaponry. We are orders of magnitude stronger."

  He held up a second finger.

  "And second, and most importantly—that was the **5th raid**. That was a guaranteed Boss Rush with a Sector Mega-Boss."

  Marcus pointed to the cycle screen.

  "We just cleared the Quarry. That was the 1st raid of the new cycle. The next one is the **2nd raid**. No Mega-Bosses. Only standard elite mobs. We have three more safe raids before the next hell."

  "Therefore," Vance interjected, understanding his partner's train of thought, "we can afford to push harder."

  Marcus looked at the power regulator.

  "I do not want to settle for mediocrity. In the Arena, we will face the best. If we walk in there wearing armor made of level 40 metal, they will laugh at us before they destroy us. We need Top-Tier materials."

  He shifted his gaze to Spark.

  "**All or nothing.** I am confident we can handle it. Set it to **60%**."

  Spark's eyes went wide (all three of them).

  "Sixty?! That is deep 'Red Zone'! That is level 60-70! That is higher than the Tyrannosaurus!"

  "But without the Boss," Marcus reminded him. "Only elite mobs. We will manage."

  "You are psychos," Spark muttered, but his hands were already inputting the new coordinates. "Absolute, chrome-plated psychos."

  He pressed "Enter".

  The Generator roared like a wounded beast. The portal arch flared not with violet, but with a blood-red light. Energy crackled in the air, creating static discharges that made their sensors glitch.

  **[PORTAL SETTINGS: 60%]**

  **[THREAT LEVEL: EXTREME]**

  **[CYCLE: 2/5 (No Boss Detected)]**

  **[TARGET: LEGENDARY MATERIALS]**

  "I am staying at the base!" Spark shouted over the noise. "And pray to the System that your calculations are correct!"

  Vance activated his "Hands of God," and his golden core shone brilliantly, competing with the red glare of the portal.

  "Time to test what we are truly worth," he said.

  Two mighty figures stepped into the crimson vortex.