“If you believe in yourself and have dedication and pride - and never quit, you'll be a winner. The price of victory is high but so are the rewards.” ~Bear Bryant

I didn’t feel like a champion when the blood dried.

That’s the truth nobody in Anthropolis ever says aloud. Titles don’t crown you—they mark you. They hang over your head like a signal flare in a city that eats the loudest, brightest things first. When I took the Paramount Championship, when I stood over Byson Kaliban with my knuckles split open and his breath fading into the cold floor of the Colosseum, I thought I’d finally climbed out of the pit. Turns out I just made myself easier to find. Chris warned me. He always does.

“You don’t win in Anthropolis,” he told me last Friday night, leaning against the cracked hallway wall outside the Colosseum, his arms folded like he was trying to hold the world together. “You just survive long enough to be noticed.”

I laughed back then. I still had adrenaline in my veins, still felt ten feet tall, still believed that pain meant something other than a bill that hadn’t come due yet.

“I didn’t just survive,” I told him. “I ended him. I destroyed Byson and took what belonged to me.”

Chris shook his head, slow, tired. “Yeah. And now something worse is going to come looking for you.”

He wasn’t wrong. The Amoralists don’t knock. They don’t send threats, don’t leave symbols, don’t play games like the other gangs in Anthropolis. They don’t care about fear or reputation or territory in the way normal monsters do. The Amoralists operate on something colder than that—something detached. They believe in removing meaning from everything. Pain, love, loyalty… it’s all just noise to them. And a champion? A man who believes he earned something? That’s noise worth silencing.

Chris and I were cutting through one of those stretched-out sections of Anthropolis where the buildings lean inward like they’re conspiring. The lights flicker even when they’re not broken. The air smells like rust and wet concrete.

“Something’s off,” Chris muttered beside me.

“Everything’s off here,” I said.

“No…something’s watching.”

That’s when I saw it. Standing in the middle of the street, motionless. A person—at least shaped like one—but wrong in ways that didn’t hit all at once. Its posture was too relaxed. Not human-relaxed. More like… disconnected. Like gravity didn’t apply to it the same way. Its head tilted when it noticed me looking. No aggression. No fear. Just… curiosity.

“You’re the champion,” it said.

Its voice wasn’t threatening. That made it worse. Chris stepped in front of me without thinking.

“Keep walking,” he said under his breath.

I didn’t.

“Yeah,” I answered. “I am.”

The figure smiled—but it didn’t reach its eyes. “We don’t like things that pretend to matter.”

Before I could respond, it moved. Not fast. Not slow. Just…gone. And then suddenly it was behind Chris.
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We’ve been fighting our whole lives. Back in Nashville—before all this, before 2326, before Anthropolis—we thought we knew what danger looked like. We were wrong. I remember a night in 2026, the air thick with heat and music spilling out of every bar on Broadway. Chris and I were sitting on the hood of my car, cheap drinks in hand, arguing about nothing.

“You think you’re tougher than everybody,” Chris said, smirking.

“I am tougher than you,” I shot back.

He laughed. “That’s not saying much.”

“You ever think about leaving?” I asked him.

“Nah,” he said. “This is home.”

I nodded, staring out at the neon glow. “Yeah. Home.”

Funny how that word can rot.
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Chris barely had time to react. The Amoralist’s hand wrapped around his throat like it had always been there. No wind-up. No movement I could track. Just instant contact. I lunged. My fist connected with something that felt like bone—but wrong bone. Too smooth. Too hollow. It didn’t flinch.

“Pain is inefficient,” it said, still holding Chris up like he weighed nothing. Chris’s face was turning red, veins pushing against his skin. His eyes locked with mine—not panicked, not yet. Just focused. He mouthed something. Think. I stopped swinging. That’s when I noticed it. The Amoralist wasn’t bracing. Wasn’t resisting. It was…ignoring. Like I didn’t matter. Like none of this did.

So, I did the only thing which I could think. I grabbed its arm—and instead of trying to break it, I pulled it closer. Close enough to headbutt it. The Amoralist staggered—just a step—but enough. Its grip loosened, and Chris dropped, hitting the ground hard, coughing for air.

“Interesting,” the thing said, touching its face like it had just discovered it. I didn’t give it time. I tackled it.

We crashed into the pavement, rolling through broken glass and debris. I drove my elbow into its throat—if it even had one. It didn’t react like a person would. No choking, no gasping. Just…observation.

“You believe this matters,” it said, almost gently.

I slammed its head against the ground.

“It does to me.”

That seemed to confuse it. And confusion, I realized, was the only weapon I had. Chris dragged himself up behind me, still catching his breath.

“Dan—stop trying to hurt it like a person,” he rasped. “It’s not thinking like one.”

“I figured that out,” I snapped.

“No—you’re not getting it. It doesn’t care about pain. It cares about disruption.”

Back in Nashville, Chris was always the one who saw patterns. Even in stupid things—card games, arguments, life in general. He’d notice what people leaned on…and take it away.

“Dan,” he said, more urgently now. “Break its rhythm.”

So, I did. Instead of hitting harder, I started hitting wrong. Pulling. Twisting. No pattern. No logic. For the first time, the Amoralist hesitated.

“You’re deviating,” it said.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “That’s kind of my thing.”

I slammed its arm into the pavement at an angle that didn’t make sense. The thing recoiled—actually recoiled—and for a split second, its form… flickered. Like it wasn’t entirely here. That’s when I understood.

“They’re not solid,” I said.

Chris nodded, eyes wide. “They’re anchored.”

“To what?”

The Amoralist looked at me—and for the first time, there was something in its expression.

Not fear. Awareness.

“You are becoming inefficient,” it said. Then it vanished.

That night, we holed up in an abandoned complex overlooking the lower districts. The skyline stretched out like broken teeth against a sick sky. Chris sat across from me, cleaning the blood off his hands.

“You alright?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Still breathing.”

“You remember Nashville?” I said after a while.

He laughed softly. “Out of nowhere?”

“Just… thinking.”

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. I remember. Why?”

I didn’t answer right away. Because I was thinking about something specific. A storm in late Spring of 2026. The kind that rolls in fast and loud, turning the sky green before it breaks. Chris and I were caught in it, running through the streets, soaked and laughing like idiots. We ducked under an awning, trying to catch our breath.

“You ever think life’s gonna get weird?” I asked him.

He grinned. “It’s already weird.”

“Yeah, but like… really weird.”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. As long as we’re in it together.”
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“They’re coming back,” Chris said, pulling me out of it.

“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

“And not just one next time.”

I stood, looking out over Anthropolis.

“They think nothing matters,” I said. “They think we’re just noise, and I’m about to get really loud.”

The next night, they came in numbers.

“You’ve attracted attention,” one of them said.

“Yeah,” I replied. “That’s what champions do.”

Chris groaned. “You really gotta stop saying that like it means something here.”

I didn’t look at him. “It means something to me.”

The Amoralists tilted their heads in unison.

“That is the problem.”

The fight was chaos. Chris and I moved like we used to—back when everything made sense. Every time I hit them, I thought about Nashville. About laughter, heat, stupid arguments and easy nights. About a world where things did matter. And I poured that into every movement. By the time it was over, the street was quiet again. The Amoralists were gone. Chris leaned against me, breathing hard.

“You think that’s it?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“No,” I said. “That’s just the beginning.”

He laughed weakly. “Of course it is.”

I looked out over Anthropolis again. The city hadn’t changed. It never does. But I had. I wasn’t just surviving anymore. I wasn’t just a champion. I was a problem. And in a city like this…That’s the most dangerous thing you can be.

The silence didn’t last. It never does in Anthropolis. There was a shift. You could feel it. The Amoralists had noticed me…and now they were thinking.

“You feel that?” Chris asked, as we moved through an elevated walkway overlooking the lower districts. The glass beneath our feet was cracked in long veins, threatening to give way with every step.

“Yeah,” I said. “They’re adapting.”

Chris let out a slow breath. “That’s not good.”

“No,” I agreed. “It means we actually got to them.”

He gave me a sideways look. “You say that like it’s a win.”

“It is,” I said. “They don’t understand us yet.”

“Dan…they don’t want to understand us.”

I stopped walking.

“Exactly.”

We found the next sign of them in a small courtyard tucked between two leaning towers, the kind of place people used to pass through without thinking. There was an old fountain in the center—dry, cracked, long since stripped of anything valuable. Just a skeleton of what used to be something peaceful. But now… people were gathered around it. Not moving. Not speaking. Just…standing. Chris slowed beside me.

“That’s wrong.”

“Yeah,” I muttered.

One of the Amoralists stood in the center of the dry basin. Its hands were raised slightly, not in control—but in demonstration.

“They’re showing them something,” Chris said quietly.

“Or taking something away,” I replied.

I stepped forward before he could stop me.

“Dan—”

“I’ve got it.”

“You always say that.”

“And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“That’s not the same as being okay.”

As I got closer, I could hear it. The Amoralist wasn’t speaking loudly, but its voice carried anyway—like it didn’t need air to travel.

“…meaning is a distortion,” it was saying. “Attachment creates suffering. Identity creates conflict. You believe your experiences define you, but they are only interruptions in an otherwise neutral existence.”

The people didn’t react.

“They’re being emptied,” I said under my breath.

Chris caught up beside me. “Can we even stop that?”

I stared at the thing in the fountain.

“Yeah,” I said. “We break the signal.”

It noticed me immediately.

“They return,” it said, turning its head slowly. “The anomaly.”

I smiled, though it didn’t feel natural. “You’ve got a weird way of saying ‘champion."

Chris groaned. “You really gotta—”

“—stop saying that, yeah, I know.”

The Amoralist tilted its head. “You persist in identity constructs despite repeated disruption,” it said. “Why?”

I stepped closer, ignoring the unmoving crowd.

“Because I remember things you can’t erase.”

And just like that—I was back in Nashville again. A late afternoon, sun hanging low, casting everything in gold. Chris and I were sitting on the steps outside a rundown building, sharing a drink we definitely shouldn’t have had.

"You ever notice how people hold onto stuff?” I said, watching strangers pass by.

Chris shrugged. “Like what?”

“Memories. Titles. Who they think they are.”

He smirked. “You mean like you calling yourself the best at everything?”

I grinned. “I am the best at everything.”

“Yeah, okay,” he laughed. “But seriously…people hold onto that stuff because it gives them something solid. Even if it’s not real.”

I thought about that for a second.

“And if it is real?”

Chris looked at me, expression softer now.

“Then it’s worth fighting for.”

I came back to Anthropolis with that still in my chest. Still burning.

“You want to know why?” I said, stepping into the fountain. “Because it’s not just noise,” I continued. “It’s mine.”

And then I hit it. The moment my fist connected, the air around us rippled. The crowd twitched just slightly but it was enough. Chris saw it too.

“It’s working!”

The Amoralist staggered—not from pain, but from interference.

“You’re introducing instability,” it said.

“Good,” I shot back. “Get used to it.”

“You cannot sustain this,” it said. I stepped closer, not backing down.

“Watch me.”

And for the first time since all of this started…I saw something new in its expression. Not confusion nor curiosity but resistance. It vanished a second later—but the damage was done.

The people around us started to move again. Chris let out a breath, running a hand through his hair.

“…okay,” he said. “That one felt bigger.”

“Yeah,” I replied, looking down at my still-shaking hands.

“It learned something.”

I nodded. “So did we.”

He looked at me carefully.

“Dan… this isn’t just about surviving anymore, is it?”

I met his gaze.

“No,” I said. “It’s not.”

Because now I understand something I didn’t before. Something the Amoralists could never fully erase. They weren’t just trying to destroy us. They were trying to prove something. That nothing matters. That everything we fight for, everything we remember, everything we hold onto…is just temporary noise in a meaningless system. And maybe they’re right about one thing.

Maybe it is temporary. Maybe it all fades eventually. But standing there with Chris beside me and strangers slowly remembering who they were…I realized something they’d never understand. Temporary doesn’t mean worthless. And as long as I’m breathing…I’ll keep proving that the hard way.
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“Byson Kaliban…you stubborn, rotting, cockroach son of a bitch! You just don’t know when to die, do you?

I beat and broke you in front of the whole damn world and ripped that Paramount Championship out of your hands like it never belonged to you in the first place. I left you laying there, gasping, bleeding, looking up at the lights like a man realizing his whole legacy was built on bullshit—and somehow, SOMEHOW…you crawled back…

That’s what you are, Byson. Not a warrior. Not a legend. A cockroach. Every time the lights go out, every time the world burns, there you are…skittering out of the cracks, thinking you’re unkillable. Thinking you’re inevitable. But let me make one thing crystal fucking clear—you’re not hard to kill…you’re simply hard to finish…

And that’s my mistake. I didn’t fucking end you. I didn’t grind you into the dirt deep enough. I didn’t make you stay down. That’s on me. But this time? There’s no mercy left in me. No hesitation. No respect. You don’t get another war…you get a fucking execution…

You think you’ve seen dark, Byson? You think you’ve felt pain? You don’t know a goddamn thing about what’s coming. Because I’m not entering the Colosseum to win—I’m stepping in to erase you. Every breath you take, every step you make, I’m gonna be there, breaking you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but a twitching reminder of what happens when you refuse to stay buried…

You’re not a challenger anymore. You’re a fucking infestation, and I am the fire that finally burns you out for good. One last time, Byson…Stay down. Or I swear to God, I will make you wish you had…

And once I FINALLY put your sorry ass in my rearview mirror, I can focus on defending MY Paramount championship that I fucking earned. I’ve waited too damn long to win this title. I’ve nearly beaten everyone the Amoralists have put in front of me. I challenge ANYONE to walk through Anthropolis, come to the Colosseum. Challenge me for the Paramount championship and realize the future is now, and it is me. The ENDD is near. Can you feel it?”

“There will always be obstacles and challenges that stand in your way. Building mental strength will help you develop resilience to those potential hazards so you can continue on your journey to success.” ~Amy Morin