My Level Is 1, But My Damage Is Infinite

The Pattern

Chapter 3: The Pattern

The night air in the slums didn’t just smell like trash; it smelled like desperation. Eka walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his hood pulled low to hide the strange, predatory glow that occasionally flickered in his eyes.

"Hey, kid. You lost? The orphanage is three blocks back."

Eka stopped in front of a rusted steel door guarded by a man who looked like he’d been stitched together from spare parts. The guard’s cybernetic arm hissed as he adjusted his grip on a heavy shock-baton.

"I’m looking for The Iron Lung," Eka said, his voice flat.

"The Lung? You got any credits, or are you just looking for a place to die?"

"I’m here to fight."

The guard burst into a gravelly laugh, clutching his stomach. "You? You look like a stiff breeze would snap your spine. What's your rank, kid? G? Is there even a rank that low?"

"I'm unranked," Eka lied, though technically, F was as close to unranked as it got. "Does the house take a cut of the registration f*e, or do you just stand there all night being a comedian?"

The guard’s laughter died down, replaced by a sneer. "Feisty. I like it. Registration is a hundred credits. If you don't have it, keep walking."

Eka reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled bill—his last bit of savings for the month's rent. He tossed it at the guard. "Keep the change."

"There is no change, brat. Get inside. Try not to get blood on the mats; they're hard to clean."

The door groaned open, revealing a staircase that spiraled down into a humid, roaring basement. The air was thick with the scent of cheap beer, sweat, and ozone. In the center of the room was a sunken pit, surrounded by a chain-link fence pulsing with a low-voltage hum.

"Name?" a woman behind a plexiglass booth asked. She didn't even look up from her tablet.

"Zero," Eka said.

"Rank?"

"Level 1. Porter."

The woman finally looked up, her eyebrows shooting toward her hairline. "A Level 1 porter? Are you committing suicide? Because we have a policy against that. It’s bad for the betting odds."

"I can take a hit," Eka said. "Just put me in. Whoever’s the heaviest hitter on the roster right now. I don't care about the win, just the screen time."

"Heaviest hitter?" She tapped her screen, a dark smirk playing on her lips. "Well, Jax is looking for a warm-up. He’s Level 20, Brawler class. He usually breaks three ribs per match. You sure about this, Zero?"

"Perfect," Eka muttered. "Sign me up."

"Alright, suicide it is. Go to the red corner. You’re up in five."

Eka walked toward the pit. As he approached, the crowd began to notice him. The jeers started almost immediately.

"Hey! Look at this! Did a stray cat wander into the ring?"

"Is that a kid? Hey, kid! Does your mom know you’re out here?"

"Put your money on Jax! This won't last ten seconds!"

Eka ignored them, stepping through the gate and into the dirt-covered ring. Opposite him, a man the size of a refrigerator was wrapping his knuckles in heavy tape. Jax looked up, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"You gotta be kidding me," Jax boomed, his voice echoing off the concrete walls. "Is this a joke? Am I being punked?"

"Just fight," Eka said, shifting into a loose stance.

"Fight? Kid, if I breathe on you too hard, I'm gonna be looking at a manslaughter charge," Jax laughed, stepping into the center of the ring. "Look at you. You’re shaking."

"I'm not shaking," Eka said, watching the 0.00% on his internal HUD. "I'm waiting."

"Waiting for what? A miracle?"

"Something like that."

The buzzer rang, a harsh, grating sound that signaled the start of the match. Jax didn't move at first. He just stood there, arms crossed.

"Go ahead, Zero. Give me your best shot. I’ll give you a freebie since you're probably gonna end up in a coma anyway."

"I'd rather you go first," Eka said.

Jax’s expression soured. "Oh, you're one of those. Fine. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Jax moved with surprising speed for a man of his bulk. He lunged forward, his fist whistling through the air. It connected squarely with Eka’s jaw.

CRACK.

Eka’s head snapped back. He stumbled, his vision blurring as he felt the familiar, sickening slide of a bone moving out of place.

[Damage Received: 450 Units.]

[Stored Kinetic Charge: 1.2%]

"Stay down, kid," Jax said, shaking his head. "That was just a jab."

Eka spat a glob of blood onto the dirt and looked up, a small, terrifying smile on his face. "Is that all? My grandmother hits harder when she’s tired."

The crowd went silent for a heartbeat before erupting into a frenzy.

"Did he just taunt Jax?"

"He’s still standing! How is he still standing?"

Jax’s face turned a deep shade of purple. "You little piece of... alright. Let's see how you like the heavy stuff."

Jax unleashed a flurry of blows. A hook to the ribs, an uppercut to the solar plexus, a heavy overhead right that slammed Eka into the dirt. Each hit was a hammer blow. Eka felt his ribs splinter. He felt the air leave his lungs. He felt the delicious, agonizing heat of the "battery" beginning to hum.

[Damage Received: 1,200 Units.]

[Damage Received: 2,500 Units.]

[Stored Kinetic Charge: 8.5% ... 12.1% ... 15.6%]

"Why... won't... you... drop!" Jax screamed, his punches getting sloppier as his frustration grew. He was Level 20; he should have turned a Level 1 porter into paste by now.

Eka pushed himself up from the ground, his arm hanging at a weird angle. He could feel the system working, the auto-regeneration fighting against the damage, trying to "clear" his charge. He had to finish this before he healed too much.

"You're getting tired, Jax," Eka wheezed, blood dripping from his nose. "Your Mana is running low. I can see it in your eyes."

"Shut up! Just die!" Jax roared, pulling his arm back for a massive, skill-boosted haymaker. "Iron-Smasher!"

The punch landed. The impact sent a shockwave through the ring, kicking up a cloud of dust. The crowd cheered, certain the fight was over. Jax stood there, huffing, his chest heaving.

"Finally," Jax gasped. "Stubborn little..."

As the dust cleared, Eka was still there. He hadn't fallen. He was holding Jax’s massive fist in his palm. The skin of Eka’s hand was glowing with a dull, volcanic orange light.

"My turn," Eka whispered.

Jax tried to pull his hand away, but it was like it was fused to a mountain. "What... what are you?"

"I'm a Level 1 porter," Eka said. "And you’re over-leveraged."

Eka didn't punch. He didn't even pull back his arm. He simply reached out and tapped Jax on the shoulder with his free hand.

[Discharging Kinetic Charge: 5.0%]

The "tap" sounded like a cannon firing.

Jax didn't just fall. He was launched. The Level 20 brawler flew backward, his body a blur of motion. He hit the chain-link fence, which snapped like it was made of sewing thread, and continued upward. He slammed into the reinforced concrete ceiling with such force that the entire building shook.

Jax stayed there for a second, embedded in the rafters, before falling like a sack of stones into the empty seats.

Silence fell over The Iron Lung. It was so quiet you could hear the buzz of the flickering neon signs.

Eka stood in the center of the ring, his broken arm audibly snapping back into place as the system forced a heal. He looked at his HUD.

[Stored Kinetic Charge: 18.2%]

[Notice: Minor Discharge successful. Target neutralized.]

"Uh," the referee stammered, looking from the hole in the ceiling to the broken boy in the ring. "Winner... Zero?"

Eka didn't wait for the trophy or the cheers. He turned and walked out of the pit, his rag-tag clothes fluttering in the draft. He passed the booth where the woman sat, her jaw literally hanging open.

"My winnings," Eka said, holding out his hand.

"I... I have to calculate the odds," she stuttered. "Nobody bet on you. The payout is... it's huge. Thousands of credits."

"Keep half for the ceiling," Eka said, grabbing a stack of bills she had sitting on the counter. "I’ll be back when I'm feeling better."

He walked up the stairs and out into the cool night air. His body felt light, but the "hum" was still there, a low-frequency vibration under his skin. 18 percent. It wasn't enough to kill a god, but it was enough to make the world notice.

High above the alleyway, perched on a rusted fire escape, a figure watched him walk away. She was clad in a long, dark trenchcoat that seemed to absorb the surrounding light. In her hand, she held a small, glowing data-pad.

"Found him," she whispered into a collar-mic.

"Is it the one from the Sector 4 incident?" a voice crackled in her ear.

"It’s him. Eka Pradana. Level 1. Rank F," she said, her eyes tracking his movement with a predatory focus. "He just took twenty direct hits from a Brawler and didn't blink. Then he sent the guy through the roof with a finger-flick."

"Status?"

"Unstable. High potential. And completely unaware of who’s watching." She paused, scribbling a note on her screen. "Tell the Director we don't need the S-rank candidates from the Academy. This 'punching bag' is exactly what the proj

ect needs."

Eka turned the corner, vanishing into the fog of the slums, unaware that for the first time in six years, he wasn't the only one counting his hits.