A black-robed, hooded figure sped along the exterior of a long-abandoned apartment building in one of the forgotten parts of New Medeo City, a place where only scum, grime, and the destitute accumulated.

He stopped, standing on his toes just outside a window, raising his camera to capture the moment a rotted door burst off its hinges, and through the threshold poured dozens upon dozens upon dozens of skinny, dessicated figures, most missing their hair and their nails, clawing their way in and howling through gaping maws, spreading through the room more like a wave than a search party.

The figures clawed at the peeling wallpaper, ripping through the weakened wooden walls to push into the surrounding rooms.

A pale, translucent figure floated through them all towards an as-of-yet undisturbed bedroom, and the black-robed voyeur followed its movements from the outside, watching the ghost lift its hood to reveal a skeletal face, which breathed. A cold mist left its mouth, and against the far wall, above the bed, an empty picture frame’s shadow quivered.

The ghost raised a bony finger and opened its jaw, and from it rose an unearthly wail like a dying scream. The doors to the room suddenly bulged with groaning undead, smashing again and again against the door.

The frame’s shadow dripped down beneath the bed, only to scurry out like an oversized cockroach across the floor as more ghostly white figures pursued it, wailing and ripping at their tarnished cloaks.

The black-robed man crawled through a window and across the ceiling, moving much like a spider as he recorded the rotting hordes thundering through the narrow halls, chasing the fleeing shadow on the floor towards a stairwell, only to stop as a heavy shovel cracked the ground in front of the black splotch.

Holding the shovel was a tall, limber figure, dressed in a dirty black trench coat over stiff black leathers, and a high-topped black hat that was faded and worn by the ages. The figure’s head was hidden amidst long, flowing, wavy black hair, only his pale, naked, protruding jaw visible, revealing a deep set frown.

The shadow hesitated, a grievous mistake, as the graven figure flicked the shovel up, digging the shadow out of the floor, and from it emerged a yelping Haitian woman, who pulled herself up to take a shaking fighting stance.

The woman in her pitch black bodysuit flew towards the looming figure, her fists pounding against his chest again and again, the shadows she cast coming alive and joining in the ruthless beating, but the tall figure did not so much as flinch, or speak, or even grunt; he merely stared down at her with yellowed eyes until she was shakily stepping backwards.

The black-robed watcher turned the camera to watch as the horde of undead suddenly burst into the hallway, closing the shadowy woman between the macabre gravedigger and the legion of living dead behind her.

She suddenly lept at the wall, disappearing into it as a shadow that tried to shoot around the tall man, only for a milk-white fist to smash through the wood and rip her out by the shoulder, tossing her into the arms of the dead.

Terror erupted from her lungs as decayed limbs wrapped around her and dragged her to the floor, stiff fingers grasping at her clothing and face, an outraged groan filling the building and drowning out her fear, before her cry was heard:

“I GIVE UP!”

The deads’ grasp weakened, and with a swipe of the gravedigger’s arm, both zombie and ghost went still, then slowly decayed; rotted flesh slid off of bone, bone collapsed into a fetid pile, and the pile disappeared in an earthy, black mist that flowed into the tall man’s coat.

The hallway was empty other than the three living figures. The black-robed man fell from the ceiling onto his feet and straightened up. Seemingly dozens of remote-operated drones surrounded him, none larger than a baseball, and flying through the air, their lenses focusing on the tall man, the black-robed man, and the floored woman.

“This battle is decided!” The black-robed figure, the fight’s proctor, declared, raising one arm and pointing dramatically towards the tall man. “Mortimer Graves is the winner of this battle, and gains one point! Another victory in an unbroken streak so far by The Death Knight himself! Master Graves, what do you have to say to your fans?!”

The towering, dark figure lifted his head up to the surrounding cameras, and with a low, rumbling growl, turned and stomped off towards the stairs with a dismissive wave.

“As quiet as ever! Fear not, folks, the tournament will continue!”

The shadow-shrouded clearing in the park was bereft of its usual attendees. Instead, a single figure sat in the center, enjoying the sound of the wind through the leafy branches above. His brown hair was pulled back in a long ponytail, almost blending in with his brown, scale-like flesh.

From his absurdly long, loose white sleeves emerged a long, green-scaled snake, its mouth opening to clutch a tea cup from his little picnic. It brought the cup to his lipless mouth, a forked tongue flicking at the hot drink to test its heat, and then he took a practiced sip.

He remained passive, sitting amidst a coiling pile of serpents silently nesting around him, twisting and writhing around in an almost preternatural tranquility, some squirming up his pants to find warmth, and he made no effort to dissuade them.

Standing not far from him was a black-robed proctor, his cloth headdress and veil obscuring his features, his sharp black eyes glancing between his phone and their surroundings.

After a still minute, the proctor’s shoulders shrank, and he tapped a button on his phone that summoned the numerous black camera drones to point at him and the serpentine man sitting nearby.

“The battle is decided! Armin Dahl has failed to arrive at his scheduled fight! He forfeits victory to—” The man gave an exaggerated point towards the tea-sipping combatant, “—Alistor Carnaghy, the winner, and gains a half point! The tournament shall continue!”

Alistor smiled to himself, raised a sleeve, and waved a snakelike arm at the surrounding cameras.

The cameras deactivated one by one, filing into four long, cylindrical cases, and the proctor clicked off his phone, standing by as help came on its way.

“Dearest Reffe,” Alistor said with an elongated ‘sss’ in his words, “would you care for a cup of tea before we part?”

“Hmph.” The proctor regarded Alistor, then wordlessly walked over and knelt down, respectfully avoiding bothering the snakes surrounding the man. “Earl Grey?”

“Hot.”

The proctor took a cup and lifted his veil to drink, his eyes closed, before opening to regard Alistor with disappointment in his eyes. “This was your fourth opponent in a row to miss their fight.”

“It’s terribly unfortunate.” Alistor sighed. “I know how excited your clan is to showcase this tournament to the world.”

“Hmph.” The proctor narrowed his eyes. “The other Reffe found Dahl in his room after the fight was called. Dead asleep, unresponsive, with a drug found in the breakfast delivered to his room.”

Alistor sipped his tea, and his tongue slithered around his fangs. “I do hope they wake him up; I would like to reschedule this fight if at all possible.”

“Mhmm.” The proctor drank slowly.

The woman’s body slowly clicked and cracked back into its normal shape, and she jumped on the body of her opponent. Two men in black suits and sunglasses rushed to defend the downed man with medical bags in hand, but a black-robed proctor held out his hand, stopping his juniors from interfering as his voice rose.

“The battle is decided! Maleena Latta is the winner of this battle, and gains one point!! The tournament shall continue!” The black-robed proctor announced to the surrounding cameras, which spun slowly to take in the enormous splatters of blood and bile that lined the interior of the long-abandoned, dimly lit subway tunnel.

Maleena pulled a mask over her mouth and nose, her stringy black hair hanging around her face to only show a single red eye as she touched a hand to the gasping man’s exposed ribcage.

Two arms, bony and barely dressed in flesh erupted from an opening in the back of her scrubs and reached down towards her belly, cutting into her own skin with sharpened fingertips that she didn’t even acknowledge.

She stuck a finger in the blood pooling around his exposed organs and paused.

“Blood-type B-negative.” She whispered to herself, her veins slithering out from underneath her fingertips to connect to his, and her arms swelled, thick and red, as fresh blood pumped through her body and into his. “Stomach, critically damaged; small intestine, damaged; liver, damaged; spleen, healthy; lungs…” She stopped, and glanced up at the man. “You need to stop smoking.” She informed him.

Frederick could only gasp and gag as she ripped his organs out of his open belly and started stuffing in her own, shreds of skin sealing them in place as she quickly, yet carefully, repaired him.

The skin of her arms stretched and drooped off of her bones like old laundry, attaching to the roughly-hewn edges of his own abdominal dermis, and with a surge of ki-energy, began to rebuild muscle and vein pathways.

She hacked away the excess, and though his stomach was discolored and a little… bulgy, he breathed, and stared down at her work with bug-eyes as she pulled a pad out of her pocket and swiftly wrote on it, setting it on his overly-pale stomach.

“Find this at a pharmacy of your preference, take three a day, one at each meal, for two weeks, and everything should be fine.” She informed him.

“W-what?”

“It’s on that paper.” She told him. She picked up his discarded, ruined organs, tossed them into her doctor’s bag, and got a nod from the proctor to head off.

The black-robed proctor continued to speak into the cameras as his two subordinates checked Frederick’s new… features curiously.

“Will combatant Frederick be able to make a comeback after being stitched together?! We shall see during his next fight! Until then, The Bloody Angel continues her rampage with the second most points accrued!”