I--- Ararza Vol 29 Young Female Fighter 314 May 2026

The explosion was small but surgical. 892’s core vented plasma in a single, directed burst that melted through its own spine. It went limp. I rode the corpse down when gravity switched off entirely, floating in the sudden zero-G, surrounded by the silent, stunned crowd.

It didn't matter. I had a new designation now, one I gave myself. i--- Ararza Vol 29 Young Female Fighter 314

I kicked off a floating chunk of debris, drew the ion dagger hidden in my thigh sheath (not regulation, but Vol 29 didn't follow rules—we followed survival), and let my bleeding eyes do the math. 892’s reactor casing had a hairline fracture from a previous bout. The Oligarch's maintenance was sloppy for Warforms they considered unbeatable. The explosion was small but surgical

The arena that day was the Shattered Geode, a hollowed-out asteroid with gravity plates that flickered unpredictably. My opponent: a Vol 41 Warform, serial 892, a hulking thing with four arms and a core temperature that melted the floor beneath its feet. The crowd—wealthy patrons in private viewing pods—chanted for my death. They always did. Young Female Fighter was a genre to them, not a person. I rode the corpse down when gravity switched

I had three minutes of survival data on 892. It was arrogant. It led with its upper-left arm every time. It overheated after thirty seconds of sustained output. And it had never fought someone who bled from her eyes when she calculated trajectories.

The announcer's voice crackled: "Winner: i--- Ararza Vol 29 Young Female Fighter 314. Status: Combat Effective."

I landed on its back just as gravity flipped again, now pressing us both into the ceiling. Its four arms flailed. My twitchy left arm locked up—perfect timing. It made my grip unbreakable. I drove the dagger into the fracture.