Marvel: The saiyan

First things first—I needed a hefty income.

Sure, I could've just gone with my first idea: rob every gang in the city. Honestly, it wouldn't have been hard. Most of them were pathetic, barely deserving the term "criminals." The so-called "bosses" were usually bloated egomaniacs surrounded by lackeys who couldn't throw a decent punch if their lives depended on it. I doubted any of them could give me a proper challenge.

But this wasn't just any world—this was Marvel. And if there was one thing I'd learned from watching too many superhero movies and reading comics, it was that drawing attention to yourself always brought complications.

Sure, I could handle normal humans, but humans weren't the only problem here. There were heroes—Super Soldiers like Captain America, billionaires with suits of advanced armor like Tony Stark, and sorcerers who could tear reality apart with a few hand gestures. Then there were the villains, and some of them were even worse. Being cautious wouldn't kill me. Getting too arrogant? That might.

So, robbing gangs was out. For now, at least.

That left me with another option: sports.

With my capabilities, sports were an obvious choice. My strength, speed, reflexes—it wasn't even fair. I could run circles around these humans without breaking a sweat. But as I thought about it more, I realized something that gave me pause: Too much fame is just as bad as too much attention.

The NFL? Out. Way too public. The NBA? Same problem. I'd make the highlight reel every game, and the media would be sniffing around me in no time. Football—or soccer, as Americans called it—wasn't popular enough here to be worth my time. And don't even get me started on things like baseball or golf.

I needed something physical. Something raw. Something where I wouldn't just dominate but actually enjoy myself.

That's when it hit me. MMA!

Mixed martial arts was perfect. It wasn't as mainstream as the NFL or NBA, but it was big enough to make me a decent amount of money. And it wasn't just about the money. MMA was dangerous—at least for normal people. Fighters came in looking to break bones, end careers, and leave opponents unconscious. I respected that. It was primal, direct, and absolutely suited to me.

If there was one thing I loved, it was a good fight. Not just because of these Saiyan instincts buzzing in my blood, either. Even in my old life, I'd been a fan of combat sports. UFC, boxing, Muay Thai—I'd watched them all. I'd spent hours glued to my screen, marveling at the precision of Anderson Silva's strikes or the raw ferocity of Mike Tyson in his prime.

The idea sent a spark of excitement through me. This wasn't just about the money anymore.

"Alright," I muttered, grinning to myself as I walked through the streets of New York. "Time to see what this world's fighters are made of."

The first thing I needed to do was find a gym. Not just any gym, though—a proper MMA gym. The kind where fighters trained, sweated, and bled. If I wanted to make a name for myself, I couldn't just walk into some random gym and start shadowboxing in the corner.

After wandering for a bit, I pulled out the battered flip phone I'd gotten from that gang weeks ago. The screen was tiny, and the keypad felt like it belonged in a museum, but it got the job done.

"Let's see…" I muttered, scrolling through search results. One name caught my eye: LeGrand Gym.

"Not bad," I said with a smirk. "Let's start there."

Four months. That's how long it had taken me to build a life here—at least, the beginnings of one.

My routine had been simple: train, fight, improve.

Every morning, I hit the gym early, sharpening my skills in martial arts. I wasn't content to just use my Saiyan instincts to overpower opponents. I wanted to master the techniques of this world, the art behind every strike, every movement. I focused on the basics—striking, grappling, submissions—and drilled them relentlessly. Within weeks, I was outpacing my trainers and sparring partners.

Still, I never let them know that. I kept my power carefully concealed, holding back just enough to make each match lookcompetitive, even though I could have ended most of them in a single strike. Every fight was a performance, a delicate balancing act to make sure no one ever realized how bored I really was.

In the evenings, I trained alone, focusing on my ki. This was where the real work happened.

Developing my ki sense was frustrating, like trying to flex a muscle I'd never used before. But I could feel it—faint, pulsing, like an ember waiting to catch fire. Every day, I stoked that ember, willing it to grow stronger.

I also experimented with basic ki techniques. Energy blasts were harder than I expected—controlling their power without drawing attention to myself was like walking a tightrope. Every time I tested a blast in private, I imagined someone like Doctor Strange or Thor feeling the ripple of my energy and showing up unannounced.

Still, I was making progress.

LeGrand Gym wasn't anything fancy. It was small, the kind of place where fighters showed up for one reason: to get better. The coaches were serious, and the fighters even more so. That worked for me. I didn't need luxury—I needed opponents, and this place had plenty.

At first, they didn't take me seriously. I walked in with no experience, no background, no resume—just a guy off the street claiming he wanted to fight. Most of them rolled their eyes or ignored me outright.

But it didn't take long for that to change.

Within days, I was sparring with their best fighters. Within a month, I'd earned my first official match.

From there, it was a blur. Match after match, opponent after opponent, I won every single time. Fast knockouts, technical submissions, you name it—I could do it. The promoters loved me. The fans loved me even more. They started calling me "The Hunter" because of how calm and emotionless I looked during fights, never breaking a sweat or showing a hint of struggle.

The money came quickly. By the end of my fourth month, I'd racked up enough wins to earn a few million dollars. A fortune for most people, sure. But for the things I had in mind? It wasn't nearly enough.

The city had served its purpose. It gave me money, experience, and a chance to build myself up. But it was time to move on. Too many distractions, too many eyes.

I searched for a house—something far away from the noise and chaos. A place where I could train without worrying about prying eyes or accidentally leveling a building. Within a few days, I found it: a large, secluded property about two hours outside New York City in car but with my speed, it would be easy to travel.

The house was solid, surrounded by acres of forest. The price? A steal. I bought it outright, packed my few belongings, and moved in without a second glance.

Every morning, I woke before sunrise, stepping out into the crisp air with only one thought in my mind: get stronger.

Trees became punching bags, boulders became weights, and cliffs became challenges to climb and leap from. My Saiyan body adapted quickly—muscles that were already dense and powerful grew even stronger, my reflexes sharper. Every movement felt lighter, faster, more precise.

I spent hours every day refining my ki. Energy blasts became second nature. Ki barriers grew stronger, sturdier. 

My power level climbed steadily: 6,000… 7,000… 8,500.

I wasn't there yet—not even close—but I could feel it. The grind, the endless pursuit of strength—it was paying off.

One night, after a particularly grueling day of training, I sat on a fallen log at the edge of the forest, staring up at the stars.

The scouter was in my hand, its green display glowing faintly as I stared at the number: 8,500.

"Getting there," I muttered, my voice breaking the silence. "Slowly but surely."

The Saiyan blood in my veins burned with anticipation. There was nothing more satisfying than the grind, the endless pursuit of power.

Then, a notification buzzed on my phone, interrupting my thoughts. It was a call from my coach. He rarely called unless it was something important—he knew by now that I didn't need to come to the gym to train, and I wasn't one for small talk.

I sighed, leaning back on the log as I answered.

"Yo, Shallot! How's it goin' these days?" Coach's voice came through the receiver, rough but friendly. He always had that kind of gruff energy, like he was one beer away from losing his voice entirely.

"Same as usual," I replied, keeping it vague. "Training, staying sharp. You know the drill. What's up? Another match lined up?"

"Yeah, actually. Got somethin' real good for you this time," he said, his tone shifting into something more serious. "Big fight. Bigger payday. You free tomorrow?"

I raised an eyebrow, even though he couldn't see me. "Tomorrow? You're usually not this last minute. What's the deal?"

Coach let out a short laugh, but there was an edge to it. "Yeah, well, this ain't your usual gig, kid. Some promoter's been sniffin' around, lookin' for new talent to put on a special card. High-stakes event, invite-only. Big names. The kind of thing that could really put you on the map."

I frowned slightly, considering his words. "Special card? What's the catch? Feels like there's always a catch with these things."

"No catch," Coach said quickly, but his hesitation was obvious. "Well... not much of one. Just a different kind of crowd, you know? More private. The promoter's got deep pockets and wants a good show. You're already his top pick, but... uh, let's just say this crowd might not be the kind of folks you're used to."

I leaned forward, narrowing my eyes. "What kind of folks are we talking about here?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then Coach cleared his throat. "Rich folks. VIPs. The kinda people who don't sit in the nosebleeds. Look, it's nothing shady, alright? Just some high rollers who want to watch the best fighters go at it up close. You're gonna get paid a lot, kid. Way more than you're making now."

I didn't answer right away. Something about this didn't sit right with me. Rich VIPs wanting private fights? It sounded... off. But the money was tempting. And if this was a chance to fight someone worth my time, maybe it was worth the risk.

"Alright," I said finally. "Where's it happening?"

"Got a location in the city. I'll text you the details," Coach said, relief clear in his voice. "But listen, Shallot—don't go into this thing half-assed. These people aren't like the fans you've seen before. Just... keep your cool, alright?"

I smirked, standing up from the log. "You're worried about me losing my cool? You forget who you're talking to, Coach."

He laughed, the sound crackling over the line. "Fair enough. Just show up ready to win, as always."

"Always do," I replied, hanging up.

The forest around me felt quieter now, the usual sounds of rustling leaves and distant wildlife fading into the background. Something about this fight—it didn't feel like just another match.

High rollers. VIPs. A private event. My instincts were already whispering that this was going to be different, maybe even dangerous. But part of me welcomed it. I'd spent months growing stronger, waiting for a real challenge. Maybe this was it.

I slipped the phone back into my pocket and headed toward the house, my mind racing with possibilities.

The sun was setting as I arrived at the location Coach had texted me. It wasn't a typical arena or gym—this place looked more like an upscale event hall, the kind of building you'd expect to host a fancy gala or some corporate meeting.

Luxury cars lined the parking lot, their polished exteriors gleaming under the dim light of the streetlamps. Men in suits and women in expensive dresses milled around the entrance, their conversations quiet but animated.

I stepped out of my car, dressed simply in a hoodie and jeans. My tail was tucked under my shirt, wrapped tightly around my waist like a belt. No need to let anyone see anything they didn't need to.

The moment I walked through the doors, I felt it: the weight of eyes on me.

Inside, the air was thick with cigar smoke and whispered conversations. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a golden glow over the crowd. People were seated around small tables, sipping drinks and placing bets as waiters moved between them like shadows.

At the center of the room was a caged ring, smaller than the ones I was used to but just as intimidating. The metal bars gleamed under the overhead lights, and the mat looked pristine—untouched, like it was waiting for blood to stain it.

Coach was waiting near the ring, his arms crossed as he scanned the crowd. When he saw me, he waved me over.

"Shallot," he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Glad you made it."

"Yeah," I said, glancing around. "This is... different. What's the deal with these people?"

Coach shrugged, lowering his voice. "Like I said, rich folks. They like their fights clean and brutal, and they pay top dollar for it. Don't worry about them. Just do what you do best."

I nodded, my eyes drifting to the ring. "Who's my opponent?"

Coach hesitated, then motioned toward the far corner of the room.

A man was sitting there, wrapping his hands. He was tall, built like a tank, with scars running down his arms and a dead look in his eyes. He wasn't dressed like a typical MMA fighter—his gear was a mix of tactical and traditional, like he couldn't decide if he was going to a fight or a war.

"Name's Cain," Coach said quietly. "Ex-military. Real mean son of a bitch. He's been running through fighters like a buzzsaw."

I smirked, cracking my knuckles. "Finally, someone interesting."

Coach didn't look as amused. "Just... don't underestimate him, alright? You're strong, but this guy fights dirty. If he gets the chance, he'll break you."

"Noted," I said, already walking toward the ring.

The crowd's murmur grew louder as I stepped into the cage, the lights above casting harsh shadows over my face.

The announcer's voice boomed through the room, cutting through the hum of chatter like a blade.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the moment you've all been waiting for! In this corner, standing at 6'4" and weighing 250 pounds, the man with a body count longer than a grocery list—CAIN!"

The crowd erupted into cheers, whistles, and applause. Cain stood up from his corner, towering over everyone around him. His body was built like a tank, all raw muscle and scars that spoke of a life lived violently. He moved with purpose, his eyes locked on me like a predator sizing up its prey.

"And in the other corner," the announcer continued, "the rising star, undefeated in every match so far, the one they call 'The Hunter'—SHALLOT!"

The cheers for me were less enthusiastic. A few claps here and there, some polite applause, but nothing compared to the noise they made for Cain. I didn't care. I didn't need their cheers.

Cain stepped into the ring first, the metal cage door slamming shut behind him with an ominous clang. He cracked his neck, then his knuckles, before turning his full attention to me. His lips curled into a sneer as I climbed into the cage, calm and composed as always.

Up close, he was even bigger than I'd thought, his sheer size casting a shadow over me. But I didn't flinch. Instead, I met his gaze with a bored expression, my tail wrapped tightly around my waist beneath my shorts.

"Well, look at this," Cain said, his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear. "They're lettin' kids fight now? What are you, 18? You even old enough to be here?"

The crowd chuckled, his words earning a few jeers in my direction.

I stayed silent, rolling my shoulders as I loosened up.

Cain took a step closer, towering over me, his sneer widening. "What's the matter, kid? Cat got your tongue? Or are you just too scared to say anything?"

Still, I said nothing.

That only seemed to fuel him further. "You know what's gonna happen in here, right? I'm gonna break you. You might've had a nice little winning streak so far, but tonight? It ends. And you're gonna wish you stayed home with mommy and daddy."

I smirked. Finally, I spoke, my voice calm and steady. "You done?"

Cain blinked, caught off guard by my lack of reaction. Then his sneer returned, and he barked out a laugh. "Oh, I'm just getting started, kid. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be—"

The referee stepped between us, cutting him off. "Alright, save it for the fight."

Cain glared at me one last time before backing up to his corner. I stayed where I was, my hands resting casually at my sides.

The referee raised his hand, signaling the start of the fight.

"Ready?" he asked, looking at Cain.

Cain grinned, pounding his fists together. "Oh, I'm ready."

The referee turned to me. "You ready?"

I nodded once, my smirk never fading. "Always."

The bell rang.

Cain charged forward immediately, his massive frame barreling toward me like a freight train. His movements were aggressive, unrelenting—punches thrown with enough force to shatter bones if they landed.

But they didn't.

To me, he might as well have been moving in slow motion. I sidestepped his first punch, ducked under the second, and slipped past him with ease. He threw another wild hook, and I caught his wrist mid-swing, stopping it cold.

Cain's eyes widened in shock.

"What the hell?" he muttered, trying to pull his arm back. But I didn't let go.

"You're slow," I said flatly, twisting his arm and sending him stumbling forward.

The crowd gasped as Cain staggered, barely keeping his balance. He turned back toward me, his expression darkening.

"You little—" he growled, charging at me again.

This time, I didn't bother dodging. Instead, I stepped forward and drove a single punch into his gut.

The impact was devastating.

Cain's entire body folded around my fist, the air exploding out of his lungs in a wheezing gasp. His feet left the ground as the force of the punch lifted him off his toes, and he crumpled to the mat like a sack of bricks.

The room went silent.

I stood over him, my fist still raised, staring down at his unconscious body.

The referee rushed in, waving his arms to signal the end of the fight. "He's out! It's over!"

I took a step back, shaking out my hand as the adrenaline faded. I'd held back—at least, I thought I had—but Cain hadn't even lasted a full minute.

The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and stunned silence. Some of them were on their feet, shouting in excitement, while others exchanged nervous glances.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the winner by knockout—SHALLOT!" the announcer called, his voice barely cutting through the noise.

I glanced down at Cain's motionless body one last time before turning and walking out of the ring. My hands were in my pockets, my expression calm, but inside, I couldn't help but feel a flicker of annoyance.

Still too easy.

In the crowd, one pair of eyes wasn't on Cain—or the rest of the fighters.

She swirled the drink in her hand as she watched Shallot leave the ring. Her sharp eyes had caught every detail of the fight, every movement, every moment.

"Interesting," she murmured, setting her drink down.

She stood, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease.

Back in the locker room, I leaned against the wall, staring at my reflection in the mirror. The fight had been a joke, just like all the others. Cain had been strong, sure—but not strong enough.

A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.

"Yeah?" I called.

The door opened, and Coach stepped in, his face a mix of excitement and concern.

"Shallot," he said, shaking his head. "What the hell was that? You're gonna scare off the promoters if you keep ending fights like that."

I shrugged. "Not my fault he couldn't keep up."

Coach sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, enjoy the win, kid. You earned it. But... you've got some eyes on you now. Be careful."

"Eyes?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," Coach muttered, glancing toward the hallway. "One of the VIPs asked about you. Real serious type."

I froze for a split second before regaining my composure.

Coach chuckled nervously. "Just... keep your head down, alright?"

"Yeah," I said, smirking. "We'll see."

As Coach left, I leaned back against the wall, my mind racing.