Chapter 9 — "Do or Die"

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Junior had been out for days—he could tell by how heavy his body felt as he woke, disoriented and groggy.

The darkness around him pressed in, and instinctively, he thought about pushing energy into his fire sigils for light. He glanced toward his legs and tried to focus energy into his left leg, but nothing came. His sigil was empty, drained of karma. Frustrated and in pain, he flopped back onto the bed, drifting in and out of consciousness.

There was something at the edge of his awareness—a sound, faint and haunting. A song. At first, he thought it was a dream, but as he strained to listen, his eyes widened. The sound wasn’t in his head. It was real, echoing through the halls of the hotel.

“Dad…” Junior groaned, sitting up in bed, the distant music unmistakable. It was the familiar tune from his dad’s boombox.

Without thinking, driven by the need to follow the sound, Junior swung his legs off the bed. His left foot hit the cold floor, and he used his arms to steady himself. The moment he put weight on his injured leg, a sharp, searing pain shot through him.

“Agh!” he cried out, collapsing to the ground. The agony was unbearable, nearly pulling him back into unconsciousness.

But the music called to him, like a siren. Gritting his teeth, he began to crawl, dragging himself forward with his arms and his good leg. Every inch he moved sent fresh waves of pain through his broken body. The process was slow and torturous; he wasn’t sure he’d make it to the training room at all.

Each movement amplified the pain in his leg. Reaching the door to his room, he threw it open weakly and stared into the dim hallway beyond. The music was louder now, unmistakable, coming from the direction of the training room. He took a deep, ragged breath.

His father’s voice echoed in his mind, a lesson from long ago: “Ink Fighting is more than just beating your opponent into the ground,” his father had said as Junior practiced kicks on a bag, overusing his sigils. “It’s about moving your energy through your body. The karmastry runs deeper than your skin. Use its power.”

“Use your energy,” Junior muttered to himself, closing his eyes. He focused on the feeling of karma inside him—the tingling sensation he always felt when activating his sigils. Instead of pushing it outward, he let it settle, imagining it as a warm brace holding his bones together.

Sweat beaded on his forehead, but the pain dulled slightly. The nausea receded, and he began crawling again, inch by inch, through the empty halls of the hotel. He wasn’t entirely sure how he managed it, but before long, he found himself at the bottom of the side stairs leading to the training room.

The last stretch of hallway felt like an eternity. His arms ached, and every pull forward made him want to collapse, but he pushed on. At the far end, a crack of light spilled under the training room door. A tantalizing, soft blue glow seemed to beckon him, giving him the strength to keep moving.

“Don’t stop,” he told himself, forcing his battered body forward until, finally, he reached the door. The blue light washed over him as he slumped against it.

Clawing his way up the wall, Junior leaned heavily on it and pushed the door open.

Inside, his father stood with his eyes closed, just as Junior had seen him before. The elder Ink Fighter’s sigils floated ethereally above his skin, glowing faintly with the same calming blue light that filled the room. The air was charged with energy, warm and invigorating, making Junior feel for a moment like the eager child who first fell in love with Ink Fighting.

When his father opened his eyes, Junior braced himself for anger or disappointment, ready for a confrontation. But instead, his father’s face softened with intense worry.

“Junior!” His dad rushed to him, scooping him up effortlessly and carrying him to the bleachers. He knelt in front of Junior, his hands already examining the poorly set cast on his leg.

“I didn’t know you were still here,” his dad said, his voice low and steady. “Your mother said they took you to a real hospital.”

His father’s hands hovered near the cast. Junior winced, but the touch was careful, almost healing.

“You’re going to be alright, son,” his dad said firmly, his tone filled with certainty. The words stirred a memory in Junior—a time when he first told his father he wanted to be an Ink Fighter. He remembered how upset his dad had been, but now he understood. He had been so blind.

“Dad…” Junior’s voice cracked, and tears welled up in his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to meet his father’s gaze. “You were right… I should have listened.”

His dad didn’t respond, his focus still on the injured leg.

“I don’t expect you to forgive me,” Junior continued, his voice trembling. “But I don’t know who else to turn to…”

His father suddenly lunged forward, wrapping him in a secure, protective hug. Junior’s tears flowed freely as he clung to the one person who had always wanted to shield him from this life.

“Why do you think you need forgiveness?” His father's words were barely above a whisper.  

Junior pulled away, feeling a wave of unworthiness wash over him, and stared at the wall. In the candlelight, his father’s face looked triumphant, like the man who had once conquered countless opponents.

“I’m a failure!” Junior cried out, slamming his hands down onto the bench. His vision swirled with emotion. “I haven’t lived up to your legacy.”

His father placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, like water cooling a raging fire.

“Your legacy was always your own,” his father said firmly. “You could never disappoint me. But you’ve been a disappointment to yourself because you didn’t understand. Fighting is more than winning—it’s about observing, determination, and most of all, being true to yourself. Anger alone isn’t enough.”

“I wanted fame. I was blind to all of it.” Junior wiped his eyes and gave a small, bitter smile. “But I think I’m starting to understand.”

His father patted his good knee. “Let’s take a look at that leg.”

As his father gently began removing the cast, Junior explained everything he had learned from Bone Biter.

“I saw the announcement about you fighting Gorilla,” his father murmured, carefully unwinding the bandages. “At first, I thought it was just to humiliate you. But now I see the real plot.”

“You think Mr. Green really told Gorilla to kill me?” Junior asked hesitantly.

His father nodded, his expression grim. “Yes. He would. You’ve spoken out against him publicly, and he knows how popular you are. You’re a threat to his authority.”

“What should I do?” Junior’s voice was laced with desperation as a sinking feeling welled up inside him.

His dad sat up straighter, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. “We get you out of here. I won’t let them hurt you anymore.”

Junior looked at his father, seeing a determination in his eyes that both comforted and terrified him. His father was ready to sacrifice everything. Even if they escaped, Junior knew the consequences: his mother would likely be punished, his friends targeted, and any freedom they found would be short-lived. They’d always be looking over their shoulders. With his mangled leg, Junior wouldn’t get far, and he didn’t know anyone outside who could help.

A new feeling bubbled to the surface, pushing aside his dread. It wasn’t fear or anger—it was calm determination. A need to fight not for glory, but for survival.

“No,” he said softly but firmly. “If I run now, he’ll find me, and it’ll be worse. I need to buy time. If I can survive this fight, maybe then we’ll have a chance. But I need to go into this match.”

His father’s jaw tightened. “Son—”

“What would you do, Dad?” Junior interrupted. His father’s silence spoke volumes—they both already knew the answer.

“It was your mother’s idea to name you after me,” his dad said after a pause. “She told me you had a look in your eye the first time she held you. She said it was the same look I got before a fight.” Conrad chuckled softly, but the sound was tinged with sadness.

“I won’t fail,” Junior said, clenching his fist. “I’m not going to die here.”

“I know you won’t, son. You’ve got the blood of a champion in you.”

They sat in silence for a moment as the music from the boombox played its last notes. It was the calm before the storm.

“I need something to help me walk. If I can just move, I can survive her blows. I know I can’t beat her, but I’m faster than she is,” Junior said, glancing at his leg. “Maybe a new sigil could help, something to take the pain away.”

His father frowned, deep in thought, then sighed and stood, effortlessly scooping Junior into his arms. “Let’s go talk to Marty. I think I have an idea.”

___________________________________________________

The Ink Artist’s studio was buried even deeper in the twisting labyrinth of the HHH hotel. Conrad carried his son carefully down the rickety stairs, each step creaking under their weight.

The neon lights of Marty’s studio blinked erratically, illuminating the dark space. The scent of ink and chemicals filled the air. Marty wasn’t asleep this time; he was hunched over his drafting table, inking an intricate design with practiced precision. As Conrad set Junior down gently in the sigil chair, the elderly artist turned toward them, his scarred face splitting into a toothless grin.

“Marty, we need a body sigil. Something that’ll stiffen his leg,” Conrad said.

The Ink Artist hobbled over, mumbling to himself as he examined Junior’s injury. His fingers poked and prodded the leg, eliciting a sharp yelp from Junior.

“This is some serious damage, kid,” Marty tutted. “You’d need a big sigil—something with healing capabilities too. Problem is, you’d have to cover these nice flame sigils I did. Once they’re gone, they’re gone.”

Junior’s heart sank. It was too much to hope for an easy fix. A new sigil would take time to learn, and time wasn’t something he had. But he clenched his fists, swallowing his disappointment. Survival came first.

“I don’t have a choice,” Junior said quietly. “I’ll learn whatever I need to learn and make it work.”  

Marty chuckled, his toothless grin widening. “That's all well and good, kid, but putting a sigil over another is gonna be a problem.”

“You won’t do it?” Conrad growled, his grip tightening on the edge of the chair, leather tearing under his hands.

“Not saying it’s impossible,” Marty replied, hobbling back to his desk. “But I can’t finish it myself. Conrad, you’ve been learning, haven’t you? You’d have to do it.”

“Me?” Conrad’s gravelly voice echoed through the studio. “Marty, I’m not ready for something like this.”

Still smiling, Marty pulled out a thin sheet of drawing paper and began sketching with quick, decisive strokes.

“You’ve got the talent, Conrad. Besides, you’ll need to use your hardening sigils to survive the payback. Because wooof! Haha, it’s not gonna be easy.” Marty grinned, his voice tinged with mischief. “You’re the one who wanted to learn. Think of this as an exercise in getting closer to the ‘true’ Ink Arts.”

Marty spun around with surprising speed, holding up his design—a beautifully intricate sigil of a bone.

The Ink Artist shuffled over, carefully placing the stencil against Junior’s leg. It was massive, covering a significant portion of his calf and swallowing more than half of his existing flame tattoos. Marty clapped Conrad Sr. on the back.

“Besides, this is gonna hurt. Getting a sigil over another sigil is painful enough, but with the damage this kid is in, I just hope he survives.” Marty gave a raspy chuckle. “He’s gonna need you, Conrad.”

Junior shared a terrified look with his father. Both of them knew they would need every ounce of strength they had to survive this ordeal, but there was no other way.

Marty rolled the ink station over and shoved Conrad gently but firmly onto the stool. “Alright, big guy, gloves on. Let’s get started.”

As Marty pressed the stencil against Junior’s injured leg, a sharp hiss of pain escaped the young fighter’s lips. The Ink Artist pulled the paper away, leaving behind a clean purple outline of the sigil. Conrad leaned forward, examining the design.

“This whole thing’s gotta be filled with solid black,” Marty explained, tapping the tender skin with his finger. Junior winced, barely holding back his cries. “You’ll want to pack the ink in real deep. No skipping corners—get that color solid.”

Junior’s father nodded as Marty continued explaining the finer details of the process. Junior, meanwhile, felt his face grow pale as the enormity of what he was about to endure settled in. He gritted his teeth, determined to survive whatever came next. He wouldn’t let the thing he loved—the fight—be the thing that destroyed him.  His eyes wandered to the flickering neon sign above them, its mismatched orange and blue bulbs casting an oddly soothing glow over the dim room. For some reason, the imperfect colors struck him as beautiful, a fitting symbol of the chaos he had been living through. He leaned back, closing his eyes and focusing on the faint tingle in his broken leg. He pushed on it gently, summoning a painful but familiar spark from his fading sigil.

“Goodbye,” he whispered to it.

The tension in the room thickened, an invisible presence settling over them. It was as if the monstrous payback from the Great Machine was lurking just beyond a veil, eagerly awaiting the process to begin. Marty finished his explanations with one last cackle and clapped Conrad on the back.

“Alright, kids, I’ll be on the other side of that door. Good luck!” With that, he shuffled out, leaving the room and closing the heavy door soundly behind him.

Conrad took a deep breath, picking up the ink machine gun. There was a new look in his eye—one of confidence.  

“Are you ready?” Conrad’s voice was calm and steady.

Junior tightened his grip on the edge of the chair, his knuckles white. “Ready, Dad.”

Conrad switched on the sigil machine, and its sharp, mechanical whir filled the room.