Chapter 2 — "A Legacy Reborn"

📕👉 Read Chapter 1 Here

15 years later…

A body hit the mat with a sickening thud.

“Again,” Conrad grunted through gritted teeth, watching the young Ink Fighter struggle to get back up.

“We've been going over these drops for an hour! Can you teach me something useful, like using my sigils?” The animal-type Ink Fighter cried out, rubbing his bruised shoulder, which had hit the mat first.

He was only fourteen but was talented and eager to get into the cage. He went by the call sign Bone Biter—of course, it was edgy and flashy.

Conrad rubbed a sore spot on his jaw that often hurt when he spoke. “Fundamentals are just as important as using your sigils. I decide when you’re ready to use them.”

They had been practicing simple pushes and shoves for hours, focusing on footwork and staying balanced. The tedium had clearly started to wear on the two students in front of Conrad.

Bone Biter growled as he shook his arms loose, facing his opponent, a weapons user called Club. Club was a simple student who didn’t have much of a brain but liked to beat people up with large bats he produced from sigils in his arms.

Bone Biter, however, had potential—despite being unfocused, wild, and headstrong. He reminded Conrad of someone else at his age.

Club took his stance, but before he could even reach out for his opponent, Bone Biter started to pump energy into his sigil—a jagged, black fur pattern that ran along his neck and shoulders, causing the muscles in these areas to puff up with thick, wolf-like fur. With his now superior strength, Bone Biter delivered a powerful shoulder check, sending Club flying backward onto the mat.

Bone Biter stood, flexing his augmented body over the winded Club. “Ha! See? Who needs footwork when you’ve got power?”

From where he stood in the shadowed doorway of the underground training room, just below the main stage, Conrad Jr.—or Junior, as everyone called him, much to his chagrin—watched his friend Bone Biter take down Club. He saw the raw, pulsing muscles under the thick fur as they surged with power. He felt a twinge from his own sigils along his legs and feet, almost like an itch he had to scratch; the power that came with them was addicting.

His father, agitated and angry, stepped between the two students, shoving Bone Biter away, ready to chew him out.

“Nice transformation, Bone. New sigil?” Junior called out, revealing himself and interrupting the inevitable verbal lashing his friend was about to receive.

Ignoring the stern look from the former champion, Bone Biter flexed a bit more, raising his large shoulders and striking a pose.

“Yeah, thought since I was joining the league soon, I’d get some new ink.” Bone Biter’s fur was already starting to dissipate, giving way to his normal flesh as he stopped focusing, the karma in his sigil waning.

Junior’s father pursed his lips and waved the two students away. “Go to Marty and have him refill your sigil. Be back here later for more training, and no more stunts like that, Bone, or I’ll stop training you.”

Bone Biter rolled his eyes, moving over to his gym bag and slinging it over his shoulder. Now back to normal and drained of its karma power, his sigil had lost its effect, though a few tufts of dark fur still lingered. “Whatever, see you later, little Conrad.” He gave a half-hearted wave at Junior as he jostled with Club to get out of the training room first.

Junior took his time setting down his own bag and stretching his arms without looking at his dad. He could feel the tension in the room rising and was in no mood for a verbal fight, but these days, it seemed inevitable.

“I told you I’m not training you,” his father said gruffly behind him.

Junior sighed, turning to roll his eyes openly at his father. “You have to train me. I’m part of the Jr. League. Can we just get this over with?”

The young Ink Fighter glanced at his father as he continued to stretch, rolling out his neck and shoulders. Over the years, his dad had started to stoop lower; his dazzling smile, once plastered on posters, had turned into a permanent frown. The white that had started around his temples now seriously wrapped around his thick black hair. He looked like a mere shadow of the strong champion he once was.

“Let me sit. I’ve been on my feet all day.” His father shuffled behind him, pressing his knuckles into a sore spot on his jaw as he plopped down on the metal bleachers near the door, which creaked under his weight.

Junior and his father might share the same name, but they were very different. Ever since he was tall enough to see the fighters in the cage, Junior had been mesmerized by the fighting.

There was something powerful about the way sigils could be manipulated. The dance the fighters did on stage, the cheering, the lights—it was exhilarating.

When Junior learned his father had been a grand champion, it felt like his destiny to follow in his footsteps. He wanted that glory for his family once again. If only he could show his father what he was capable of.

“Did you hear me?” His father's agitated voice snapped Junior out of his thoughts. His dad had been talking, probably about ancient fighting techniques again.

“No, I was thinking about when I first told you I wanted to be an Ink Fighter like you.” Junior focused on rolling up his already short pants to give the sigils on his legs more room to breathe. They were tattoos of fire, moving from the bottom of his feet and curling up around his legs in bright red ink. His father looked at them with disgust.

“Yes, I remember. I said you were throwing your life away,” Conrad said, grabbing his bottle of water and taking a long, exhausted sip.

Junior ignored this remark, bouncing on his toes and shaking his legs out before moving over to a low punching bag. He threw a few quick kicks in rapid succession, then dodged an invisible opponent, skipping around the bag before launching another devastating series of kicks.

“You got into this much younger than I did. You were, what, nine when you first got into the ring?”

Junior missed a kick at his father's remark and steadied himself before delivering a powerful THWAP! that sent the bag flying back harder than before.

“That was back when the sport had honor. And don’t talk while you fight; you get too distracted, and your kicks don’t land.”

Conrad Sr. groaned, touching another sore spot on his face. The sound echoed around the training room, filled with punching bags, smaller boxing rings, and posters of past champions, including one of Conrad Sr. as Lockjaw, his iron features set in a confident smile.

Unable to resist, the fifteen-year-old shot back, “I thought you said you weren’t going to train me.”

As he spoke, his foot slipped, causing him to stumble and miss the kick he was aiming for. His dad didn't laugh, just let out a long, exasperated sigh. The younger Ink Fighter steadied himself, not waiting for the advice he was sure would come, and began narrowing his focus on the bag. He felt his sigils calling to him, begging to be used. He thought about channeling their energy, letting the heat wrap around his ankles, making him faster, stronger, more powerful.

“Junior… I keep bringing this up,” his father’s voice was louder now, cutting through Junior's distracting thoughts and pulling him out of his haze once again.

But before his father could say anything else, a voice called from the hallway outside the training room.

“CONRAD?”
Followed by the quick clicking of high heels.

“CONRAD?! Are you in here?”

His father tensed, rubbing his jaw, while Junior rolled his eyes again. “We’re in here, Ma!”

From the dark hallway emerged his tall mother, wearing high heels with the grace of someone who had once been a ring girl. A cigarette was tucked behind her ear, and her long, dyed red hair, with bits of brown showing at the roots, flowed around her face and down her back in a curly blowout, making her seem even taller. Long, dangling jewelry gave her the illusion of having more money than she did, but she was still fabulous and quick-witted.

Junior was a perfect mix of his mother and father. He had his father’s complexion and hair but his mother’s height—and, as his dad liked to say, her attitude. He was taller than her now—without her heels, of course. With them on, she towered over everyone in the room. They added a good four inches. He wasn’t sure how she managed to stay upright all the time.

She looked around the room with an expression she reserved for places Conrad Sr. occupied. When she spotted Junior among the equipment, her heavily shadowed eyes lit up.

“Oh, you’re here too, Junior? Come here, baby, and hold this for me.”

Junior quickly went to her side, and she pulled him in for a quick kiss on the cheek before handing him her large leather purse. She rummaged through it, pulling out sticks of gum and makeup, her long nails clicking together with each movement.

“I swear, it’s a black hole in here.” She pulled out a cigarette case and handed it to her son, who balanced it while still holding the bag, which seemed to grow heavier with each passing second. “Conrad, don’t go anywhere; I have something for you.”

“I haven’t moved, honey,” his father huffed, sitting back even further on the bench and folding his arms.

“Nuh-uh, don’t ‘honey’ me. That's old news and not even good news.” His mother looked up at Junior, winked, and chuckled.

Junior beamed at her. She reached what seemed like her entire arm into the bag, finally finding what she was looking for. She pulled out a sheet of paper and waved it in front of Conrad Sr.'s face. He took it without a word, and she hefted her purse onto her shoulder.

“Need to pay Mr. Green back for some advertising this month. He sent me to remind you about it or something.” She popped a stick of gum into her mouth, chewing it loudly.

“Junior, you got a light?” She stuck a cigarette between her teeth, somehow managing to smoke and chew gum at the same time.

“No, Ma, sorry.”

“Why don’t you use your fancy feet sigils?” his father grumbled, crumpling the piece of paper slightly before tossing it down beside him on the bench.

Junior's mom gasped. “How about you get some sweaty feet in your face, huh?”

She took a swipe at his father with her long nails, but he ducked out of the way, still agile when he wanted to be. She laughed at his expression, like a fighter ready to jump into a brawl.

“What are ya gonna do, fight me now? Psh, always so tightly wound, this guy.”

She looked at Junior and raised her eyebrows, sharing a little inside joke just between the two of them. Junior smiled, and she pushed it even further.

“At least he uses his feet to propel his future. From what I see, you never use yours anymore.”

The former champion knew better than to say anything else and just returned his focus to the crumpled piece of paper.

She then turned to Conrad Jr., taking his chin between her fingers. “Your father is jealous because you can pull off sigils he could never handle. You’re going to be a star. Hayden will see that soon, and you’ll be a better champion than your father ever was.” She squeezed Junior's face a little harder, kissing him on the forehead, and he felt a surge of confidence rush through him.

“Oh, for the love… I almost forgot to give this to you.” She exclaimed, dropping her purse off her shoulder and handing it to her son.

“Right on top this time, here you go.” She pulled a rolled-up poster from her purse and passed it to Junior before taking her bag back.

“What is it?” Junior asked excitedly, unrolling it.

“A bit of an early birthday gift,” his mother said, popping a piece of gum between her smiling lips.

Junior unfurled the poster and saw it was a picture of himself. His call sign, “FIREFLY,” was emblazoned underneath his determined face. It looked like a real champion's poster.

“How did you get this?” Junior exclaimed.

“Ah, well, Mr. Hayden told me to get something for you for tomorrow's fight, and I know how much you like those posters.”

Junior hugged his mom tightly.

“This is fire, Ma. Thanks.”

His mother hugged him back briefly. “You're going to be a star, Firefly.” She held him at arm’s length and gave him one last squeeze. “I need you to get famous so you can buy me some real jewelry, huh?” She shot a disappointed side-eye to his father.

They both laughed. She glanced at her gold watch, the other bracelets jingling as she held it up to her face.

“I’ve got to run. Conrad! Do you have the money?” she called over to his father, who sat up.

“I’ll bring it up later…” his father mumbled, his eyes narrowing.

“That crap again. Don't you dare screw this up. You've got a son who's on his radar now.” She turned to her son one last time. “I’ve gotta go, my little lightning bug. Tomorrow’s a big fight. I’ll be in the stands rooting for you. Your mother’s always got your back, okay?”

“Okay, Ma,” Junior said as she left the room, blowing him kisses and waving with her bright red nails. Her heels clicked down the tiled floor, gradually fading away.

His father looked at the paper again, a troubled expression on his face. Junior was still enchanted by his own image on the poster. He looked powerful, unbeatable. He carefully rolled it back up and placed it near his bag, then returned to the punching bag, feeling uplifted by his mother’s encouragement. He delivered a spin kick, sending the bag crashing into the wall with a thud.

“Junior… I know we’ve talked about this before…” his father spoke gently from behind him after watching silently for a few long minutes.

“Stop calling me that. It’s Firefly, now.” Junior danced around the bag faster, feeling the smoke start to rise from his sigils without him even having to think about it.

“Damn it, will you just listen to me!”

Junior stopped on a dime, his foot about to collide with the bag. The tone in his father’s voice was one he knew all too well, with the same underlying disappointment it had carried for nearly a year, ever since he told the former champion he intended to join the Champions League when he turned sixteen. Well, really, it had started long before that—it seemed like his father had always been disappointed in him.

“The Champions League is not for you! You don’t understand what you are risking.”

Junior glanced back at his father, who was trembling, gritting his teeth in determination. His iron hands were pressed into the metal of the bench, bending it downward.

“I know the danger. I’ve watched the fights, and I’m as tough as any of them.” Junior kept his eyes on the punching bag, though he wasn’t using it. “Besides, I’ve been in the Junior League for almost a year, and I’m doing more than fine.”

“No, it’s not the matches themselves. It’s the man who owns them. He’ll promise you fame and fortune, but one wrong move, and you risk everything.”

As his father spoke, Junior's eyes drifted to the wall above him, where a poster of Lockjaw hung proudly. His father's face was filled with a genuine smile of happiness, a raised fist in triumph over his opponent, the Champions League belt around his waist. Junior wanted that—he wanted happiness, fame, and fortune, and if his buzzkill of a father could achieve it, so could he.

“What’s so bad about fame and fortune?” Junior asked, finally turning to smile at his father, who could only frown deeper and shake his head. The metal bench groaned under his father’s clenched fists.

“You’re not hearing me. This Ink Fighting you’re doing has no honor. Our bodies are not tools for fighting but for learning about our spirits…” His father stood, his hands on his hips in frustration. The metal he had been bending snapped back into place with a loud bang.

Junior huffed. He’d had enough of his father’s crackpot ideas. Since falling from the championship, his father had become half-baked, steeped in old books he had found about Ink Fighting as a form of enlightenment. He preached this to all the young fighters and had earned a reputation for being old and crazy.

“Again with this crap? You’re obsessed with this idea.” Junior pointed at the poster of his father. “You were happy, right? Don’t talk to me about spirit when you’ve lost yours.”

“Son…” His father’s voice was deflated, but Junior finally gave in to his rising anger, feeling the fire coil from his feet and boil toward his face.

“Don’t you hear the way people talk about you? Like you’re nuts?”

His father stared at the floor.

“I’m not interested in your zen ways; I never have been. I want to learn how to win. I want to reclaim our family name, make us powerful again!”

“Junior, you’ll sell your soul for nothing but your name in lights!” His father’s voice was rising, and he slammed an open palm into his fist, stepping toward him. They began to circle each other, like opponents in the ring, each one waiting for the moment to strike.

Junior struck first. He had a lashing tongue he’d inherited from his mother, just as dangerous as his feet.

“Just because you lost your champion title doesn’t mean you get to discourage me from pursuing it! Ma’s right—you’re jealous of me!” Junior spat, smoke rising with each step he took.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Conrad Sr. approached him, backing him against the punching bag. Even in his aging form, he was still rippling with muscles, his dulled sigils pulsing, ready at a moment’s notice.

“You don’t like me because I’m an elemental fighter, something you could never handle.” The young Ink Fighter didn’t lower his voice but sidestepped, using his quick feet to get behind his father once again.

His sigils were hot, raising the temperature of the room. Conrad Sr. looked at them with hatred flaring in his eyes. He ground his teeth, and the sigils along his jaw bubbled.

For just a moment, Junior thought he might have broken through to him. He saw an old light flicker across his father’s features. But instead of exploding, his father simmered down, stooped even lower, and turned away, stiffly picking up his towel and water bottle from the bench.

“Do what you want. Throw away your life to Hayden for all I care. Just don’t come crawling back to me when it’s not what you dreamed of.”

Junior was always ready for a fight, but he wasn’t ready for his father to simply leave. His father grabbed the door, closing it behind him, leaving the young Ink Fighter alone in the training room. With a frustrated cry, Junior summoned energy into his legs, feeling the burning sensation crawl up his feet and onto his legs. He used the bursts of fire to jump around the bag, moving faster and faster with a simple turn of his hips. His enhanced leg shot upward, sending a fireball toward the bag and blasting a large hole through its side.

“I am ready, and I won’t fail.”