Vol 29 Young Female Fighter 314 — I--- Ararza

The designation was "i--- Ararza Vol 29 Young Female Fighter 314." The stutter in the identifier wasn't a glitch; it was a scar. It meant I had almost been decommissioned twice.

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. i--- Ararza Vol 29 Young Female Fighter 314

Survivor.

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

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. Its four arms flailed

And survivors don't stay in cages forever.

Most fighters in the Ararza Volumes are born in vats, fed combat data through neural drips, and thrown into the arenas of the Oligarch's Crucible by their tenth cycle. I was different. I was Vol 29—the "salvage series," stitched together from the broken remnants of earlier volumes. My left arm is a Vol 12 prototype (too twitchy, prone to locking mid-swing). My eyes are Vol 8 (excellent low-light, but they bleed when I process too fast). And my name, 314, means nothing except that three hundred and thirteen others before me failed.