Elijah barely slept.
The beats in his head wouldn't stop. They looped, twisted, morphed into verses, hooks, bridges to nowhere. Even in the broken quiet of Studio 404, the city outside thumped, restless and alive.
By the time the sun fully peeled itself over the crumbling skyline, Elijah was already on his feet.
Worn sneakers. Frayed hoodie. Stolen confidence.
That was his armor.
He tucked the Rhythm chip into his pocket, slung a busted set of headphones around his neck, and stepped into the streets of Rhymecity.
---
Crossfade Station was nothing like he expected.
It wasn't a subway, not really. It was a massive underground arena, hidden beneath layers of old music stores and crumbling radio towers. The deeper you went, the thicker the sound became—dense enough to feel it pushing on your ribs.
Above the giant entrance hung a pulsing neon banner:
> "FIRST DROP TRIALS — SPIT OR QUIT."
Crowds surged toward the gates—MCs, dancers, producers, hustlers, fans. Some had tattoos that moved to the rhythm of nearby songs. Others had boom-box drones following them, leaking out practice bars into the air.
Elijah blended into the mass, following the current.
At the checkpoint, two guards in black hoodies scanned everyone's Rhythm chips. If you didn't have even a sliver of Rhythm? You didn't get through.
Elijah's heart banged against his ribs as he stepped forward.
"Chip," the guard barked.
Elijah handed it over.
The scanner beeped once, cold and sharp.
> [Rhythm Level: 0.20] — Entry Approved.
The guard barely glanced at him before waving him through.
Relief flooded Elijah's chest—but he swallowed it down. No time for weak emotions now. The Trials were just beginning.
---
Inside, the station had been transformed into a coliseum of sound.
Steel platforms floated in midair, each one a miniature stage. Massive speakers formed the walls. Rows of seats spiraled upward like waves made of rusted metal. The crowd filled every inch of space, buzzing with anticipation.
A giant screen above the main platform flickered to life.
An announcer's voice boomed out—gritty and charged with static:
> "WELCOME TO THE FIRST DROP. YOU KNOW THE RULES: 1 ROUND. 1 MINUTE. NO BACKING BEATS. NO RETAKES.
KILL THE MIC—OR THE MIC KILLS YOU."
The crowd erupted.
Elijah's hands clenched into fists.
He wasn't nervous exactly. He was wired. Focused. Like a wolf who hadn't eaten in weeks catching scent of prey.
---
He spotted Jinx across the arena.
She leaned against a cracked pillar, nodding to the beat of a private track no one else could hear. She wore a different jacket today—slick silver that caught the light when she moved. It made her look sharper, faster. Untouchable.
She caught his eye and gave a quick nod.
Stay sharp, it said.
Stay real.
---
"New blood," a voice hissed from behind him.
Elijah turned.
A group of competitors stood there—older teens, maybe early twenties. Each one looked carved from different scenes: a trap king with diamonds in his dreads; a lo-fi poet with ink-stained fingers; a battle-hardened brawler with scarred knuckles.
And at the front of them—
A man named Silas Vane.
Everyone seemed to orbit him without even realizing it.
He was tall, lean, sharp-jawed with tattoos running up his throat like black vines. His Rhythm chip wasn't even hidden—it floated around his neck, spinning slowly.
Elijah squinted at it.
> [Rhythm Level: 4.83]
Way out of his league.
Silas smirked. "Another ghost rapper hoping for a miracle."
"I'm just here to spit," Elijah said evenly.
The others chuckled, but Silas's smile didn't reach his eyes.
It was the kind of look a predator gives right before the kill.
"Good luck," Silas said, brushing past him. "You'll need it."
Elijah exhaled slowly, grounding himself.
Words were weapons here.
And he hadn't come unarmed.
---
Names flashed across the giant screen, pairing MCs for the first matches.
One by one, competitors climbed onto the floating platforms, spitting bars into open air while the crowd judged with merciless volume. If you killed it, you heard the cheers.
If you choked, you heard nothing at all.
Silence was deadlier than booing in Rhymecity.
---
"ELIJAH KANE vs. REEKO BLAZE," the screen shouted.
The crowd murmured.
Reeko Blaze was a local legend—a speed-rapper known for flipping four languages in a single verse. His freestyles were like machine guns. Fast, relentless.
Elijah swallowed hard.
No fear.
He climbed onto his platform.
The arena lights dimmed until it felt like the whole world collapsed into a single spotlight, trapping him in its glare.
Across from him, Reeko grinned, tongue flicking across a gold tooth.
A disembodied voice thundered:
> "SPIT OR QUIT. BEGIN."
---
Reeko exploded first.
He tore through a minute of rapid-fire rhymes so tight, they didn't sound human. Words blurred into sound—sonic bullets ricocheting off the steel platforms.
The crowd roared.
They loved speed. Flash. Technique.
Elijah just stood there, letting it happen.
When the buzzer ended Reeko's verse, Elijah stepped up.
The silence pressed down.
No beat. No mercy.
He closed his eyes for half a second.
And remembered.
The old stage.
The fall.
The promise.
When he opened his mouth, his voice was low, slow, and full of gravity.
---
> "Y'all rap fast to mask that you ain't saying nada,
I walk slow 'cause each step shakes the saga—
Rhymecity breathes lies, but I exhale the flame,
I don't run laps with words, I engrave my name."
> "See me once? You'll feel it for life,
Like a cut that never heals—too sharp for your knife—
You bring noise, but I bring the truth that cuts deep,
Plant my verses in your bones, bury 'em in your sleep."
> "You sprint, I strike.
You flash, I burn.
You forget, I return."
He leaned into the final lines, voice growing colder:
> "First drop or last breath, make no mistake—
My bars don't race...
They break."
---
The silence afterward was brutal.
No cheers.
No boos.
Just pure tension.
Then, a slow sound, soft and building:
Hands.
Clapping.
One, two, then more.
Jinx stood, clapping slow and hard.
Others followed.
A tidal wave of approval slammed into the arena.
Reeko's grin faded, replaced by a tight scowl.
Above them, the giant screen flashed:
> [BATTLE RESULT: VICTORY — ELIJAH KANE | RHYTHM +0.75]
---
He climbed down from the platform, heart hammering against his ribs.
Jinx met him near the exit tunnel.
"You didn't just win," she said, half in awe. "You made them listen."
"Had to," Elijah said, shrugging off the tremble in his fingers.
He wasn't shaking from fear anymore.
He was shaking from power.
Jinx leaned in, voice low. "Careful. Silas is watching."
Elijah glanced across the arena.
Sure enough, Silas Vane stood on the upper balcony, arms crossed, staring down at him with cold, measuring eyes.
There was no hate there.
No anger.
Just interest.
The kind a wolf shows when it finds another predator in its territory.
---
The Trials weren't over.
More rounds.
More battles.
Each one harder than the last.
But Elijah wasn't just another rookie anymore.
He had planted his flag.
He was a threat now.
And in Rhymecity?
Threats either rose to legends—or disappeared without a sound.
#How was the chapter please leave a comment and give ideas for the next chapter