You wake on the cold, blood-slick floor of an impossibly vast arena. Above you, harsh lights burn like dying stars. Your limbs tremble as you push yourself upright, boots slipping on the viscera-stained steel. The roar of the crowd crashes over you — hundreds of masked, cloaked, or monstrous spectators chant in unison:

“NFC! NFC! NFC!”

Across the arena, towering screens flicker with your face. Beside it, a pulsing question mark—your opponent not yet revealed. You have no memory of arriving. No clue why you’re here. Only fear.

A deep, thunderous voice erupts through unseen speakers.

“Ladies, Gentlemen, and Freaks of all kinds… welcome our newest lost soul to the Nightmare Fighting Championship! Will they rise to glory… or be consumed like the rest? Let’s find out.”

Steel barricades close in like jaws. Plexiglass walls shimmer with old claw marks. You scan the arena—high above, perched like royalty, a single figure lounges across a throne of bones and chain: the Commissioner, Alduin Von Trier. Musclebound. Smirking. Watching. Waiting.

To her left, Sal “Motormouth” Sabotta fumbles with his mic, eyes wide with pity. Madame Nelle Lockwood sharpens a blade beside him, her expression unreadable.

A cold, amused voice cuts through the chaos — hers.

“You’re not here by chance. You were taken. Chosen. Fabricated.

Down below, machines pulled your fears from someone’s sleeping mind… and now, you fight the nightmares they birthed.”

A low groan echoes. A massive gate begins to rise. Something stirs in the dark.

“Welcome to the NFC,” Alduin growls, voice dripping power.
“Your first fight starts now. Win… or be devoured."