"I just bet on you."
Rhea crouched on the wall, swinging her legs and eating stolen grapes like gravity personally admired her.
Sun pointed upward.
"With whose money?"
She thought about it seriously.
"Possibly yours."
"That is not better."
She tossed him a grape.
He caught it.
Then suspiciously did not eat it.
Rhea looked offended.
"You think I poisoned it?"
"I think you're you."
"Fair."
She vanished backward off the wall before anyone else could speak.
Brin walked over chewing something aggressively.
"I like her."
"She steals from me."
"She steals with style."
"That's not a defense."
"It is in cities."
---
The courtyard slowly returned to controlled chaos.
Workers repaired doors.
Guards dragged captured syndicate men into storage rooms that had unexpectedly become prisons.
Someone had already painted SPOON KING ENTERS TOURNAMENT on a crate.
Sun stared at it.
"I hate literacy."
Samira passed by carrying three ledgers.
"You'll hate branding more."
"What branding?"
She snapped her fingers.
Two seamstresses emerged from nowhere.
One held measuring tape.
The other held fabric.
Sun stepped back.
"No."
"Yes."
"I'm being attacked by cloth."
"You're entering the Young Lions Tournament. You need presentation."
"I need training."
"You need both. Winners are remembered. Attractive winners are sponsored."
Brin nodded solemnly.
"Harsh truth."
Nyra, perched on a beam overhead, asked:
"What is sponsored?"
Samira answered instantly.
"When rich people rent your future."
Nyra considered.
"Sounds ugly."
"It often is."
---
Sun spent the next hour fleeing measurements.
The seamstresses were relentless.
One measured his shoulders while he tried to escape through a doorway.
The other pinned cloth against his chest while insulting his posture.
"You slouch like regret."
"I carry trauma."
"Stand straighter."
Nyra laughed openly from the rafters.
Sun pointed upward.
"You enjoy this too much."
"Yes."
Her smile flashed quick and vanished just as fast.
He noticed.
That bothered him more than expected.
She smiled like someone unfamiliar with practice.
---
By evening, the strategy room had been moved to a less exploded chamber.
The black plate sat in the center again.
Its glowing underground map still pulsed faintly.
Sun entered carrying bandages, annoyance, and a tray of food.
Brin was sharpening blades.
Samira was calculating odds.
Varen was drinking tea that probably judged everyone nearby.
Nyra sat on the windowsill sniffing roasted meat suspiciously.
Sun offered her a plate.
"You need food."
"I can get food."
"You can steal food."
"Efficient method."
"Try this inefficiently."
She accepted slowly.
A pause.
Then ate like someone pretending not to be hungry.
Sun looked away politely.
That felt kinder.
Varen noticed and said nothing.
Which somehow felt louder.
---
Samira tapped the map.
"Three days."
Sun nodded.
"Until I become wealthy."
"Until you are beaten publicly if you remain stupid."
"There it is."
She pointed to marked districts.
"You need three things before the tournament."
"Strength, wisdom, discipline?"
"No," said Brin. "Technique, information, and shoes that don't embarrass sponsors."
Sun looked down.
"My shoes are loyal."
"They are treason."
Samira continued.
"First: training. Second: we learn registered fighters. Third: we secure medicine."
Varen added:
"Fourth: stop speaking during combat."
Sun stared.
"That was not on her list."
"It is on mine."
---
They reviewed likely competitors.
House Teryn had six entrants.
One known brute.
Two technical swordsmen.
One spear prodigy.
One alchemist who cheated elegantly.
And Lucan.
Sun blinked.
"Lucan entered?"
Brin grinned.
"Apparently humiliation matures into confidence if watered badly."
Nyra asked, "Can I fight him?"
Sun answered instantly.
"No."
"Why?"
"I called dibs."
She frowned.
"I dislike city words."
---
Then Samira opened a second scroll.
"Other names matter more."
She read:
Arden Vale – noble genius, dual blades, undefeated in youth circles.
Mira Solenne – sect disciple, fire techniques, terrifyingly calm.
Boros Kain – giant wrestler, breaks bones for rhythm.
Jin Quill – scholar-fighter, hidden weapons, smiles too much.
Sun whistled.
"This city grows problems."
Varen nodded.
"Good."
"You enjoy my suffering."
"I enjoy your improvement."
"Disguised suffering."
---
Training began at night.
Warehouse courtyard.
Lanterns hung from beams.
Rainwater still pooled in cracks from earlier violence.
Brin attacked first without warning.
Sun barely blocked.
Her wooden practice sword smashed his wrist numb.
"What was that for?"
"Tournament greeting."
She struck again.
He dodged.
Almost.
The next hit clipped his thigh.
Nyra sat on the wall eating fruit and scoring him aloud.
"Dead."
"Mostly dead."
"Very dead."
Sun glared.
"You are biased."
"I am accurate."
Varen stood nearby.
"Again."
Hours passed.
Wolf Step drills.
Footwork.
Guard recovery.
Pain.
Then more pain for technical consistency.
Whenever Sun got frustrated, he attacked too hard.
Whenever he attacked too hard, Brin hit him.
Whenever Brin hit him, Nyra applauded.
Around midnight Sun collapsed on one knee breathing fire.
"I was an engineer."
Brin wiped sweat.
"You still look unfinished."
"I used to debug software."
Nyra tilted her head.
"What is software?"
Sun stared into the night.
"A different kind of suffering."
---
Later, when everyone slept, Sun sat alone beside the black plate.
Moonlight through broken shutters silvered the room.
The map glowed softly.
Below Blackstone, hidden chambers waited.
Above Blackstone, the tournament waited.
Inside him, something heavier waited still.
He thought of Earth.
Of HR rooms.
Of his parents.
Of never being heard.
Then of arenas where fists settled things cleaner than lies ever had.
Nyra padded in quietly and sat beside him without asking.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then she said:
"When Cutter spoke, I was afraid."
Sun nodded.
"When Rokar spoke, I was angry."
She glanced sideways.
"When you stood up again… I forgot fear."
The words hit him harder than Brin ever had.
He looked at her.
She was staring forward, ears slightly red.
He wisely said nothing foolish.
After a long silence, he offered her the last grape from his pocket.
She took it.
"That one might be poisoned," he said.
She snorted softly.
Progress.
Then from the rooftop above came Rhea's voice:
"I'm charging rent if this becomes emotional."
Sun threw a pebble upward.
It missed.
Her laughter echoed into the night.
Three days remained.
Blackstone was watching.
To be continued...