The heat hit first.
Not from fire—but from expectation. From bodies packed into a coliseum so large it swallowed the sky. From thousands of spectators roaring, sweating, chanting, throwing curses and praise like confetti.
Ronin stepped out under the lights of the Xyros Tournament Arena, boots clicking on smooth, polished stone that gleamed under the sun-orb crystals hovering above. Spotlights tracked him like predators. Cameras too—floating orbs zoomed in to catch every flex of tension across his face.
He couldn't hear his own footsteps over the roar of the crowd.
Some cheered, others screamed insults. And some were chanting something strange—he couldn't catch the words, only the rhythm, a tribal beat that made his skin itch.
Across from him, Bran Kavir burst through the entry tunnel like a boulder with legs.
The man was huge. Not just tall—wide, with arms like stone pillars and a barrel chest wrapped in his tank top. His neck looked like it could choke a bear. And he was waving at the crowd like a drunk uncle at a wedding.
Probably someone in the stands. A family member. Maybe a guild mate.
Ronin had no one.
No Lyra. No Kara. Not even that grumpy doorman from his apartment.
But that was fine.
This wasn't about being seen. It was about winning. Beating. Growing. Breaking.
Ronin reached the center of the platform and faced Bran.
Bran was rolling his shoulders, stretching, bouncing in place like a professional wrestler. He popped his neck loudly, then grinned at Ronin with all his teeth.
The guy didn't need an analysis: pure physical B-rank, with maybe some discount-store elemental magic tacked on. And judging from the way he didn't even look like he was prepping spells, he was a brawler through and through.
Good. That was exactly what Ronin needed.
From somewhere above, the announcer's voice rang out through the stadium:
"Begin!"
Ronin turned instinctively toward the speaker.
"Too slow!" Bran's shout came with a gust of wind and an arm the size of a log barreling toward Ronin's face.
He barely ducked back in time. The blow cut the air inches from his nose, making his hair whip around like it was trying to flee his scalp.
The crystal in his skull sparked to life instantly, pulsing faintly behind his eyes like a second heartbeat.
Data acquisition in progress.
Ronin gritted his teeth and dashed forward.
If Bran wanted to brawl, so be it.
He planted his foot, twisted, and drove a fist into Bran's ribs. It connected with a thud, followed by a wave of heat and a mild shockwave.
Bran didn't budge.
The man looked down at him like a slightly amused gorilla. Then he threw back his head and laughed.
"Now this is a fight! A real one!" Bran roared. "Fists over mana! Magic's for cowards!"
He swung again—faster this time.
Ronin brought up his arms to block.
Big mistake.
The force of the impact launched him across the ring. His boots scraped stone, sparks trailing behind. He skidded to a stop near the edge, his spine vibrating from the hit.
Before he could even blink, Bran was charging again, pounding toward him like a freight train.
Ronin clenched his fists.
The temptation to launch a fireball straight through Bran's chest was overwhelming. But no—the crystal needed data. It needed to learn.
He focused, drew mana from the crystal in his chest, letting it flood his limbs, reinforcing muscles and bones with that warm, molten strength.
Bran reached him and threw a punch.
Ronin met it with his own.
The impact cracked the stone beneath them. A pulse of energy exploded outward, kicking up dust.
Bran stood firm.
Ronin flew backward again.
In his mind, it was clear: both were B-rank physically, but Bran's raw physicality was still superior. Maybe it was experience. Maybe it was genetics. Maybe Bran just ate rocks for breakfast.
Didn't matter.
Ronin darted forward, ducking Bran's next punch and weaving to the side. His fists flew—a flurry of rapid blows to Bran's chest, shoulders, stomach.
Every hit landed.
None of them mattered.
Bran laughed through it, swinging again with a wild haymaker that Ronin dodged by inches.
Too strong.
But not too smart.
Bran's patterns were simple. Predictable.
And the crystal was almost done learning.
Ronin backed up and caught his breath. Sweat dripped from his chin. Bran was breathing heavier too, but still grinning, shaking his arms loose.
"You in a guild?" Bran asked suddenly.
Ronin blinked. "What?"
"You should join mine," Bran said. "We could use someone like you. Got heart. I like that."
Ronin grinned.
"Nah. Not interested."
And in his mind—click. The crystal dispersed its energy.
Everything slowed.
He could see it.
The gaps. The bad habits. The angles. The weak spots.
Bran didn't know it yet, but he'd already lost.
Ronin's voice dropped. "The real fight starts now."
Bran tilted his head. "What the hell are you—?"
Ronin moved.
An uppercut from Bran came at him like a cannonball.
Ronin spun, ducked, flowed behind him like water. A light tap to Bran's leg joint sent him stumbling. Before he could recover, Ronin's elbow cracked against the back of his skull with sniper precision.
Bran fell.
The crowd gasped.
He pushed himself back up, wobbling slightly. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
"What… the hell did you just do?"
Ronin just shook his head.
"I started trying."
Bran bared his teeth. "Then stop holding back and use your damn magic!"
"I don't need it."
"You're cocky."
"No, just better."
Bran screamed and charged, faster than before.
Ronin crouched low, swept his legs—Bran fell again. The second his hands hit the floor, Ronin was on him.
Fist to the neck.
Knee to the face.
Bran gasped, eyes rolling. Blood spattered across the platform.
Ronin didn't stop.
Another knee.
Another.
Only when the announcer's voice cut through the haze did he pause.
"Winner: Peter White!"
Ronin blinked.
He looked down.
Bran was out cold. His face was bloodied, swollen, and unrecognizable.
Ronin unclenched his fist slowly.
He hadn't realized… how deep he'd gone.
How cold his heartbeat had become.
How completely he'd tuned out the crowd—which was now roaring with renewed energy. Some were standing. Others were pointing. Some were dead silent.
He looked at his hand. Trembling slightly.
The crystal was dormant again.
That wasn't just data.
That was detachment.
The crystal helped him win—but it turned off something human while doing it. Like it enjoyed the brutality. Pushed him toward it.
Ronin looked up at the crowd. At the stadium. At the blood beneath his boots.
He had won.
But at what cost?
And how many more times would he lose pieces of himself to get stronger?
The platform lights dimmed. The match was over.
But the questions?
They had only just begun.