Victor spun the empty mug between his fingers, the ale's sour aftertaste still clinging to his tongue. The bar's chaos was a dull hum now, background noise to the weight of his thoughts. His chest itched where the crown mark burned, subtle, but insistent.
He set the mug aside and focused inward, calling up the system. It materialized in his vision, black text etched into a glowing rectangle. His eyes narrowed as the numbers came into view.
Vice Points:
Lust: 0
Greed: 0
Wrath: 27
Envy: 0
Pride: 15
Sloth: 0
Gluttony: 0
Victor's jaw tightened. He'd forgotten. The system's price for rebirth, his progress wiped clean. All those points, gone. He glanced down at his hands, flexing his fingers. The strength he'd felt when he woke in the pit, that wasn't just his imagination. The system had given him something, even if it stole everything else.
His gaze snapped back to the interface as a new tab slid into existence. A single word glowed like a beacon: Skills. He tapped it.
Skills Unlocked!
A list materialized below:
Killer's Instinct (Unlocked)
Street Fury (Unlocked)
MAGIC SURGE (UNSTABLE MANA REACTOR CORE)
Victor's lips twitched. Killer's Instinct. Street Fury. Two from his old Wrath tree, already unlocked. The first was familiar, an instinct that highlighted weak points. The second was newer, untested. He could feel it simmering under his skin, a low thrum that promised violence when the odds were stacked against him.
But the third. Magic Surge. Those words left a bitter taste in his mouth.
Victor exhaled through his nose, the system's interface flickering out of existence as the noise of the tavern sharpened back into focus. Magic. The word stuck in his head like a burr. He had the skill now, Magic Surge (Unstable Mana Reactor Core) but no clue how to use it. No spark, no tingle, no goddamn fireball at his fingertips.
Shadowguards exist. Magic exists. That much was undeniable. But asking around? That was a quick way to get labeled a madman or, worse. He needed information, not attention.
A voice cut through his thoughts.
"Never seen you thinking so hard, not that I thought you were capable of that in the first place."
Victor turned. Not Elira. Anya stood there, arms crossed, her usual sharp-eyed glare locked onto him.
"Marta wants you," she said.
Victor leaned back against the bar. "And why the hell would I care?"
Anya's mouth twisted. "Because Grisha is looking for you."
Shit. The name hit like a punch to the gut. He'd taken the job, taken the advance, and then vanished into Selene's mess. No word, no return. That wasn't how this world worked. That wasn't how any world worked.
Victor pushed off the bar, rolling his shoulders. "Tell Marta I'm not on her payroll."
Anya didn't budge. "Tell her yourself. Or better yet, tell Grisha when he sends his boys to peel your skin off."
A muscle in Victor's jaw twitched. He could fight, sure. But starting a open war with the underground's fight boss wasn't strategy, it was suicide.
"Fine. But if this is some back-alley ambush."
Anya snorted. "If I wanted you dead, you'd already be bleeding all over the place."
Victor smirked. "Promises, promises."
She turned on her heel, and he followed.
Anya shoved open the heavy oak door to Marta's backroom, revealing the glow of oil lamps and the stifling scent of cheap cigar smoke. Victor strode in after her, then froze.
Grisha leaned against Marta's desk, thick arms folded over his barrel chest, a slow smirk creeping across his scarred face.
Victor's gut twisted. So much for staying incognito.
Marta sat behind her desk, fingers steepled, lips pursed like she'd bitten into something sour. "Long time no see," she said.
Victor scoffed. "Barely a week."
Marta's gaze didn't waver. She flicked her fingers toward Grisha. "You remember him. My husband."
The word hit like a knife twist. Victor's lip curled, and he bit down on the urge to spit on the floor. Of course…
Beside him, Anya went rigid. For half a heartbeat her mask slipped, shock flashing in her eyes before she smothered it.
Grisha pushed himself off the desk with ease, broad shoulders rolling, the quiet weight of menace filling the room.
His smirk faded. "I wasn't sure what happened after Selene's job," he growled. "My men heard you were dead. Or captured." His gaze bored into Victor, heavy with threat. "Explain."
Victor's mind raced. He could tell the truth, admit he'd gutted Harroway, and walked away 'clean'. But that meant admitting Selene had paid him. And Grisha would want his cut.
Fuck that.
"I failed," he said flatly. "Got pinned down, barely slipped out before Selene's dogs could skin me."
Grisha's nostrils flared. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
Then Marta snorted. "Shame."
Grisha ignored her. "You put a taint on my relations with her," he said, voice low. "And now?" He shrugged, a mockery of indifference. "I don't see much value in you."
Victor's fingers twitched toward his pocket.
Grisha chuckled. "But if you're lucky, I might find a use." He pushed away from the desk, stepping closer until Victor could smell the stale whiskey on his breath. "Something more… your caliber."
Victor didn't blink. "Like?"
"The pit." Grisha grinned. "Starting tomorrow."
Victor exhaled through his nose. Fighting rats-for-hire wasn't his idea of progress, but right now, options were slim. "That covers my debt?"
Grisha shrugged again. "Depends how entertaining you are." He turned toward the door, then paused. "We'll discuss details at my place. You've got a day to lick your wounds." His gaze slid to Anya. "She'll escort you, so don't vanish."
Victor clenched his jaw but nodded. Fighting his way out was possible, but pointless. For now.
As Grisha strode out, Marta leaned back in her chair, watching Victor like a cat eyeing a wounded bird. "Welcome back to the bottom."
Victor smirked. "Feels familiar."
Anya gripped his arm. "Move."
He let her drag him into the tavern's chaos, already calculating his next play.
Pit fights weren't ideal.
But they were an opportunity.