The guard led Kaisen deeper into the roaring Dregs.
They pushed through a throng of spectators, each one screaming in a dozen different tongues. The air vibrated with bloodlust—filled with the smells of sweat, copper, and something else. A cloying, burned incense that failed to hide the stench of violence beneath it.
Torches burned blue flame in cracked sconces, their light flickering over holographic displays that projected names and betting odds high above.
The stone corridors carried the sound of fists and flesh colliding in the pit below.
They emerged onto a circular balcony overlooking the main arena. The guard gestured with a scarred hand for Kaisen to wait, then slipped away into the shadows.
Leaning against the rough railing, Kaisen looked down.
The pit was a circle of stained sand and stone. Two fighters were locked in a savage, desperate dance.
One—a hulking man with fang like teeth jutting from his jaw—wielded a serrated blade that gleamed wetly in the blue light. The other was smaller, faster, his arms coated in flickering essence that hardened into crystalline armor around his fists.
A downward swing met a deflecting forearm. Sparks of blue energy burst where essence met steel. The smaller man countered, his fist slamming into the brute's ribs with a wet crack.
The crowd roared—one monstrous voice—its hunger shaking the stone beneath Kaisen's feet.
The victor, the smaller man, stood over his fallen foe, snarling in triumph as the loser's blood seeped into the thirsty sand.
Around them, the spectators were delirious. They screamed, cursed, and laughed in a dozen dialects, their faces twisted in ecstatic rage. Coins and credit-chits flashed through the air like metallic rain.
Kaisen watched it all, blank countenance. No fear or disgust. No thrill. Only quiet, analytical observation.
This was the reality of the place.
This was the price of admission.
Quietly, he asked, "Is this the second option you mentioned?"
[Yes,] Iris's voice replied, clear and measured even above the chaos. [The Dregs is older than most cities in the Expanse. It's existed everywhere, for thousands of years. What began as desperation became culture.]
"So, an underground fight club is their culture?" he asked, watching as attendants dragged the corpse away, leaving a long, dark smear.
[It's more than that,] Iris said, her tone somewhere between lecture and lament.
As she spoke, two new fighters entered the pit—a wiry woman with spines along her back, and a man whose skin seemed to pale to be human.
[When you step into those sands, you have two choices: win or die. The Dregs began as a ritual—a way for the weak to prove their will to grow stronger. They fought to the death. If they won, they absorbed power. If they lost, they fed it to another.]
The pale-skinned man landed a crushing blow, sending the woman reeling.
[There's no greater display of determination than staking your life for strength.]
The spined woman darted forward, evading another punch. Her bone-tipped fist struck the man's throat. A choking gurgle followed. She didn't stop—hammering again and again until he collapsed, his stone skin fading to soft flesh.
The sand drank deep. The crowd erupted, their roar a physical thing, vibrating through Kaisen's chest.
The guard returned, face expressionless, and gestured for Kaisen to follow.
"So the second option," Kaisen thought aloud, "was risking my life in a fight."
[Mmm-hmm. Dangerous, but fast,] Iris said. [You can't access rifts or leave this province. No corrupted creatures to kill means no soul essence. But humans—humans work fine.]
"And if I don't win?" he asked.
Silence.
The guard didn't look back. He stopped before a reinforced metal door, heavier than the others. With a grunt, he pushed it open and motioned for Kaisen to enter.
---
The room inside smelled faintly of oil, rust, and cheap tobacco.
It looked like an office—but not of an accountant. More like a warlord's den.
A bearded man sat behind a wide metal desk littered with data-slates and mechanical scraps. His hair was dark and slicked back, streaked with gray at the temples. One eye was human—sharp and brown. The other, a red cybernetic lens that hummed softly as it scanned Kaisen from head to toe.
He wore a long, faded leather coat, patched with strange runic sigils that might have meant rank… or just a long list of kills.
The walls behind him weren't decorated with art—but with weapons. Blades, axes, and mauls. All of them used. All of them stained.
The guard spoke first, his words a harsh blend of coarse syllables and rolling vowels.
The man behind the desk—clearly the Overseer—replied in another tongue entirely. Short, guttural stops. Hard consonants. Yet the two understood each other perfectly.
Kaisen watched in silence.
The Overseer gave a curt nod. The guard left, closing the heavy door behind him with a solid, final thud.
The red cybernetic eye fixed on Kaisen. The Overseer spoke—a low rumble of alien words that meant nothing to his ears.
'What's he saying?' Kaisen asked Iris instinctively.
The answer didn't come in his mind—it came aloud. A voice of silver and steady confidence filled the smoky air.
"He says you look like you'll die quick."
Kaisen turned sharply, every instinct screaming.
There she stood.
Iris.
Not a voice in his head, but a physical presence.
Her long silver hair drifted in an invisible breeze. Her eyes glowed softly blue. The same tactical attire clung to her frame—the one from the throne room.
She was ethereal, yet grounded. Beautiful, yet terrifyingly real. The air shimmered faintly around her.
She smiled, tilting her head in that same curious way.
"Hey, boss."