Location: Rustline District, Maatari
Time: 09:42 PM
Rustline didn't just host clashes, it was fueled by them.
The old freight tunnels pulsed with color, the air thick with vapor and anticipation. Neon tubes flickered across the rusted rafters, spilling sickly light over a crowd pressed shoulder-to-shoulder. From above, condensation dripped into puddles that shimmered with the reflection of glyphfire.
Khaz followed Spots through a maze of vendors and betting terminals, where digital odds blinked across cracked glass. Spots' skin glowed faintly bronze under the signage, a grin wired with two chrome teeth that caught every flash.
"Rustline's packed tonight," Spots said, slipping between two bouncers. "People heard you signed in. Place loves a ghost story."
Khaz didn't answer.
Spots continued, half to himself, half to the crowd pressing around them.
"Tethari ain't just fighting. It's rhythm and risk. One part spirit, one part static. The pros make it clean but out here, we make it honest. No sponsors. No ref shields. Just Se'lo, sweat, and the crowd deciding who deserves to keep breathing."
They descended into the glow, steps swallowed by the bass shaking the rails. Light bled through cracks in the floor, flashing indigo and gold as if the city's veins ran just beneath their feet. The deeper they went, the louder the heartbeat of the crowd became.
Spots grinned without looking back. "You feel that? That's the Wire hummin'. Every fighter that ever mattered left a pulse down here. You can taste it if you breathe deep enough."
Khaz said nothing. The chain at his chest vibrated faintly, Tre'co's presence murmuring beneath the city noise.
He flashed his ID band at a guard and nodded Khaz through.
Location: Rustline District, Maatari – The Live Wire
Time: 10:03 PM
They stepped out onto a grated balcony overlooking the Tethari ring, a half-tech, half-spiritual cage of light. Glyph projectors along the floor marked a shifting hex pattern, each tile alive with humming Se'lo threads. The ring pulsed like a living circuit, the ghosts of a beast tethered past hovering faintly in the center.
"Tethari," Spots said, leaning on the rail. "For the newbloods in the cheap seats, it's art and war. For us? Rent money."
Below, the crowd chanted names as holographic markers spun across the barrier. Fighters' profiles blinked in and out, their Se'lo alignments flaring beside their alignment. Forge, Signal, Root, Ether. The hum of the arena synced to their pulse. It wasn't just blood that drew cheers; it was resonance.
Spots gave Khaz a nudge. "You're up after the Forge kid. Crowd's hungry for a ghost show."
Khaz stepped toward the stairwell, jacket sliding from his shoulders. The chain beneath his shirt gave a faint pulse, Tre'co's presence flickering across his senses like heat lightning.
➤ OPEN FIGHT NIGHT – UNDERGROUND CLASH
Sage: Kavryn Vask
Talu Alignment: Root
Se'lo Archetype: High-Flow Aggressor
Talu Beast: Zephyr Spinelet
Beast Type: Root Aerial Insectoid
Kavryn Vask stepped into the light first. His amber skin gleamed under the projectors, arms wrapped in lattice gloves that glowed orange with built-up Root energy. Behind him materialized his beast. The Zephyr Spinelet had four wings folded tight against its segmented body, eyes burning chartreuse. When it moved, it didn't walk so much as tilt against gravity.
Khaz entered opposite him, bare arms showing the indigo threads of his Se'lo lattice. The crowd's noise dropped as if the tunnel itself held its breath.
"Sync!" called the ref.
The hex floor came alive.
Kavryn's hands blurred, drawing up air in a spiral. The Spinelet's wings flared open.
"Wind Splice!"
Twin gales snapped toward Khaz like blades. He sidestepped the first, twisted under the second. The gust carved a clean line across the floor, hex tiles flickering. Khaz countered, driving forward on the rebound. One heel strike was all it took. Low and surgical.
It knocked Kavryn off rhythm.
But, the beast came behind him.
Angling high.
Khaz's chain warmed. It was Tre'co's interest stirring.
The air around Khaz thinned, and for a heartbeat a spectral outline padded beside him. The triple-headed silhouette where teeth were geometry and ruin. The central muzzle turned as the Spinelet dove.
Khaz cut left.
Tre'co's center head snapped. Not biting, but bending. The Spinelet's angle buckled mid-dive as Tre'co's head pushed its jaw into its cranium. Its wings stuttered, one half-beat off. It clipped the barrier, rebounded awkwardly, and Kavryn stumbled as the feedback jolted his legs.
Beast and sage were a single circuit. When one misfired, the other felt it.
The impact cracked the air between them like thunder against glass. Kavryn swept his arm out, calling the beast wide.
"Root Surge!"
Energy erupted from the floor, glowing lines chasing Khaz's steps. He flowed through the pattern, one breath ahead, then dropped low into a short dash, Ghost Step. Hevanished into the overlap of lights and Tre'co's shadow. The crowd screamed as he reappeared behind Kavryn.
Khaz drove a palm into Kavryn's ribs. The sound was small but final. Kavryn ducked then the Spinelet hissed and lashed out with its tail.
Khaz weaved, then seized the stinger mid-swing, and let his Se'lo flare. Tre'co's spectral flickered into view, three heads low and ready. The signal-beast's central muzzle snapped open, intercepting the Spinelet's next dive.
For a split second, Root met Signal in the air.
Light, wind, and pressure collided.
The Spinelet's wings fractured into static. Kavryn's Se'lo lattice sputtered, glow flickering down to embers. The ref's voice broke through the roar:
"Sync collapse! Winner! Khazim Liba!"
Khaz didn't raise his arm. He just turned and walked off, chain cooling against his chest, the Hunterfly still untouched.
In the corridor, Spots met him with a towel and a crooked grin.
"You keep switching people off like that, the bookmakers'll start praying you take nights off."
Khaz pulled the jacket on. "Tell them to pray quieter."
Spots laughed, low. "Look, you want the purse clean or 'crowd generous'? Your stock's climbing. Rustline likes a ghost that actually hits."
Khaz angled an ear back toward the ring. The crowd was heavier now, a different chant starting somewhere close to a growl.
Back in the corridor, Spots was waiting, a towel draped around his neck. The air carried the stench of ozone and victory.
"You ever gonna let 'em see you sweat?" he asked.
Khaz pulled his jacket back on. "They already do."
Spots laughed. "You keep dropping people like that, the house'll run outta bets. Rustline loves a ghost who collects rent."
Khaz looked past him toward the armory lane where the next bracket warmed up. The sound of metal striking metal echoed like a warning.
"Who's next?" he asked.
Spots' grin dimmed a shade.
"I have a feeling you'll be lookin for the Forge man. Dirren. Old industrial school. Lots of metal. Lots of opinions."
Khaz's eyes flattened. "Opinions?"
"About you," Spots said, jerking a thumb toward the side hall. "He's warming up in the armory lane. No love songs."
Khaz makes a what could almost be considered a smirk.
"I wouldn't have it any other way."