Location: Rustline District, Maatari - The Live Wire
Time: 11:30 PM
Khaz and Spots cut through a knot of shouting patrons at the bar and slid past a curtain of bead-chain into the Live Wire's back passage, where it was a useless exercise to bother trying to impress anyone. Tall, dented lockers lined the concrete. Somewhere in the distant, the crowd egged on the painful defeat of another sage.
Dirren Solas stood with one boot up on a bench, wrapping a gauntlet. Coal-dark skin sheened with heat, shaved head nicked with old scars, jaw set square like an anvil. His Forge-aligned Se'lo ran crimson through channels over his shoulders and down the spine of each arm. Pieces of hammered plating ringed his forearms, each etched with obsidian glyphs.
He looked up before Spots could speak, measuring Khaz like a problem that shouldn't exist in his lane.
"So you're the whisper," Dirren said, voice iron and smoke. "Thought you'd be taller."
Khaz didn't respond.
"Vask is wind and nerves," Dirren went on, flexing the gauntlet until the plates clicked home. "I'm steel. And steel doesn't scare easy."
Spots stepped in, palms up. "We're not auditioning for poetry night. Ring is calling your names, boys. Let the wire decide."
Dirren ignored him. He took two unhurried steps until they shared the same breath.
"You don't bring that phantom mutt in with you," he said, chin lifting toward Khaz's chain. "Last Rites clause. Hands and heart. No beasts. No toys. Only what's yours."
Khaz met his eyes. "Fine."
He turned to leave. Dirren's gauntlet thudded against the locker door beside Khaz's head—close enough to test, not enough to land.
"Don't float past me like I'm air," Dirren said. "You want the stain? Earn it."
Khaz's expression didn't change. "I don't float."
He walked. Spots let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and shot Dirren a look that said several unspeakable things and one clear message, be ready.
Back in the corridor, the crowd's noise climbed, a drumline under the Live Wire's hum. A glyph runner jogged past, shouting to the staging pit.
"Last bout before close! Last rites clause locked! Hands-only! No beasts!"
Spots wiped his palms on his shirt. "You sure you don't want me to sweeten the odds? Guy's popular with the Bin Hacks."
Khaz nodded once toward the ring, where red light pooled like a heartbeat waiting to be spent.
"Doesn't matter. I'm ready," he said, voice calm as rain. "For whatever, or whoever, comes next."
The Hunterfly thrummed once in hilt form, then stilled, respecting the clause it wouldn't enter under.
Khaz stepped into the glow, Tre'co a quiet heat at his chest, already receding. The Live Wire answered with a roar that turned the cage of light into a promise.
The Live Wire hadn't quieted, but it was holding its breath.
Red glyphlight rolled across the pit, bleeding through the smoke like molten veins. The crowd pressed in, drunk on the hum of Se'lo still lingering from the last clash.
Spots Ren stood at the rail with a hand raised over the mic.
"Alright, listen up! Wire's got one more pulse left tonight. Clause reads Last Rites. No beasts, no toys, three glyphs max. You burn out, you burn for real!"
The crowd answered with a thunderous chant.
"Wire! Wire! Wire!"
Down in the ring, Dirren Solas rolled his shoulders, crimson Se'lo flaring through his arms like fire under glass. His Forge alignment gave him weight; every movement felt like machinery deciding to wake.
Across from him, Khaz stood quiet, jacket stripped, eyes pale and even. The Hunterfly hung dormant at his belt, a promise that wouldn't be broken tonight.
➤ OPEN FIGHT NIGHT – LAST RITES CLASH
Sage: Dirren Solas
Talu Alignment: Forge
Se'lo Archetype: Pressure Engine
The glyphline rang once. The pit came alive.
Dirren came in fast, no warm-up needed. Just raw piston rhythm like a primed motor. His first glyph lit up across his knuckles, [Forge Glyph – Ember Break]. His fists now coated in molten orange. The first punch cracked the air. The second shattered a floor tile.
Khaz slipped through them, letting pressure roll past his shoulders. He countered short—one elbow, one palm to test his range. Dirren took the hits and grinned, steam hissing off his skin.
"C'mon, ghost bitch!" Dirren spat. "Make it mean something."
Khaz didn't answer. He stepped in and snapped a hook across the jaw clean. Dirren barely flinched.
Second glyph: [Torque Spiral].
A circular sigil bloomed over Dirren's chest, rotating counterclockwise. Each punch carried a pressure wave that bent the air. The ring's hex tiles warped under the force.
Khaz was in motion before the crowd could blink. With his footwork whispering over cracked glyphs, Se'lo energy became a charge of light. The third spiral hit empty air. Khaz pivoted on his heel and drove a the kick into Dirren's thigh.
Bone met energy. The sound was thunder cut in half.
Dirren growled and slammed his forearm across Khaz's guard. The blow sent shockwaves down the smaller fighter's arms, rattling the chain at his neck. Tre'co's pulse flickered once beneath his skin—a restrained snarl.
The Forge sage wasn't done. His third glyph burned into his shoulder like a brand, [Crucible Mark],and the smoke around him thickened, glowing red.
He charged. Every step cracked a tile.
Khaz waited until the last moment, his eyes turned to slits of cold indigo. Then he snapped his fingers.
It was quiet.
Almost casual.
Then the signal glyph ignited under his feet.
[Signal Glyph – Hollow Pulse].
The discharge was silent, but the air bent. Dirren's charge buckled mid-step, balance gone.
Khaz closed distance and landed three clean strikes in rhythm.
Chest, ribs, throat. Each landed with surgical weight.
Dirren reeled, tried to swing wild, but Khaz slid under and drove an elbow into his sternum. The floor cracked. The red glow dimmed to gray.
The ref hesitated, waiting to see if both of them would rise.
But, only Khaz moved.
He stood over Dirren, breathing steady, Se'lo fading down to a heartbeat hum.
"Collapse," called the ref. "Winner—Khazim Liba."
The noise that followed didn't sound like celebration. It sounded like disbelief.
Spots dropped into the ring, towel over his shoulder, grin wide enough to sell tickets. "You sure you're not half-machine, Ghost? Even Forge boys don't hit that clean."
Khaz rubbed a streak of soot from his shoulder. "He hit plenty."
"Yeah, well," Spots said, fishing a folded pouch from his jacket. "You earned this. House cut's light, but Gor even coughed up what he owed ME after your little visit. Didn't even make me mention the Hunterfly."
Khaz took the Musa, tucking it inside his jacket. "He learns fast."
Spots laughed and tossed him a bottle. "Here. TapWater+. Still tastes like shit, but at least they added lemon."
Khaz caught it, twisted the cap, and took a long pull. "Still tastes like the Wire."
"Exactly." Spots clapped him on the shoulder. "You done for the night?"
Khaz glanced toward the exit tunnel. "For now."
Outside, Rustline was cooling off. The crowds thinned, the neon hum fading to the low static of rain waiting to happen. Steam curled from sewer vents, catching in the glow of broken signage.
Khaz moved through it all, silent. His chain was cool against his skin, Tre'co's pulse soft and distant.
The tunnel opened to the street. The sound of the Wire bled into the city's wider rhythm. The distant sound of sirens, laughter, the hiss of a power leak.
The kind of noise Maatari called peace.
He walked until the last of the glyphlight disappeared from his jacket and only the faint hum of Se'lo filled the space around him.
The city breathed out. Khaz kept walking.