The roar of the crowd faded behind him, thin and distant, like someone turning down the volume on a bad memory.
Ebon staggered down the cramped corridor behind the cage, one hand over his ribs, the other scraping along the cold metal wall. Blood oozed between his fingers, hot and sticky. His legs barely listened, each stride more labored than the last.
He didn't make it far.
He barely made it ten meters before the adrenaline gave out. The world spun sideways. He slid down the wall and hit the filthy floor, shoulder first. Each breath was a shallow gasp. His vision fuzzed at the edges.
Black veins crawled across his chest, easy to spot through the rips in his shirt. They looked like cracks in cheap marble, radiating a faint, ugly light that made his skin prickle with itch.
Footsteps approached — quick, uneven.
"Kid? Thorne! Shit—"
Small hands latched onto his arm. Mira. Fourteen, all bones and attitude, the oldest of the crew's orphans. Her eyes were wide, face smeared with dirt from climbing the rafters to watch the fight.
"You're bleeding everywhere. Can you walk?"
Ebon tried to say something, but his throat was sandpaper. He managed a nod, but when he tried to get up, his arms just trembled and quit on him.
Mira cursed under her breath — words she'd definitely learned from him — then darted away, shouting down the corridor.
"Doc! Doc Harlan! Get over here, now!"
More footsteps. Heavier. A silhouette loomed over him.
Harlan Voss crouched down beside him. Everyone called him Doc. Mid-fifties, gray hair pulled back, left arm swapped out for a matte-black prosthetic that whirred when he moved. Used to be a guild medic, until he got tossed for patching up unregistered Forged and keeping his mouth shut. Now he stitched up cage fighters and scavengers in a closet-sized clinic behind the arena.
Doc's one good eye squinted as he examined the damage. Then he shifted his gaze to Ebon's chest, to the black veins spreading like roots.
"Well, damn," he muttered. "That's new."
He slipped an arm under Ebon's shoulders.
"Up you go, kid. Mira, grab his other side."
Together, they dragged him down a side hall to Doc's clinic. The place was tiny, lit by flickering tubes and the pale shimmer of black-market core vials stacked on dusty shelves. The air stank of antiseptic, rust, and that weird tang from Fracture Energy leaking through the walls.
They laid him on the cot. Mira hovered nearby, chewing her lip while Doc sliced away what was left of his shirt and started scrubbing at the mess.
Ebon drifted in and out. Pain dragged him under, then the cold sting of whatever Doc jabbed into his arm yanked him back.
When he finally pried his eyes open, Doc was busy stitching up the worst of the rib wounds. Mira sat on a rickety stool, clutching the tournament purse like it might run away.
"You're lucky," Doc said without looking up.
"Klane's ice slowed the bleeding. Another minute out there and you'd have been done."
Ebon's voice came out hoarse. "He is still breathing?"
Doc snorted. "Yeah. Jaw's wired shut for a month, but breathing. You put him down clean."
Mira's eyes flicked to Ebon's bare chest.
"Those… veins. They weren't there before."
Doc tied off a stitch and finally met Ebon's gaze. He reached for a cracked hand mirror from the counter and held it up.
"Look."
Ebon stared.
The black lines weren't bruises. They were sharp, crystalline patterns just under the skin, spreading from his heart like broken glass. Every breath made them pulse, catching the light with a weird, glassy shine.
He reached up, tracing one with his fingers along his collarbone. It felt solid under the skin, like stone.
Doc's voice was low. "You forged tonight, kid, congrats. No question. But this…" He tapped the mirror. "This ain't normal. Elemental types get glows. Physical types get scars or plating. I've never seen veins like obsidian. Structured. Perfect."
Mira leaned closer, curiosity overriding fear. "Does it hurt?"
"Like fire under the skin," Ebon muttered.
Doc set the mirror down. "Guilds are gonna hear about this. Apex had scouts in the crowd. They saw what you did to Klane. Word's already spreading — 'the kid with black veins.' You show your face tomorrow, they'll be waiting."
Ebon shut his eyes. The crew needed credits. Mira and the little ones needed food and medicine. Hiding wasn't an option.
"I'll handle it."
Doc sighed. "Stubborn as ever." He paused, then added quietly, "Reminds me of another hothead who fought here years back. Had fire in his veins — literal fire. Thought he could take on the world, too. Guilds snapped him up fast. Haven't seen him since."
Ebon didn't respond. He was staring at his bandaged hand, flexing his fingers slowly.
Pain flared up again, sharp and almost familiar by now.
A single black spike pushed out through the skin on his right knuckle. Small, shaky, barely an inch long. It quivered, then slid back in with a wet sound, leaving a bead of dark blood behind.
Mira gasped.
Doc froze, staring.
Ebon met his own eyes in the mirror again.
The veins pulsed brighter.
He clenched his fist.
If this was what he was now…
He was going to learn how to use it.