Pain woke him before memory did.
Not sharp pain—
heavy.
Dull.
The kind that pressed behind the eyes and dragged through the bones.
Veron lay still, chest rising slowly, the weight of sleep clinging to him like wet cloth. Warm light spilled across the room, thick with dust motes, the sun already sinking toward evening as it slipped through the narrow window.
Too late.
His brow tightened.
He inhaled—and froze.
Something felt… wrong.
Veron lifted his head slightly.
His chest was bare.
And there it was.
Dark lines crawled across his skin, stretching from his shoulder down toward his chest—ancient, deliberate, alive. Symbols layered over old sword scars, sealing them instead of hiding them. The ink wasn't flat; it looked etched, burned into flesh rather than painted on it.
Not decoration.
A mark—
a memory carved deeper than flesh.
His fingers hovered over it, stopping just short of contact. A faint warmth pulsed beneath the skin, as if something recognized his attention.
The night came back to him in fragments.
Steam.
Silence.
The weight of water running over his back, and the certainty that this had always been there.
A sharp knock cut through the room.
Veron pulled on his shirt, hiding the tattoo.
The door opened.
Dren stood there, a towel slung over one shoulder, skin still damp from training. His posture was composed, breath steady—the look of someone who'd already fought the day and won.
"Morning passed," Dren said flatly. "Sun's almost gone."
Veron glanced toward the window again. Gold bleeding into crimson.
"…I know."
Dren studied him for a moment longer than necessary.
He doesn't stay up late, Dren thought.
But he said nothing.
They moved downstairs together.
The Dark Inn breathed like a living thing—low noise, distant laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clink of cups. The smell hit all at once: fried meat, cheap ale, smoke soaked into old wood. Warnings were carved and painted across the walls.
PAY BEFORE YOU EAT.
NO FIGHTS INSIDE (CORPSES COST EXTRA).
They took their usual table.
"Marin and Lucen?" Veron asked.
"Lucen went ahead to the arena. Watching the fights," Dren said. "Marin went with him."
A pause.
"The fight's still on?" Dren asked carefully.
"Exactly as planned." Veron leaned back. "If everything goes right… we leave the city tonight."
Silence settled between them.
Dren hesitated, then spoke. "And Haisek?"
Veron's smile was thin. Empty.
"In the end," he said quietly, "I'll kill him."
Dren didn't argue.
Veron stood. "I'll wash my face."
The bathroom was dim, lit by a single flickering lantern. Cracked mirrors lined the wall. Water dripped steadily, echoing too loud in the small space.
He leaned over the basin and splashed water onto his face.
Cold.
Grounding.
He lifted his head.
Someone stood behind him.
Not close.
Not threatening.
A man. Calm. Average. Reflected in the broken mirror—the same man who had appeared near the girl from the arena at the bar earlier.
Veron's eyes slid over him once.
Nothing.
The moment his gaze turned away—
Steel sang.
Two short blades flashed from the man's sleeves.
Veron bent backward just as the knives carved the air where his throat had been. One blade screeched against the mirror, shattering it. Shards rained down.
"I knew you wouldn't stop," Veron said coldly. "Skyrend."
No answer.
The man attacked again. Fast. Precise.
Veron moved with almost lazy efficiency—just a shoulder shift to evade, a knee driven hard into the attacker's gut. Breath exploded from the man's lungs.
Veron caught his wrist.
Twist.
Crack.
Two fingers snapped backward with a wet sound.
A sharp palm strike crushed into the man's throat.
He collapsed, choking.
Veron grabbed his head with one hand and slammed it into the wall.
Once.
Twice.
The body went limp.
Silence returned, broken only by dripping water.
Veron exhaled slowly.
He wiped the blood away with a spare towel, dragged the corpse aside, and locked the door behind him as he left.
At the end of the hallway—
The girl.
The same one from the arena.
She stepped out of the inn without a word.
Their eyes met.
Just for a second.
Then she was gone.
Veron didn't follow.
He returned to the table.
A young waitress approached, wearing a practiced smile.
"Two coffees," Veron said calmly. "And a chicken and potato dish, please."
Then he leaned closer, voice low enough to chill her spine.
"By the way… there's a corpse in the men's bathroom. Call the police."
Her smile shattered.
"I—I'll handle it, sir."
Another girl brought the food minutes later.
The police arrived shortly after, grumbling.
"We're collectors now, not guards," one muttered.
Veron ate like nothing had happened.
"This is the third one," Dren said quietly. "Since we arrived."
Veron didn't look up.
Elsewhere—earlier.
A shadowed corner of a tavern.
The girl sat at the bar.
A man placed a glass beside her.
"Mira… hasn't completed the task."
"Good," the girl replied softly. "I don't want her drowning in this. I'll do it."
"They're dangerous," the man warned. "I'll send two men first."
"If they fail?"
"I'll handle it myself."
A pause.
"We can't return empty-handed to Dirak," the girl said. "He'll kill us."
She watched the glass untouched.
Killing him now would be easy.
Letting him live was harder and dangerous.
Then the man disappeared from her side, moving away to sit in a far corner of the bar.
In the present, the night swallowed the streets as they walked toward the arena. Vendors shouted. Bets flew. Steel glinted under torchlight.
"Are you ready for the show?" Veron asked.
"Leave it to me," Dren replied. "Handle the rest."
Veron placed the bet personally.
"One hundred thousand. Double leverage. On Dren."
The bookie took the money with a smile.
"Of course, Mister Veron."
"Send my regards to Wols," Veron added.
Then he met Marin in the stands.
"You remember when I saved you?" Veron asked.
"…Yes."
He handed her a sealed bag.
"Do exactly what I say. No questions."
She peeked inside—eyes widening.
Veron whispered something.
She nodded once and left.
The announcer's voice thundered.
"First fighter—Aikar the Unbreakable!"
Roars shook the arena.
"And his opponent—The Sealed Hand! Dren!"
Dren stepped forward, calm, the black bandages wrapped tight around his hands.
The fight exploded.
The arena vanished beneath the roar of the crowd as both fighters lunged at the same time.
Stone cracked under sudden force.
Dren twisted aside, Aikar's fist grazing his ribs instead of shattering them. Dren answered with a sharp knee to the gut—hard, clean—Aikar only staggered back laughing, but a fast punch hit him like a trunk, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.
Blows traded in a violent rhythm.
Fist.
Kick.
Block.
Counter.
Dren slid low, sweeping Aikar's leg, then surged forward, driving his shoulder into Aikar's chest and slamming him into the arena wall. The stone cracked outward like shattered glass.
The crowd erupted.
Aikar wiped blood from his chin and grinned wider.
"Finally," he laughed. "A real fight."
Dren exhaled slowly, eyes sharp, body coiled.
"Wait," he said, smiling faintly. "You've seen nothing yet."
He moved.
Too fast.
Dren vanished from sight—reappearing behind Aikar in a blur of motion. His elbow slammed into Aikar's spine, followed by a crushing hook to the jaw that snapped Aikar's head sideways. A third strike—clean, precise—drove Aikar to one knee.
Gasps rippled through the stands.
Dren pressed in, relentless now. Every strike was calculated. Every movement perfect.
But then—
Aikar laughed.
Dren saw it a heartbeat too late.
He overcommitted.
Instead of retreating, Dren stepped forward again, trying to finish it. His weight shifted too far. His guard dropped for a fraction of a second.
A single mistake.
Aikar's eyes sharpened.
Step.
The Dragon Elbow—brutal and rising.
Fist—twisting with full force.
Impact.
The blow crashed into Dren's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. A second strike followed instantly—straight to the jaw. His vision shattered into white noise.
Dren stumbled.
Dropped to one knee.
One step back. Just one.
The arena froze for half a second—then exploded.
The crowd screamed.
Dren tried to rise, teeth clenched, but his body betrayed him. His own momentum… his own mistake… had sealed it.
Aikar stood over him, breathing hard, grin gone—replaced by respect.
"Should've stepped back," he muttered.
Veron didn't move.
That, too, was part of the plan.
Especially this.
Dren tried to breathe.
Sound faded.
Darkness closed in.