Dren's knee hit the stone.
Not gently.
Not slowly.
The impact echoed through the arena like a verdict.
For half a heartbeat, the world held its breath—then the stands detonated. Roars, curses, cheers, objects hurled into the air. Faces twisted between ecstasy and rage, disbelief and bloodthirst. The smell of sweat, dust, and iron thickened under the blazing lights as Aikar straightened, chest heaving, fists still clenched as if the fight hadn't ended yet.
The referee hesitated only a moment before raising his arm.
"WINNER—AIKAR THE UNBREAKABLE!"
The words slammed into Dren harder than the punch had.
Aikar lifted both hands, soaking in the chaos. Some chanted his name with raw devotion. Others screamed insults, bottles shattering against the arena walls. Victory was never clean here—only loud.
Dren sucked in air, sharp and ragged. His ribs burned. His vision wavered. Still, his eyes remained clear.
Focused.
Angry.
I'm not finished, he told himself, the thought forming silently, heavier than pain. Not even close.
He pushed himself up just enough to glare forward, jaw tight, pride unbroken despite the loss. The bandages around his hands were darker now, soaked through.
From the stands above, Veron watched without expression.
Exactly as planned.
Marin forced her way through the crowd, light on her feet, her hair swaying against her back. She stopped beside Lucen in the upper rows, where the noise hit hardest and the air felt alive.
"Lucen."
He turned, surprised—then frowned when he noticed what she carried. Two compact leather bags, both sealed.
"…What is that?" he asked.
She smiled. Soft. Almost innocent. "Veron gave me one before the fight. Told me to bet on Dren losing."
Lucen blinked. Once. Then twice.
"A double bet?" His voice dropped. "Are you serious?"
Before she could answer, a familiar presence cut through the crowd.
Veron stepped out from between two shouting men, calm as ever. He took one of the bags from Marin and opened it just enough for Lucen to glimpse the contents.
Stacks of it.
Thousands of rizo glinting under torchlight.
Veron casually removed a smaller portion—two hundred thousand—and closed the bag again.
"Go to the inn," he said quietly. "Both of you."
Lucen stared at the money, then at Veron. "You're insane."
Veron smiled faintly. "No. I'm prepared."
Beneath the stands, the noise became distant thunder.
The corridor was dim, lit by flickering lamps and stained with old blood that never quite washed away. Dren leaned against the wall, slowly unwrapping the black bandages from his hands. Dried red flaked to the ground.
Footsteps approached.
Aikar passed him, slowing just enough to sneer. He spat on the stone near Dren's boots.
"Want me to cripple you again?" Aikar said. "You fought well—for someone who doesn't know when to quit."
The word cripple lingered.
Dren froze.
Then he straightened.
Cold crept into his expression, replacing pain. He looked up and smiled—not wide, not warm.
"Did you ever wonder," Dren said softly, "why they call me the Sealed Hand?"
Aikar scoffed—then his eyes widened.
The bandages fell away completely.
Dark markings spiraled across Dren's hands and wrists, precise and deliberate, pulsing faintly as if breathing. Old scars aligned perfectly with the symbols, as though they had always belonged there.
Dren vanished.
Not moved.
Vanished.
He reappeared at Aikar's side.
One punch.
The impact snapped Aikar's jaw sideways with a sickening crack, the shockwave rattling the lamps. He flew across the corridor and slammed into the wall.
"What the—" Aikar gasped, staggering. "Who the hell are you?!"
Dren didn't answer.
He attacked.
Fast. Brutal. Efficient.
Each strike landed with surgical precision. No wasted motion. No hesitation. Within seconds, Aikar collapsed, unconscious, his body limp against the stone.
Dren stood over him, breathing steady.
Now we're even.
In the restricted halls of the arena, Wols was waiting.
His face was red with fury, eyes burning as Veron approached.
"I lost five hundred thousand rizo on Dren," Wols snarled. "I'll make you my slave for this."
Veron didn't flinch.
He tossed two hundred thousand rizo onto the floor between them.
"That's my loss," Veron said calmly. "Good luck recovering yours."
Wols stared at the money. Then at Veron.
Hate settled deep in his gaze.
Night wrapped the city by the time Veron and Dren reached the inn.
Marin stood at the entrance, as if she had been there all along.
As Dren passed beside her, he said, "What are you doing here?"
"Waiting," she replied softly. "Sorry about your loss."
Dren ruffled her hair with a faint smile. "I didn't really lose. Go change."
Inside, Aikar stirred somewhere under the stands, eyes wide with disbelief as memory returned.
Veron glanced around. "Where's Lucen?"
"He put the money in his room," Marin said. "Then he went down to the bar."
The tavern below was warm and dim.
Lucen leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "You've angered Wols."
"We operate under Haisek," Veron replied. "Wols won't move openly."
"Manipulating bets won't sit well with Haisek either."
"Don't worry."
Lucen narrowed his eyes. "Including where you got a million rizo?"
Veron's smile returned. Subtle. Dangerous. "I don't make a move until I make sure she is the best on the board."
He stood. "Come upstairs later. We'll celebrate."
Music hummed softly in Veron's room.
Laughter came easy. Tension melted—just a little.
Marin offered Veron a drink. He declined. Dren sipped once, then set his cup aside. Lucen drank enough for all of them.
For a moment, it felt safe.
Too safe.
Long before dawn, the inn fell silent.
Everyone had fallen into a deep sleep.
Marin opened her eyes.
Carefully, she rose, removing her jacket. Only the thin fabric of her shirt remained, clinging to her chest as she tied her hair back. Her movements were practiced. Precise.
She drew a hidden knife.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the darkness. "But I'm only a killer."
Regret flickered in her eyes.
At the same time,
the inn's door creaked open.
Seven figures slipped inside.
Two with Wols at the front.
Three through the halls.
Two from above.
Blades ready. Guns silent.
Marin stood between Veron in the chair and Dren on the bed, fingers tightening around the knife.
Heartbeats thundered.
Closer.
Closer.
Veron's eyes opened behind her.
And Dren's eyes were already open as he lay on the bed with his back toward her.