The roar of the crowd in the lower pits was a physical weight, vibrating against Alaric's ribs. The air was thick with the smell of cheap tobacco, spilled ale, and the copper tang of fresh blood.
"In the red corner!" the announcer screamed over the din. "The man who eats iron for breakfast... The Crusher!"
A mountain of a man stepped into the dirt ring, swinging a massive flail that looked like it belonged on a battlefield, not in a pit. Opposing him, Alaric stood still, his tattered cloak draped over his shoulders to hide his bound wings. He held the blunt iron training sword loosely in one hand.
"And his opponent... a newcomer who calls himself Cinder!"
The crowd booed. Alaric looked small compared to the giant, but beneath his hood, his eyes were cold and focused. The limiter on his arm pulsed, a dull ache that reminded him he was fighting as a man, not a monster.
The bell rang.
The Crusher didn't waste time. He swung the flail in a wide, horizontal arc. Alaric didn't retreat; he stepped into the strike's path, ducking low so the spiked ball whistled just inches above his head. He moved with a grace that felt alien to his current heavy form—the muscle memory of a Paladin combined with the predatory speed of a beast.
Alaric drove his shoulder into the giant's stomach. Even without his full mana, his strength was immense. The Crusher gasped as the air left his lungs. Alaric followed up with a brutal strike from the hilt of his iron sword, catching the man right under the jaw.
Crack.
The giant stumbled back, his eyes glazing over. The crowd went silent for a heartbeat. This wasn't the clumsy brawling they were used to; this was surgical precision.
"Kill him!" someone from the shadows yelled.
The dragon-core in Alaric's chest flared. He could feel the frost wanting to burst from his fingertips, the urge to end the fight in a spray of ice and blood. Control it, he hissed to himself. He stood over the fallen giant, but he didn't deliver a finishing blow. He simply turned his back and walked toward the exit.
"Match over! Winner: Cinder!"
As he walked through the dark tunnel leading to the barracks, a tall figure stepped out from the shadows. Alaric froze. The man was wearing a high-collared coat, but the way he stood—back straight, hand resting near a hidden blade—was unmistakable.
"That was a Paladin's counter-parry," the man said, his voice smooth and dangerous. "I haven't seen that style since the fall of Oakhaven."
Alaric didn't turn around. His golden pupils dilated in the dark. The hunt had moved from the streets into the pits.