Behind Veron, the arena roared like a living beast. Thousands of voices collided under hanging lights and drifting smoke, betting slips fluttering through the air, gold and madness trading hands as night settled fully over Darinval. Sweat, iron, alcohol—every scent of hunger and violence bled together.
And still, Veron stood perfectly still.
A girl pressed close behind him, her breath shallow, controlled. A dagger rested just beneath his ribs, angled precisely for a clean kill. One step. One thrust. That was all it would take.
Yet she hesitated.
Then—
"Veron," a calm voice called from behind the crowd. "Isn't that right?"
The moment cracked.
The girl's pupils shrank.
Time surged back into motion—the roar of the crowd rushing in, torches flickering, the metallic echo of the arena gates slamming shut somewhere below. Veron turned his head slightly, eyes sliding past the girl as if she were nothing more than drifting smoke.
Cold. Uninterested.
Her grip faltered.
He turned fully.
A man stood a few paces away, perfectly untouched by the chaos around him. Black suit. Tailored. Clean. His presence bent the space subtly, like the crowd instinctively made room without realizing why.
Several men stood behind him. Broad shoulders. Scarred knuckles. The kind of fighters who didn't need to posture.
Authority radiated from the man like heat.
"Yes," Veron said calmly. "And you are?"
The man smiled—thin, polite. Dangerous.
"Haisek Darinval," he said. "A pleasure."
Veron's gaze sharpened for half a breath. "Darinval?" A pause. "Related to Wols?"
Haisek chuckled softly. "Something like that."
Behind Veron, the girl vanished.
No sound. No movement. One blink—gone. Swallowed by the sea of bodies as if she had never existed.
Haisek's eyes flicked briefly to the space she'd occupied, then back to Veron. Amused.
"Care for a drink?" he asked lightly. "My office. This isn't a request."
Veron smiled. "Lead the way."
Haisek's office sat high above the arena, wrapped in glass and warm light. Below them, the city stretched endlessly—golden veins of lanterns cutting through darkness, rooftops stacked like secrets.
The room smelled of expensive tobacco and aged liquor.
Haisek poured a drink and offered it.
Veron shook his head. "Water is enough."
That earned him a look—genuine surprise, quickly masked.
"Interesting," Haisek said as he poured water instead. "Very interesting."
Veron accepted the glass without thanks. He drank calmly, already aware that every movement was being measured.
Haisek leaned back, cigar lit, smoke curling lazily.
"A 2100 ika hunter," he said casually. "Wanted for aiding the escape of a condemned fighter. Vanishes. Reappears in the arenas of the free city of Darinval. Wins twice. And now—" He smiled. "—doesn't drink."
Veron met his gaze evenly. "You didn't bring me here to admire my biography."
"No," Haisek agreed. "I brought you here to discuss ownership."
Silence settled.
Haisek stood, walking slowly to the window. "This city has three heads, all of them have the name Darinval," he said. "Every strong fighter belongs to one of them. Protection. Controlled bets. Clean profits." He glanced back. "Survival."
Veron exhaled slowly. "And you're one of the three."
"Smart."
A pause.
"You already learned why this matters… after your fight with Gonk and hearing the rumors."
Veron's lips curved faintly. "The revenge. I was wondering why he didn't do anything."
"Exactly."
Haisek turned fully now. "So?"
Veron stepped forward and extended his hand. "Of course I accept."
Haisek didn't move.
Instead, his eyes hardened. "One thing you should understand."
He leaned closer.
"You don't work with me. You work for me. Don't mistake temporary favor for equality."
He turned away without shaking Veron's hand.
"You can leave now."
Veron walked out.
The moment the door closed, his expression died. Only cold remained.
The inn was quiet when he returned. And the others had returned before him.
Warm lights. Wooden walls. Familiar faces.
"I met one of the city heads," Veron said simply. "We're under his protection now."
Lucen's eyes lit up immediately. "That's huge."
Dren raised a brow. "Expected."
Marin nodded slowly, not fully grasping the weight—but trusting him anyway.
The tension eased. Because Veron stood at the center. And as long as he did, things would move forward.
Hot water washed over his skin.
Steam filled the room as Veron rested his hands against the stone wall, head lowered. Water traced the lines of muscle across his back—and revealed what had always been hidden.
A tattoo.
Not decorative. Not random.
Dark, ancient lines spread across his back, wrapping his shoulder, crawling down his arm and ribs like something alive. Symbols layered over scars. Marks of oath, blood, and violence.
Power. Memory.
His jaw tightened. Not yet, he thought.
He lowered his hands, combed his hair back, and stood, feeling the water falling on him.
Elsewhere—
Silk sheets. Gold trim. Candlelight.
Dirak lay sprawled across a massive bed, a half-naked girl beneath a blanket leaning on his arm, her breathing was slow, content.
A knock.
"My prince," a maid said softly, bowing. "The family awaits you for dinner."
Dirak smirked. "Tell them I'll come in a few minutes."
As the door closed, his gaze drifted toward the window—toward a beautiful city. Toward the sky and the stars.
This isn't over.
Above them all, unseen forces shifted.
A secret tattoo. A prince leading a legion. Threads of fate woven with constant danger and ambition.
And in the arena, a new name was already being whispered.
The third fight was coming.
And this time—blood would answer questions no one was ready to ask.