Varen, already in his second round, rolled his shoulders as his opponent hit the ground with a dull thud. The fight had lasted longer than he expected, but not because the man was good—just stubborn.
The crowd around the pit hollered and jeered, some cursing as they lost their bets. From the upper ledges, the pit master grinned and tossed a small pouch down again.
"Fifty shards," the arena owner called out.
Varen caught it mid-air, weighing it in his palm. It wasn't much, but it was something.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the fights for the night. Varen rolled down his white shirt's sleeves, letting them fall back into place as he stepped away.
As the spectators began to disperse, a scarred man leaning against the railing watched him with mild amusement.
"Not bad. For a first-timer."
Varen met his gaze. "Wasn't much of a challenge."
The man chuckled. "Cocky. You'll fit in just fine." He turned, waving a hand dismissively. "Enjoy your winnings. Come back when you're ready for something bigger."
Varen didn't respond. He wasn't here for glory or money—he needed to test himself. To know how much of the Abyss still clung to him.
And from the way his hands still felt steady, his muscles still eager to move, he knew one thing for certain.
He hadn't lost his edge.
But something felt… off.
As he stepped toward the waiting area, he noticed Silas perched on one of the upper ledges, his sharp gaze flicking between the watchers stationed along the walls.
Varen didn't acknowledge him, but he understood why he was there.
The black-cloaked enforcers of the city stood near the entrance, unmoving, unreadable. They weren't here for the fights. They were looking for something.
Or someone.
Unlike the usual city guards, who patrolled with visible exhaustion, these men stood with rigid discipline, their posture unnervingly stiff. Watching. Calculating.
They weren't interested in the fights.
They were studying the fighters.
Silas's eyes lingered on one of them—a taller figure, slightly broader than the rest. The way he shifted his stance was subtle, but Silas knew the signs. This wasn't just a passive assignment. He was searching for something specific.
Varen, maybe?
Or was it something deeper?
Silas exhaled through his nose, retreating into the shadows. If the watchers had their eyes on the Duel Pit, that meant something was brewing. And if he knew one thing about people like them…
They never moved without purpose.
He needed more information.
With that, he disappeared into the darkness.
Bruno kept a firm grip on the old man's arm, guiding him through the dimly lit streets. The man was frail, his breathing ragged, but he wasn't dying—just exhausted.
Raine walked slightly ahead, glancing over her shoulder.
"You sure this guy isn't about to pass out on us?"
"I'll live," the old man wheezed. "Just… need to sit."
Bruno frowned. He didn't trust easily, but something about this felt off.
"Why did they leave you after taking everything?"
The old man let out a short, bitter laugh. "Because they didn't find what they were looking for."
Raine raised an eyebrow. "And what were they looking for?"
Instead of answering, the old man reached into his tattered coat and pulled out a small, rough stone. At first glance, it was nothing—just a worn rock, dull and unremarkable.
But Bruno felt it.
That strange pull, like a whisper threading through his thoughts.
He wasn't the only one who noticed. Raine tensed, her fingers twitching slightly.
"That's… that's a rock," she muttered.
The old man gave a tired smirk. "No. It's not." He glanced around, then motioned toward a narrow alley. "There's someone who can tell you what it is. If you're willing."
Bruno exchanged a glance with Raine.
She sighed. "This is a terrible idea."
"Probably," Bruno agreed. "But let's go."
The alley led them into the outskirts of the city's exile district, where the streets became narrower, the air colder. This was where people went when they had nothing left—criminals, outcasts, those who fell through the cracks.
Raine glanced at the old man. "How much deeper do we have to go? The exile district isn't exactly safe."
"Don't worry," the old man said. "We're here."
One door stood out among the decayed buildings—old wood, reinforced with metal. A single lantern flickered above it, casting an eerie glow.
The old man knocked twice. A pause. Then once more.
A coded signal.
The door creaked open.
A man stepped out, his face obscured by a heavy hood, his movements deliberate.
"You brought it?"
The old man nodded, holding up the stone. "They almost took it. But it's still here."
The hooded figure—Dask—extended a gloved hand. The moment his fingers touched the rock, something in the air shifted. A faint hum, like static before a storm.
Bruno felt the hairs on his arms rise.
Dask's gaze flicked toward him.
"They're with you, aren't they?"
The old man nodded. "Yes."
Dask exhaled slowly. "You have no idea what you just saved."
Bruno crossed his arms. "Then why don't you tell us?"
Dask turned toward him, finally lifting his head just enough to reveal sharp, intelligent eyes.
"Inside," he said. "Before the wrong people start asking questions."
Bruno hesitated, then stepped in.
The shop was small, cluttered with trinkets and relics stacked on wooden shelves. Dim candlelight flickered against old books and strange metallic tools.
Dask placed the stone on the counter, inspecting it closely.
"This isn't just a rock. It's part of something much older. Something that predates this city… predates even the Abyss itself."
Raine leaned against the counter, skeptical. "Sounds dramatic."
Dask smirked. "Maybe. But you wouldn't be here if you didn't already feel it, would you?"
Bruno didn't answer. Because Dask was right.
There was something about that stone—something that made his instincts scream.
Dask reached for a glass containing a strange purple liquid. He retrieved an abyssal crystal slightly larger than the shards and passed it to the old man.
The old man took the glass, grimacing as he drank. "Ugh. Bitter this time."
His wounds closed before their eyes.
Bruno and Raine barely had time to process it before Dask turned to a shelf, pulling out a small wooden box.
"Because you helped bring this to me—and helped my old man—I'll return the favor." He slid the box across the counter toward Bruno.
Bruno eyed it. "What is it?"
Dask's smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"A relic," he said simply. "One that won't kill you."
Raine scoffed. "Comforting."
Bruno hesitated, then opened the box.
Inside, nestled in old velvet, was a thin metal ring. Black, etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when he wasn't looking directly at them.
It felt cold. And yet, when his fingers brushed against it, a strange warmth spread through his palm.
"This," Dask said, watching him carefully, "is yours now."
Bruno clenched his jaw. He had seen enough relics to know that none came without a cost.
But something told him this was different.
He just wasn't sure if that was a good thing.