The Outskirts of Virelia were a forgotten maze of crumbling tenements and rusted iron, where the sun rarely pierced the smog, and the air was thick with the scent of decay. Here, the concept of law was as obsolete as the broken streetlights that lined the cracked pavements.
Kael navigated the narrow alleyways with practiced ease, his boots crunching over shattered glass and debris. At seventeen, he had the lean build of someone who had grown up on scraps and instinct. His dark hair was matted with sweat, and his eyes, a piercing gray, scanned his surroundings with perpetual vigilance.
He reached a rusted metal door, its surface covered in graffiti and old bloodstains. Knocking thrice in a specific rhythm, he waited. A small panel slid open, revealing a pair of suspicious eyes.
"You're late."
"Had to avoid the patrols," Kael replied.
The door creaked open, and Kael slipped inside the dimly lit corridor, the air thick with the stench of sweat and blood. The underground arena, known as "The Pit," was a sanctuary for the desperate—a place where strength was currency, and survival was the prize.
Inside, a cacophony of cheers and jeers echoed off the concrete walls. Spectators, cloaked in shadows, placed bets and exchanged coin, their faces obscured by hoods and masks. In the center, under a flickering spotlight, two fighters exchanged brutal blows, their bodies already battered and bruised.
Kael made his way to the locker area, where fighters prepared for their bouts. He stripped off his tattered jacket, revealing a torso crisscrossed with scars—a testament to the countless battles he had endured. Wrapping his hands with worn cloth, he focused his mind, pushing aside the gnawing hunger and fatigue.
"You're up next, Kael," a gruff voice announced.
He nodded, stepping into the arena as the crowd's roar intensified. His opponent, a hulking brute named Gorran, sneered at him, flexing muscles that rippled with menace.
"Ready to bleed, runt?" Gorran taunted.
Kael didn't respond. He had learned long ago that words were meaningless here; only actions mattered.
The bell rang, and Gorran charged, swinging a massive fist aimed at Kael's head. Kael ducked, delivering a swift jab to Gorran's ribs, then danced away before the brute could retaliate. The crowd cheered, sensing the underdog's defiance.
The fight continued, a brutal dance of fists and fury. Kael relied on speed and agility, evading Gorran's powerful strikes while delivering precise blows that chipped away at the giant's endurance. Finally, with a well-timed uppercut, Kael sent Gorran sprawling to the ground, unconscious.
The arena erupted in cheers, and Kael stood victorious, his chest heaving with exertion. He collected his modest winnings and retreated to the locker area, where he washed the blood from his hands and face.
As he exited the arena, the cool night air greeted him, carrying whispers of unease. Rumors had been circulating—children disappearing, strange markings found on walls, and whispers of a resurgence of the Vyr bloodline, long thought extinct.
Kael dismissed the rumors as superstition. He had more immediate concerns—finding food, avoiding patrols, and surviving another day in the Outskirts. Yet, as he walked the desolate streets, a strange sensation prickled at the back of his neck, as if unseen eyes were watching.
He shook off the feeling and continued on, unaware that his life was on the cusp of irrevocable change.
*********
The streets of the Outskirts weren't quiet after a Pit win. If anything, they got louder—meaner. Kael knew better than to take the main road back to the eastern tenements. Victors drew attention, and attention drew danger.
He ducked into an alley behind a crumbling storage block, still sweating from the match, his ribs aching where Gorran had clipped him. The few silver credits he'd earned were tucked in his boot. He couldn't afford to lose them.
"Nice fight tonight, bloodless," a voice drawled from the shadows.
Kael froze.
A group emerged from behind a collapsed wall—four of them, wrapped in crimson scarves with serpent emblems sewn at the throat. The gang was known in the Outskirts as the Red Fangs—enforcers for a mid-tier warlord who claimed descent from an ancient bloodline. They collected "tribute" from those who couldn't defend themselves. Or those who could.
"Back off," Kael muttered, shifting his stance.
"Easy, freak. You made some money, and our boss says anyone who bleeds for coin on his turf pays in blood or silver." The largest of the gang members grinned and cracked his knuckles. "We'll take both."
Kael's eyes flicked between them. No weapons drawn—yet. But their confidence meant something worse. They'd done this before.
He threw the first punch.
It landed square on the leader's jaw—but something was wrong. Or right.
Time slowed.
Kael saw the man's veins illuminate faintly beneath his skin, pulsing red like rivers of molten light. His own muscles surged, reflexes sharp and primal. Before the second thug could lunge, Kael twisted and drove a fist into his solar plexus, knocking the air from his lungs with a sickening grunt.
The world was moving, but Kael was moving faster.
"WHAT—what the hell was that?!" one of them screamed as Kael blurred to the side.
His heartbeat thundered. His vision swam with crimson lines—veins, arteries, heartbeats—he could see them all. He felt heat rising in his arms, the sensation of something ancient and wrong awakening inside him.
The third attacker swung a knife. Kael caught the man's wrist, twisted—and with unnatural strength—snapped it backward. A howl split the air. Blood sprayed across the bricks.
One remained. He didn't run. Instead, he stared at Kael with wide eyes, then dropped to his knees.
"You… You're Vyr-born…"
Kael blinked. The glow faded from his vision. The world snapped back to its filthy, gray haze.
"What did you call me?" he demanded.
The kneeling thug trembled. "Please. I didn't know… Forgive me. Forgive me." He scrambled away on all fours and vanished into the shadows.
Kael stood there, stunned. His hands shook—not from fear, but from what he'd just done. What he had felt.
His blood. It had moved like fire through his veins. Fast. Hot. Alive.
He lifted his sleeve and stared. The veins in his forearm still glowed faintly red. A mark, almost like a sigil, pulsed beneath the skin before fading.
Something inside him had awakened.
And whatever it was… it wasn't human.