The next ten floors blurred together. Some battles were against pairs, others against lone warriors stubborn enough to stand their ground. Spirit Guardians died by the dozens, fading like smoke on the stone floor.
If Kai was honest, Matt carried the team. Residual Step bought Kai openings, but when it failed, his strikes lacked bite. Combat wasn't where he shined.
By the time they reached Floor Twelve, Drake leaned on the railing with his usual grin. "Clear the next one, and I'll see you rewarded."
Their next opponent came armed with a gun, firing wild arcs across the arena. The fight was short—Residual Step and Shadow Step together made the weapon meaningless. When the man crumpled, the Azura's voice rang out:
"From this point forward, Shadowborn and Stray will be recognized as one unit. Together, you are the Young Masters."
The crowd cheered. Kai and Matt exchanged an uneasy glance.
Back in their chamber, a feast awaited—platters of roasted meat, fruit glistening under silver lamps. Beside the food lay stacks of sealed envelopes: fan mail.
Matt ripped one open first. A letter praising "the Shadowborn who cuts darkness itself." The writer swore they had wagered everything on him. Another letter addressed Kai, clumsy but heartfelt: "To the Stray—don't lose yourself. You fight like someone who still remembers the world outside. That's why we cheer."
The words sank heavier than the food on the table. For all the bloodshed, someone out there was watching with hope, not hunger.
At the bottom of the pile lay a familiar handwriting—Forn's.
His letter was different. Warnings filled the page: the kinds of guardians lurking on the higher floors, the traps disguised as duels. But there was also reassurance. "If you can hold out until Floor Thirty, something good will happen. Don't stop before then."
Matt folded the letter carefully, the first sign of worry crossing his usually calm face.
Drake joined them, tapping his cane against the floor. "Here's how it'll run. One of you fights a floor, the other takes the next. Alternating. No breaks if the crowd gets impatient."
Matt glanced at Kai. "You're up first then. Watch your footing. And don't try to match force with force—you'll lose. Move, strike, disappear. That's your edge." His voice carried the weight of an older brother more than a comrade.
---
The gates creaked open, iron grinding against stone, and Kai stepped into the arena. The pit was loud—too loud. The crowd stomped, screamed, and shook the walls with a single name:
"Little Tom! Little Tom!"
Kai squinted across the sand as his opponent emerged. He wasn't prepared for what he saw.
The boy was small, thin, maybe twelve at most. His tunic hung loose on a scar-mapped body. White lines, purple burns, half-healed gashes—each one proof of battles survived. His grin stretched too wide, splitting his face into something feral. His eyes glimmered with the kind of sharpness Kai had only ever seen in killers.
Residual Step carried Kai forward in a blur of shadows. He appeared behind Tom and pinned him face-first into the sand, arm pressing him down, Flicker's blade kissing his throat.
"Surrender and let me pass the floor!" Kai shouted.
The boy laughed. A raw, cracked laugh that belonged in a madhouse. In one quick motion, Tom pulled a jagged knife from his tunic and slammed it into Kai's side. The blade bit deep, twisting until fire raced up Kai's ribs.
Kai stumbled back, clutching the wound, blood pouring warm and fast. Tom rolled onto his feet with a predator's grace. For someone so small, his movement was frighteningly precise, honed by too many fights.
He lunged again. Kai met him head-on, but the boy slid under his strike and launched upward. His thin fingers clawed at Kai's face. Nails tore into skin, hooked around his eye socket—before Kai could wrench free, Tom ripped his left eye out in a single, brutal motion.
Kai's scream tore through the arena. White-hot pain consumed him.
And then Tom raised the dripping orb above his head like a prize. The crowd roared with delight.
Kai, clutching the ruined side of his face, could only watch in horror as the boy popped the eye into his mouth and bit down. The wet crunch carried even over the chants. Red streaked down Tom's chin as he chewed, grinning all the while.
The arena lost its mind. They weren't horrified—they were ecstatic. "Little Tom! Little Tom!" they screamed, pounding the railings, calling for more.
Kai swayed, vision swimming. Blood soaked his side and his face, hot and sticky. He wanted to collapse, but instinct dragged him upright. His hand closed around the knife still lodged in his ribs. Gritting his teeth, he ripped it free, tearing the wound wider.
Tom came at him again, still chewing, eyes bright with manic hunger.
Kai's world narrowed to one choice: kill or be killed.
As the boy leapt, Kai drove the knife forward with everything he had left. The blade sank into Tom's temple. His crazed laughter cut off mid-breath. His body froze, then crumpled into the sand.
Silence, just for a heartbeat. Then the boos rained down.
The crowd wasn't mourning Kai's ruin—they were mourning Tom. Their savage darling. They screamed insults, threw scraps, pelted Kai with cups and bone dice.
Kai barely heard them. His strength drained away with every drop of blood. He fell to his knees beside Tom's corpse, then collapsed fully into the hot sand.
The last thing he saw before darkness swallowed him was Matt vaulting over the barrier. The man didn't hesitate, didn't care about the guards or the crowd's fury. He ran straight for Kai, shouting his name.
Then Kai's vision went black, replaced only by the taste of iron in his mouth and the echo of the crowd chanting for a boy who would never rise again.