The medical room smelled faintly of antiseptic and iron. Bright lanterns hung low, their glow fighting against the shadows that clung to the corners. Kai lay motionless on the cot, his chest rising in shallow rhythm, the torn flesh around his ribs bound in fresh bandages. A healer stood over him, hands shimmering with a pale blue resonance as energy seeped into the wounds, knitting what muscle could be saved and numbing what couldn't.
Matt sat beside him, elbows resting on his knees, eyes never leaving Kai's face. His partner looked younger in sleep, though the tension in his jaw betrayed how far gone his body was. Matt leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, knowing Kai couldn't hear—or maybe hoping he could.
"Don't worry. I'll get us to floor fifty. You just rest, alright? No more pushing past your limit until it's time."
The words carried more weight than he admitted. Matt hadn't expected to care this much. But watching Kai fall in the last match—bleeding, broken—had left a pit in his stomach that even the roar of the crowd couldn't drown out.
The doctors worked quietly, stitching, binding, muttering their clinical phrases. They'd seen worse and they knew the pace of the Azura Tower demanded speed. Fighters weren't expected to recover fully; they were expected to survive long enough to be thrown back into the sand. Matt hated that. He hated the way the healers looked at Kai like he was just another pawn, a number in the betting system.
When they finished, the lead healer stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow. "He'll hold," the man said simply. "Not comfortably, but he'll hold."
Matt nodded. That was all he needed to hear. He squeezed Kai's wrist once before standing. "See you when you wake up, partner."
---
The next morning, Matt stood in the waiting corridor alone. The announcer's booming voice rattled the stone walls.
"From the shadows of Room Seven—one survivor climbs again! Mattethis, the shadowborn mercenary!"
The crowd's cheer was a wall of sound. Matt rolled his shoulders, flexing the grip of his blades, and stepped into the arena.
His first opponent was a hammer-wielding brute whose guardian cloaked him in burning embers. The heat was suffocating, the hammer heavy enough to cave in stone. But Matt had speed, and he had shadows. The man swung wide; Matt vanished into the shade of his own weapon and reappeared at his back, a dagger across the throat. The body dropped, the crowd roared.
Floor after floor, Matt climbed. At twenty, he faced twins who fought as one, their guardians linked by a shimmering chain of light. Their rhythm was perfect—one attacking, the other defending, each anticipating his moves. For a moment, Matt thought this was where he'd stop. But the shadows bent for him, wrapping around the chain, severing their link for just a heartbeat. It was enough. Two strikes, two bodies, one survivor left standing.
He felt the exhaustion building, each battle stealing a little more of him. By floor twenty-four his breath came ragged, sweat stung his eyes, and his shoulder burned from a cut that refused to close. Still he pushed on. Each victory was for Kai, for the promise he'd made.
---
At floor twenty-six, the corridor opened into silence. The crowd leaned forward, expectant.
Matt's opponent stood waiting—an older man, weathered, scarred, his spirit guardian wrapped around him like a cloak of feathers. He carried no weapon. His eyes alone spoke volumes: he was here by choice, not captivity.
"I stayed on this floor," the man said calmly. "Not because I couldn't climb higher, but because I wanted to test anyone who dared pass me. Let's see if you're worthy."
Matt gave a tired grin. "Guess I'll find out."
The fight was brutal. The man moved like a phantom, the feathered cloak deflecting strikes and turning them aside. Each time Matt struck, he found nothing but air. A knee drove into his gut, a fist cracked against his jaw, and he tasted blood.
He pulled on every scrap of shadow he could, weaving in and out of existence, striking from behind, below, above. The cloak intercepted him again and again. His blades grew heavier with each missed strike. The crowd was electric, the tension mounting with every heartbeat.
Finally, in a desperate move, Matt lunged straight through the man's guard, taking a blow to the ribs that nearly broke him. His dagger slipped under the cloak and grazed the man's chest.
The warrior halted. For a moment the arena was still. Then the man laughed—a low, thunderous sound.
"Well struck. You may proceed."
The cloak dissolved, the man bowed, and the arena doors opened. Matt staggered inside, half-wondering if his lungs still worked, but alive.
---
In the recovery room, he collapsed onto a bench, chest heaving. Drake was waiting, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his mouth.
"Not bad, mercenary. You carried it further than I thought you would. But it's his turn now, isn't it?"
Matt's eyes slid toward the next room, where Kai lay waiting, still pale but alive. The healers had done their work. Now it was time to see if Kai could stand again.
"Yeah," Matt said quietly. "It's his turn."
---
Kai's eyes fluttered open, and for the first time in days he felt the weight of his own body again. The bandages pulled against his skin, but his breath came easier.
The faint memory of Matt's voice reached him: Don't worry. I'll get us to floor fifty.
Kai pushed himself upright. His turn had come.
Matt has gotten us to the floor 26.
Damnit... That kid ate my eye.. I should've been stronger I got folded by a damn child.
Kai wasn't happy.
And he would use this rage.