Two days had passed since Grak fell on the arena sand. In Velmire, two days was a long time for a legend to be born and to die. The fleeting fame of Kairan, like a burning torch dipped in oil, had snuffed out and they had returned to cold, safe, obscurity. All the cheering was far behind her now, and in its place was only the slow rumble of the miners off in the distance and the occasional dropping of dirty water from the walls of the caves. His prize money that had felt so heavy in his hand was almost gone now, for a handful of pieces of hard bread that he struggled to swallow down and water that tasted like rusty metal. In Velmire under-district, survival was not defined by winning as such classes measured victory by the next breath and the next fight.
In his murky alcove, he was positioned with his back against the damp stone. Instead of sleeping, he was scrutinizing. His mind replayed every movement from the fight, including the pulsation of Grak's Sigil, the brief delay in his defense, and the sudden fright that enveloped the magical path just before the last blow. After that point, he experienced a change in his feeling of being not only empty but also hungry, as if the sound of the fight had given him some strange form of sustenance.
The corridor's only source of light was obscured by a large shadow, which caused Kairan to lose his concentration. Torvek stood there, his enormous form filling nearly the entire opening of the alcove. His sole remaining arm was placed on top of his broad chest, and his gaze was sharp and hard to read as it met Kairan's.
"They are talking about me," Kairan muttered.
It was not a question. As he moved down the corridors, a sense of stillness was present within him. Their lips ceased to sustain the whispers, but the fear persisted like a static charge. It was a fresh form of separation, more severe than the sympathy he usually received.'
"More than just talking, kid," Torvek growled, his hoarse voice echoing in the narrow space. He tossed a loaf of bread—one that didn't look like leftovers—into Kairan's lap. "They've given you a name: 'The Arena Ghost.' They say you don't fight, you just... unravel them. A Nulla who can make a Sigil user look like a fool. That's a story that spreads faster than the plague right now."
Kairan caught the bread but didn't eat it immediately. Trust was a luxury he couldn't afford. "What do you want, Torvek?"
Torvek snorted, sitting across from Kairan without a care for the filth on the floor. "I want to know how you do it. But I'm smart enough not to ask again." His experienced eyes stared intently at Kairan.
"I'm here to warn you. Attracting attention in this place is dangerous. It attracts the attention of people like Silas."
Silas was the arena organizer—a slick man with a belly bloated from ale and greed. He saw fighters not as men, but as dice he threw for a wager.
"He has plans for you," Torvek continued. "Something big."
As if summoned by his name, Silas's loud voice echoed from the center of the district, amplified by the Bronze Sigil engraved on his neck. "Attention, fighters and scum of Velmire society! Witness the generosity of the world above!"
Following a glance, Kairan and Torvek finally stood up and joined the crowd that was beginning to congregate in the main square. A stage that had been specifically prepared was where Silas posed with a fake smile on his face. An enormous banner was situated by his side.
Rather than a fighter, the poster displayed eerie images of wolves and humans with steel-like jaws and claws capable of shattering stone. The Gravemaw was depicted in the illustration.
"His Excellency Lord Valerius of the Vellarc Blood Family will honor us with his visit!" Silas exclaimed. "And for his entertainment, he has brought one of his pets! There will be a battle of honor! One fighter against the beast!"
The crowd rumbled. Most with fear, a small few with crazed excitement.
"The prize," Silas paused for dramatic effect, "is five hundred silver coins!"
A collective breath was held in the air. Five hundred coins. That wasn't just money for survival. It was money to buy a way out of this hell.
"Of course," Silas added with a smirk, "the fighter must be worthy. In the next three days, we will seek out the most ferocious, most entertaining, and bravest fighter!"
Torvek pulled Kairan away from the crowd. "Don't even think about it, kid," he hissed. "That's not a fight. It's a public execution. Lord Valerius is famously cruel. He isn't coming to see a show. He's coming to see someone die in an interesting way."
Kairan stared at the Gravemaw poster. His eyes weren't on its sharp fangs or its deadly claws. With his 'Resonance Sight,' he could feel something else from the sketch—a faint echo of a powerful Sigil's energy. Not from the beast, but from its owner. Lord Valerius.
Five hundred silver coins. A way out. It spun in his mind.
"I need that money," Kairan said flatly, his voice firmer than usual.
Torvek gripped his shoulder. "You'll die!!! That Gravemaw is fast, and Lord Valerius's Fire Sigil will make it even crazier. You can't read a beast's magic. Its patterns are too wild."
"I don't need to read the beast's magic," Kairan replied quietly, his eyes still fixed on the poster. He saw it now. This wasn't just a fight. It was a stage. And on that stage, all eyes would be on the main actor.
Lord Valerius.
The vow he had made two nights ago echoed in his mind. "Shake the foundations." Foundations couldn't be shaken from down here. Someone had to climb up first.
"I will fight…." Kairan said to Torvek, and for the first time, Torvek saw something other than emptiness in the boy's eyes. He saw a cold, calculating flame. "Silas will surely give me an opponent."
That night, Kairan returned to the arena. His opponent was an assassin with a Class-B Silver Sigil, specializing in wind magic. He was fast and deadly, surrounding Kairan with sharp blades of air.
But Kairan had changed. He no longer just dodged. He allowed one wind blade to graze his arm, feeling its flow, then reading its structure. Then, as the next attack came, he didn't step back. He threw a handful of dust into the air, directly in the attack's path.
The flow of wind magic, which should have been straight, became chaotic due to the dust particles. The air blade shattered and turned back on its user, injuring his leg. In his opponent's shock, Kairan lunged forward. The "air blade" magic essentially worked by compressing air into a very thin, fast, and stable stream. Imagine it like a super-high-pressure water jet. To remain sharp and straight, this magical flow had to be clean of any disturbances. Sigil users usually never thought about this because they were typically in a normal environment, with relatively clean air.
Kairan was no longer the bait waiting to be devoured.
In the filthy Arena of Velmire, the predator had just begun to hunt. And his prey was not the beast in a cage, but the nobleman who had long sat on a seat of honor.