The invitation wasn't printed.
It was announced.
Publicly.
At the end of morning assembly, over the school's internal audio system — which only two people had access to: the principal… and the student council president.
"ATTENTION: A private tournament will begin in two weeks. Entry limited to invitation-only fighters. One open slot available.To claim it, you must challenge and defeat the standing wildcard."
There was a pause. A calculated beat of silence.
Then the kicker:
"Ash — if you want it, come take it.Signed, Jaeyul."
The whole auditorium turned.
Some toward the intercom.
Most… toward Aara.
She didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
She stood in the back row of the crowd like she hadn't even heard it.Like the words weren't tailored to cut her open.
But inside?
She felt it.
The tension in her chest. The burn behind her ribs. The recognition.
He was trying to bait her.
And worse?
It was working.
By lunch, the campus was chaos.
People talking. Posting. Debating.
"He called her out.""He's challenging her status.""This is how he gets rid of people. Public challenge. Private rules."
Someone else whispered:
"She won't do it. She's smarter than that."
But they didn't know Aara.
Not like he did.
She found the flyer first on the media board by the library.
A clean black square with the word:
The Culling.
Underground. Broadcast-only. High-level competitors only.
Private betting. Massive payouts.
"Winner gets to rewrite their contract," said the print."Loser doesn't walk out."
It wasn't just a tournament.
It was a trap dressed like opportunity.
And Aara could already feel the chain tightening around her name.
That night, she and Haru sat in silence across the apartment table.
Flyer between them.
Laptop open, tracing the digital path of the promo post.
No origin tag. No uploader name.
Just a shadowed source.
Rae Jin's fingerprints all over it.
"He's trying to pull you in," Haru said. "Make you feel like it's your idea."
Aara nodded. "I know."
"Then say no."
She looked at him.
"Can you?"
Silence.
Then, soft:
"No."
That was the thing about people like them.
They didn't walk away from threats.
They stepped into them and made them regret it.
"But if you go," Haru said, voice tight, "you go on your terms. Not his."
Aara leaned back in her chair.
"He wants me to challenge the wildcard?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'm going to do one better."
The next day:
The media club posted an unscheduled video.
Just 12 seconds long.
Aara in frame.
No music. No effects. Just her in a black hoodie, staring directly at the lens.
"I'm not challenging the wildcard.I'm challenging the system.Pick your best.I'll make them bleed."
The post went viral in under 30 minutes.
Jaeyul didn't respond.
Not publicly.
But the new list of participants went up the next morning.
10 fighters. Private league only.
And at the bottom?
Wildcard Challenge Match: Ash vs. Vega
The school went quiet again.
Because Vega wasn't a student.
She wasn't even local.
She was hired muscle.
Older. Trained. Known in the lower circuits for breaking collarbones in matches that weren't even supposed to be full contact.
It wasn't a match.
It was a message:
"You want to climb?Climb over this."
Aara read the name once.
Didn't react.
Didn't ask for footage.
Didn't even blink.
Just turned to Haru and said:
"She hits clean or cheap?"
He paused.
"Both."
She nodded.
"Good. I'm in the mood for both."
That night, Haru watched her wrap her hands tighter than usual.
No music. No talking. Just the quiet rhythm of cloth on skin, breath controlled, mind locked in.
She was already inside the fight.
Already walking toward it like a door she'd have to kick down.
"You're sure?" he asked.
She didn't look up.
"I'm tired of surviving.I want to make them regret not killing me when they had the chance."
Haru stepped forward.
His voice was quieter now. Closer.
"If they touch you wrong…"
"They will."
"I'll tear the place down."
She looked at him finally.
Eyes steady. Bruised. Determined.
"Not yet.Let them think they have the leash.I want to bite first."