The pit stank of iron, sweat, and old smoke.
It had once been a stadium, back when Sector Six still pretended to care about sports. Now Red Fang owned it. The cracked seats sagged under crowds drunk on cheap liquor and cheaper luck. Lights buzzed overhead, half-broken, throwing shadows sharper than the fighters' fists.
A banner stretched across the wall: RED FANG WELCOMES YOU.
I leaned on the rail, hood pulled low. The crowd pressed in tight, coins clinking, voices clashing, everyone eager to watch blood earn someone else's money.
"Swift Hands versus the Wall!" the announcer bellowed.
The fighters stepped into the dirt ring.
The first was wiry, grinning, his fists twitching with nerves or hunger. He bounced on his feet, tapping, tapping.
The second was broad, heavy with muscle, his stance already solid before the bell rang. His face was calm, as if the noise didn't touch him.
The bell clanged.
Swift Hands darted forward, jabs and hooks cracking like firecrackers. The crowd roared. The big man absorbed them all—arms raised, body twisting just enough to bleed the blows off his frame. He shifted an inch at a time, but never fell.
And then—one step forward. His feet planted, weight sinking, and his fist swung.
The crack was sharp as splitting wood.
Swift Hands collapsed.
The crowd erupted. "Jonas! Bastion! Bastion!"
The man—Jonas—didn't grin, didn't celebrate. He raised his fists again, steady, waiting. A wall made flesh.
The Lexicon stirred in my chest, pages turning without sound. Body Path. Iron Body Scripture.
A whisper formed: Iron Guard.
---
Jonas fought again. And again.
Each opponent came fast and desperate, fists flashing, kicks snapping. Jonas took the storm. He let them spend themselves, then answered with patience and weight. One strike. Sometimes two. Enough.
The crowd loved him. Loved the safety he represented in a world that had none.
I studied him quietly. The Lexicon hummed with each move, steady as his stance. His shimmer glowed—solid, loyal, patient.
The shield.
I had found it.
---
Later, when the pit emptied, I slipped through the alleys. Drunks staggered home, gangs counted winnings, losers nursed their bruises. The Lexicon pulsed, tugging at my chest, as if telling me to wait.
And then I saw her.
Mara.
She stood at the edge of the ring, arms folded, watching Jonas leave. Her eyes were sharp, her posture easy but coiled. She turned and caught me watching.
"You again," she said.
"Me again," I answered.
"You don't belong here."
"I don't belong anywhere."
Her mouth twitched, almost a smile, then straightened. "You watch people too closely."
"That's how you learn who they are."
She studied me a moment longer, then walked away into the crowd.
I breathed out. The Lexicon hummed, pages turning.
A door.
A blade.
A shield.
The first piece had a name now. Jonas. Bastion.
And the second had already crossed my path.
---
Author's Note:
Scripture Introduced: Iron Body Scripture (Body Path) — Order 1 skill: Iron Guard, turning the body into a shield.
Character Introduced: Jonas (Bastion), steady and patient, chosen as Umbra's shield.
Foreshadowing: Mara appears again, tied to the Weapon Scripture, her role circling closer.