The forge had been running hot for days. Obi stood in the middle of the heat, sleeves rolled, curls damp with sweat, adjusting his brass knuckles with careful fingers.
"Easy, handsome" he told the weapons, as if they were alive. "We're meeting a lot of new faces tonight. Try not to rearrange all of them."
Sparks burned his forearms. He hissed, grinned, and kept hammering anyway. He paused, studied the spikes along the ridges, then pried them off one by one. Too much. He didn't need them.
"Flattering," he told the steel. "You make me look dangerous."
Out in the streets, a young man ran past, breathless. "Pot doubled! The Gauntlet's pot just doubled!" The shout echoed off walls and kept going around corners.
Obi's eyebrows lifted. "Huh. So they weren't lying."
He glanced at the knuckles again, then at the poster he'd pinned to the wall weeks ago:
SCRAPPER'S GAUNTLET - NO RULES. WINNER TAKES IT ALL.
"Cute advice," he muttered. "Not ominous at all."
He shut down the forge, packed chalk, wraps, and the knuckles into a leather pouch, flipped his sign to Closed, and stepped into the streets. He passed Takeshi's place on the way. Empty.
"Still grinding, huh?" he muttered, picturing the two of them in that strange, mysterious Rust Room they'd told him about.
✦ ✦ ✦
The registration booth sat at the edge of the fighting district. The man behind the mesh barely lifted his eyes.
"Name?"
"Obi." He said it brightly, then added: "…The Loud, why not?"
"Obi The Loud" he muttered. "Weight?"
"Charming." Obi flashed his mischievous grin.
The man sighed. "You want in or you want to flirt?"
"Buddy, I can do both." Obi leaned in. "Let's call my weight... middle. Artistically proportioned."
The clerk scratched something down. "Rules. You know them?"
"I read the poster," Obi said. "Quite nonexistent."
"Good. Try not to lose teeth." The clerk slid him a token stamped with a fist. "Warm-up's over there." He gestured with his chin. "And another thing - medical support costs extra."
"Guess I'll have to win without getting scratched, then." Obi flicked the token into the air, caught it, and walked off.
✦ ✦ ✦
Across the Underworks, the Rust Room had a different energy.
Raizen stood in the center of the white chamber, breathing hard. Sweat dripped from his chin. His ribs ached where the last strike had landed. Kori circled him slowly, silver hair catching the light, hands relaxed at her sides.
"You're getting better," she said. Not praise. Just fact. "Faster. Less like a sad potato and more lika… Wet pasta."
Raizen managed a weak grin. "Thanks?"
"But you're still soft." Her voice went flat. "You dodge pretty well, you read patterns, you can dance around the rods all day." She stopped in front of him. "But what happens when you CAN'T dodge?"
Raizen's grin faded.
"What happens when something faster than you gets through? When your perfect technique fails?" Kori's eye - the human one - locked onto his. "What happens when you get hit, Raizen? Really hit. And you have to keep fighting anyway."
From the booth above, Mina's voice crackled. "Kori, his recovery time still needs-"
"I know what his vitals say." Kori didn't look away from Raizen. "Numbers don't mean anything when a Nyx is tearing through your guard."
Raizen's jaw tightened. He thought of the wounded Gravers slumped in the alley. The one with the leg wound who could barely stand. The burned shoulder. The blood-soaked bandages. They'd fought a fortitude four-point-five Nyx – whatever that meant - and came back broken.
And they were experienced.
"I need to be stronger," he said quietly.
"Stronger?" Kori tilted her head. "You think this is about strength?"
"Then what?"
"Endurance. Pain tolerance. The ability to take damage and not fold." She stepped closer. "You want to hunt Nyxes? Fine. But first you need to learn how to survive getting hurt."
Raizen's hands curled into fists. "So how are you going to teach me?"
Kori's grin came back, sharp and dangerous. "Mina, darling! Kill the rods, and give me the pads."
A pause from the booth. "You sure? He's only been here a few weeks-"
"Do it."
The training room shifted. The reflex rods retracted into the walls. New mechanisms emerged - padded strikers at different heights, a narrow pathway with uneven platforms, resistance cables that would pull and drag.
"Here's how this works," Kori said. "You're going to run the course. While you're running it, the strikers will hit you. Not fast enough to break bones, but hard enough to hurt. You don't stop. You don't slow down. You take the hit and keep moving."
Raizen stared at the course. "For how long?"
"Hmmm… The standard protocol says ten minutes. But I say until you can't stand up anymore." Kori walked to the sideline. "Or until you quit. But that means over ten minutes"
"I won't quit."
"Everyone says that." She crossed her arms. "Let's see if you mean it."
The buzzer sounded.
Raizen ran.
The first striker came from his left - a padded arm that swung at chest height. He tried to dodge but the platform beneath him shifted and he stumbled. The striker caught him across the ribs. Pain bloomed hot in his chest. He gasped but kept running.
Second platform. Narrower. His foot slipped and he caught himself on the rail. Another striker came from behind - hit him between the shoulder blades. The impact drove him forward. He barely stayed upright.
"Don't stop!" Kori shouted.
Third platform. A cable wrapped around his ankle mid-step and yanked. He went down hard, knee slamming into the pad. Another striker swung low, caught his shoulder, spun him. He scrambled up, legs shaking.
"MOVE, Raizen!"
He moved. The course looped back. Platforms tilted under his weight, different pattern now. Strikers came faster now - chest, shoulder, thigh, head again. Each hit stole his breath, made his vision blur. His body screamed at him to stop, to rest, to give up.
Raizen didn't.
He thought of his parents. The Nyx's hand around his father's throat. His mother's blade doing nothing. The helplessness. The weight that had pressed him into the dirt while they died.
He kept running.
Somewhere behind him, Hikari watched from the doorway, silent. Her face was empty, but her fingers said everything. Folded in her lap, they twitched every time Raizen got hit.
Lap two. His lungs burned. His legs felt like lead. A striker caught him in the stomach and he doubled over, gasping, but his feet kept moving. Another hit his temple - not hard enough to knock him out, but hard enough to make the world spin around for a few seconds.
"You're slow!" Kori called. "A Nyx won't wait for you to catch your breath!"
Raizen gritted his teeth and pushed harder. Lap three. Four. He lost count. The hits blurred together. Pain became background noise. His body moved on autopilot, muscle memory taking over when thought failed.
Then his knee buckled.
He went down, hands catching himself before his face hit the platform. A striker swung over his head, missing by inches. He tried to stand. His legs wouldn't answer.
"Get up." Kori's voice, closer now.
He got his hands under him, pushed, made it to one knee. The world swayed.
"Get. Up."
He stood. Took one step. His ankle gave out and he fell again, this time all the way down.
The buzzer sounded. The strikers retracted. Silence filled the chamber. Kori walked over and crouched beside him. "Five laps. Twenty-four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Not bad for your first time."
Raizen lay on his back, chest heaving, every part of him screaming. "How many... do Gravers... do?"
"The good ones?" Kori stood. "Hmm… They don't train here, but I'd firmly approximate around twelve laps. Minimum."
Twelve. Raizen closed his eyes. He'd barely managed five.
"But" Kori added, whispering in his ear "you didn't quit. That counts for something."
She patted his shoulder, and offered her hand. "And the Gravers train for maximum resistance. When it comes to actual fighting and technique, only a select few count."
Raizen took it and let her pull him up. His legs wobbled but held. "Tomorrow, can I go for six."
"Eh… I would have said seven, but have it your way."
Across the room, Hikari stepped forward. She didn't say anything, just moved to the starting line and looked at Kori.
"Your turn?" Kori asked.
Hikari nodded once.
"Alright. Same protocol. Let's see what you've got."
The buzzer sounded again.
✦ ✦ ✦
Beyond the glass, Kori's other students worked in separate rooms.
Arashi sat at a long table cluttered with locks of every size, tools clicking as he cracked one after another in record time. Around him, others tried and failed, each mistake buzzing red.
In the next chamber, Keahi slammed her fists into a heavy leather bag, bright red hair whipping with every strike. Relentless. Precise.
Both were clearly ahead of the newcomers.
But the gap was shrinking. Fast.
✦ ✦ ✦
Later, Raizen sat with his back against the wall, ice from Kori's hand pressed to his ribs. Hikari sat nearby, not as battered but silent as always.
"Kori," Raizen said quietly. "Those Gravers we saw some time. The wounded ones."
Kori glanced at him. "What about them?"
"They almost died fighting a fortitude four-point-five." His hands tightened around the ice pack. "And I can barely survive a training course."
"That's the point of training…?"
"But when will I be ready?" His voice cracked slightly. "How long until I can actually-"
"Stop." Kori's voice went hard. "You want a timeline? There isn't one. Some people train for years and still die on their first contract. Others get lucky and survive on instinct." She leaned forward. "You want to know when you'll be ready? When you stop asking."
Raizen looked down at his hands. Bruised knuckles. Bandaged cuts.
"But if that was fortitude four-point-five…" he said quietly. "What about the stronger Nyxes?"
"The known Nyx fortitude scale goes up to twelve." Kori's expression softened, just slightly. "And don't think the Gravers are humanity's defence force. Their work is purely optional, purely contractional. But don't think that Neoshima would send people like them against the Nyxes. The guys down here can barely afford a small chunk of Luminite!"
"So..." Raizen frowned. "You're telling me that the Wardens – Neoshima's guards – are regularly sent out to kill Nyxes?"
"No, silly!" Kori smiled, holding back a small giggle. "The Wardens are just internal force – they keep the order in Neoshima. They don't even have Luminite weapons!"
"Then?" Hikari asked hesitantly. "who takes care of the outside?"
Kori made a satisfied expression, as if she was personally proud of what she was about to say. "Those, my dear, are the Vanguards. Divisions of special forces, especially trained units aimed towards the Nyxes – they have top-of-the-line Neoshiman technology, andt top-tier Luminite weapons, all costs covered by the Council. They're taught and trained at the best place this continent has to offer – The Lotus Academy"
"Vanguards? Luminite weapons? The Council?" Raizen echoed, his frown deepening with every word.
"Oh, dear… I guess you really are outsiders." Kori stood up. "Stop worrying about Luminite yet, and you'll learn everything about the world above with time. Start worrying about tomorrow's session, because if you won't be able to keep up with basic training…" she said the word "basic" as if every course in the Rust room, all on the lowest difficulty, were easy.
But they were not. Raizen could feel himself progress more and more each day, and knew that the Graver he fought that time wouldn't have been able to pass not even half.
And Takeshi told him about the Rust Room. It wasn't training grounds for the Gravers. It was off-limits even to Wardens.
The Rust Room was a secret facility with one purpose in mind – create weapons. Create the deadliest assassins, regardless of their opponent. It didn't teach you a specialized fighting style – it sharpened your body until its limits weren't even clear anymore. What Kori – a former Phalanx member – was doing down here, it was still a mystery for Raizen. But as long as she took care of their training, he didn't care.
"Well… Enough for today" Kori headed for the door, then paused. "And Raizen? Those Gravers you saw? They survived. That alone makes them better than most." She glanced back. "Don't underestimate what that means."
The door closed behind her.
Raizen pressed the ice harder against his ribs and smiled despite the pain.
Tomorrow, he was going to do seven laps.
✦ ✦ ✦
Fighters crowded the waiting area, wrapping hands, stretching, muttering slurs toward each other. Obi found a corner, sat, and wrapped his knuckles with the care he usually reserved for his inventions. He chalked, flexed, slid the brass over the wraps. The weight felt perfect.
A tank of a man made his way through the crowd - shaved scalp beading sweat, a scar slicing from cleft chin to the notch of his throat. His forearms were massive, the kind you only got from lifting heavy things for years. Ink tatoos crawled up both arms: broken chain links around the wrists, a crude heart with teeth biting down over his shoulder. Plus other signs and symbols Obi didn't recognize.
Across his knuckles, letters had been tattooed black by someone with more enthusiasm than spelling ability: H-A-I-T.
He caught the gleam of brass on Obi's hands.
"That your toys?" His voice rumbled like gravel in a can.
Obi held the knuckles up to the light. "These? Meant for cracking walnuts. Big walnuts."
The man snorted. "You'll be spilling walnuts."
"Only if you're made of them." Obi squinted at the man's hand. "And buddy - does that tattoo spell "hate" or am I behind on words?"
A few nearby fighters barked laughter and pretended they hadn't. The man's brow lowered like a ledge sliding over his eyes. He stepped in until Obi could smell old beer. "You always talk this much?"
"Only when I'm alive," Obi grinned. "You should hear me when I'm winning."
The man took one step-
A guard smacked the barred gate with his baton. "Save it for the ring."
Obi lifted both palms, brass winking. "You heard the man, big fella. Maybe fate sits us together - wouldn't want to deprive the crowd."
The tattooed slab leaned close enough for the scar on his chin to catch the lantern light. "Pray it doesn't."
He moved on. Obi let the smile ride a second longer, then whispered to the knuckles: "Please let him spell "asleep" when I'm done."
The corridor ahead glowed gold with torchlight. Beyond the gate, a crowd waiting to see something break.
He thought briefly of Raizen's too-bright smile, of Hikari's quiet eyes, of Takeshi's map and the way the pins kept multiplying like bad stars. He thought of Louissa's door and the way her voice could warm a room without stepping inside. Then he pinched the thoughts shut and smiled like trouble.
A runner jogged down the corridor, breathless. "Obi the Loud versus Morrow the Colossus! Two-minute prep!"
"The Colossus?" Obi repeated, rolling his neck. "What kind of stick am I breaking tonight?"
He lifted his fists and let the brass clink.
"Hands where they'll still be functionable, huh" he muttered, and almost laughed.
"Gate Two! Obi the Loud!" the runner shouted. "Ready up!"
The guard beside him didn't look over when he spoke. "When you stop smiling, tuck your chin."
"I'll never stop smiling," Obi said. "It's my curse."
"Then you better duck."
Bars rattled. Hot light slid under and up. The smell of sand and sweat crept in like a tide. Obi rolled his shoulders, jumped on his feet a few times to get rid of any stiffness, and walked forward until the sand took his weight.
He cracked his neck once.
"If I die, tell Granny Louissa I finally made friends."
Then he smiled like he meant to live forever.