Location: Rustline, Maatari
Time: 10:12 PM
The club didn't have a name.
To be fair, it wasn't meant to be found by happenstance.
Just coordinates passed around underground forums and quiet bar tabs.
Rustline's walls were stitched together with scrap siding and leftover pulse glass from a failed casino project. The ceilings buzzed with hacked surveillance drones and stripped spark torches, all duct-taped into glowing life.
Most nights, this place ran half-lit and heat-choked — but on Open Fight Night, it became its own damn sector.
A hundred people stood pressed in on all sides of the central ring.
No seating.
No structure.
Just metal grates, smoke-thin haze, and a makeshift arena surrounded by broken weld barriers. The kind of place where rules were optional, and egos got dissolved.
All you needed was a wad of Musa and someone willing to get their ass kicked for it.
This is Tethari.
A combat sport that originated as a combat training exercise for the founding sages of Orunda. Created to test the adequacy of se'lo sages and their t'alü beasts, along with forging their combat skills to the level of aligned mastery.
Combatants begin the match with a battle using Se'lo Tablets that house t'alü beasts, glyph spells/traps, field cards, or summon rituals.
This goes until one of them has had their se'lo energy depleted. When that phase is complete, combatants enter last rites phase.
No beasts. No tablets.
Just martial combat. Until one sage is incapacitated.
Tethari clashes happen in pro circuits across the world.
It's regarded as the world's oldest past time and first combat sport.
But this isn't the pro circuits. This is the underground brackets.
And the rules are determined by who's paying.
Whether it's a sponsor, the promoter, or the combatants betting on themselves in an exhibition.
From strictly beast battles to deathmatches or no rules except win, the list of possible outcomes at an underground bracket could solely depend on the mood of some two-bit glitch dealer, who had a few Musa to throw around to sponsor his own entertainment.
Khazim leaned against the rear wall, hood half-drawn, arms folded beneath his chain. His Hunterfly sat clipped to his belt, silent but sharp.
Eyes tracked him.
They always did.
Whispers swirled across the crowd in fragments.
"That him?"
"Nah, can't be. He doesn't fight here anymore."
"He's just watchin', chill—"
"He's never just watchin'."
The air tasted like engine soot and ozone. Someone passed around a root-laced smoke stick. Another spliced a sync chip into their wrist glyph for enhancement. In Rustline, it was all legal until it wasn't.
A sudden slap on the shoulder broke the hum.
Spots Ren, all chrome teeth and ankle-length trench coat, beamed up at him. His whole look screamed last-minute promoter with a side of unpaid debt — but the man had a sharp mind buried under all that dust.
"Lemme guess," Spots grinned. "You felt the Musa in the air and came floatin' back like a revenant."
Khazim didn't respond.
Spots kept going, undeterred. "I knew that Gor tip would come in handy. Knew you couldn't pass up the pleasure of collection."
Khazim gave a shallow nod. Just enough acknowledgment to move the conversation along.
Spots scratched his cheek. "Got a few new ones tonight. Raw talent. No sync control. Might be fun to warm up."
More eyes landed on Khazim as the first fight ended and the crowd began shifting.
One fighter, a loud-mouthed brawler with split knuckles and an overinflated ego, noticed the growing energy around the newcomer.
"Ey, is that Khaz?" the man barked. "Ain't seen you since you ghosted mid-bracket last cycle. What happened, your beast get cold feet?"
The crowd chuckled.
Spots immediately raised a hand. "Settle down. We like our walls unbroken. And the last guy who got mouthy walked out with a limp and a silence glyph stitched into his vocal cords."
The man wasn't backing down.
Khazim shifted his weight — slow, precise.
Spots caught the gesture and stepped in. "How about this: one round. Bet match. Winner takes ten stacks and brag rights for the night. Make it clean."
The brawler cracked his neck. "Fine by me."
Khazim just nodded once and stepped toward the ring.
➤ OPEN FIGHT NIGHT – FIGHT ONE
Sage: Kavryn Vask
T'alü Alignment: Root Pulse
Se'lo Archetype: Aerial Flow
Beast: Zephyr Spinelet
Type: Wind-aligned Insectoid Traits: Chitin Burst, Wing Slicer, Gale Shell
The moment Khazim stepped into the makeshift arena, the noise simmered down. Not silence — just a kind of tightened reverence. The crowd made space, forming an uneven ring edged by grates and glyph-scorched concrete.
Across from him, Kavryn Vask rolled his shoulders, all bravado and lungful of fake courage.
"Let's see if the stories are just noise," he spat, activating his beast glyph.
A pulse of se'lo light sparked from the thin circlet embedded into his forearm — a cheap aftermarket crystal implant. The glyph flared in pale green, and the arena darkened slightly.
With a violent gust of wind, Zephyr Spinelet appeared.
The creature hovered six feet above the ring,
its translucent wings slicing the air with high-frequency hums.
Its body shimmered with silvery chitin and wind-slick plating, like it had been bred from the heart of a hurricane. Sharp limb-blades twitched with anticipation, and faint glyph runes pulsed beneath its carapace.
Tre'co, ready to enter the fight, began to growl.
Khazim didn't blink.
"Keep cool boy. Just some easy Musa on the line. I wouldn't even let you waste your time with this."
His hand moved to the Hunterfly.
A brief flick — the butterfly blade extended from both ends, unfolding into its full, double-tipped form. As he held it loosely at his side, ghostlight traced along the Ghostglint-forged tips, syncing faintly with his chain.
No verbal commands. No flashy stance.
He just moved.
Zephyr Spinelet attacked first — predictably fast, slicing forward in a high-arc slash with its primary limb.
Khazim rolled left, letting the wind trail cut behind him. He ducked, spun, and closed the distance, cracking the blunt end of the Hunterfly into one of the creature's secondary joints. The Spinelet recoiled with a distorted screech, and its wings flared wide.
It launched Chitin Burst — firing a concussive scatter of hardened scale at him.
Khazim raised his right hand, pulsing his Se'lo through his palm.
A glyph flared across the floor: Split Fade.
His body shimmered for a half-second, duplicating a trailing afterimage that took the hit — while the real Khazim slid underneath it, driving the Hunterfly upward into the Spinelet's underbelly.
The crowd roared.
Kavryn hissed through his teeth and triggered a Gale Shell, surrounding his beast in a swirling wind barrier. It hissed and buckled, trying to shake Khazim off — but it was already too late.
Khazim didn't push.
He waited.
Let the wind do its work.
Once the barrier dipped, he hooked the beast with his Hunterfly, slammed it to the floor, unhooked the blade and struck the back of its head with a final blow.
A sickening crack.
The Spinelet collapsed — twitching, but unable to rise.
The glyph-light fizzled out, and the beast phased away.
Kavryn staggered back, fists clenched. "No way that's legal—"
Before Khazim could even react, Spots chimed in from the shadows, ledger pad in hand.
"Legal?" he laughed, stepping closer. "This is Open Fight Night, Vask. The Musa makes the rules. And the rule is: win."
The crowd let out a few knowing chuckles.
"Why waste your beast's energy," Spots continued, "when you can knock your opponent's ego through the floor with half the effort?"
He leans in closer, looking deeper into Kavryn's defeated eyes,
"If you really wanted the W, you could've triggered Last Rites Phase. You didn't. He got paid. And he knows why."
Kavryn's jaw flexed. No comeback.
Spots grinned. "Ten stacks to the reigning ghost. One-zero to the quiet king of Rustline."
The crowd thinned slightly — the rush of adrenaline replaced by murmurs and recalibrated respect.
Khazim stepped out of the ring, rolled his shoulders once, and leaned back into his usual wall side post.
He didn't gloat. Didn't celebrate.
Just watched.
Ready for whatever — or whoever — came next.
The scent of copper and charged glitch-dust lingered in the air as the crowd thinned. Khazim returned to his wall lean, arms folded, chain resting cool against his chest. Eyes low, body still. Watching. Listening.
Spots approached, grin wide and sweat-glazed. "Still ain't smiled."
Khazim gave him nothing.
Spots shrugged. "That tip I gave you 'bout Gor? Starting to feel like the best Musa I ever spent. Almost got you to crack."
Khazim's mouth twitched—just enough to let Spots believe.
The sound of boots scraping concrete cut the moment short.
A bulky figure stepped forward, still lacing his gloves. Oil-stained hoodie. Reinforced braces. Scar across his cheek.
Dirren Solas.
"Open fight night, huh?" Dirren growled. "Thought it was for the hungry. Not quiet little myth-junkies who fight like whispers."
Spots sighed.
Khazim didn't move. "You stepping in, or just bleeding noise?"
Dirren grinned. "Steppin' in. You think that last fight was worth something? Squash some punk's pet bug and now you think you're the man? Ain't no pulse in you."
Spots stepped between them with exaggerated calm.
"Alright, alright. We got two meatheads posturing. I like that. Let's make it real."
He raised his palm.
"Official side match. Last Rite Rumble. Five stacks apiece. Winner takes the pot; loser keeps his shame."
Dirren pulled out a folded credskin pouch and slapped it into the ledger scan. "Done."
Khazim pulled a rolled band of Musa from inside his coat and dropped it without a word.
Spots grinned. "Man of few words, but always on time."
He backed out of the space, arms raised.
"Ring's hot. Blood's fresher. Let's get it."
➤ OPEN FIGHT NIGHT – LAST RITE RUMBLE
Sage: Dirren Solas
T'alü Alignment: Root/Signal Pulse Hybrid
Se'lo Archetype: Carbon Powerhouse
Dirren cracked his neck twice, rolled his shoulders, then charged.
Khazim didn't even blink.
The first swing was a bluff-hook — followed by a real cross built to shatter bone.
Khazim caught it mid-air with his left arm and let the impact guide his pivot.
In the same motion, he reached across his waist, unclipped the Hunterfly in its retracted form, and struck twice in rapid succession — the first to Dirren's ribs, the second to his thigh.
Dirren grunted, stepped back, and squared again.
"You cuttin' with light metal now? That it?"
Khazim adjusted his stance, turning the Hunterfly blade flat in his hand.
"This is restraint."
Dirren came in again, feinting high and aiming low — a glyph-charged stomp to destabilize footing. Khazim slipped left, let the kinetic ripple pass under his boot, and stepped inside the guard with surgical timing.
One quick jab to the solar plexus. One sharp hook to the side of Dirren's jaw with the pommel of the Hunterfly.
Dirren dropped to one knee, wheezing.
Khazim stepped forward, pressing the blade against the side of Dirren's neck.
Still in its retracted form.
No flourish. No flair. Just pressure. Just intention.
Spots tapped the final glyph seal on his pad.
"Fight over. Khaz wins again. And that, ladies and gents, is why silence costs extra."
Dirren coughed once. "You some kinda ghost freak or somethin'?"
Khazim stepped back. "I'm the reason you still have teeth."
Spots cackled. "Somebody buy that man a drink!"
The crowd thinned again, replaced not by silence, but by a different kind of tension.
Curiosity.
The regulars whispered in coded slang and unfinished sentences.
Newcomers asked names. Veterans just shook their heads. The man who moved like smoke and hit like weightless gravity had done it again.
Khazim leaned in the shadowed corner, arms folded, jacket draped over his Hunterfly now re-clipped to his hip.
His chest still rose slow and even — as if the last two fights hadn't touched his breath.
"Yo, that guy even sweat yet?"
"What's his Se'lo? Never seen syncwork like that without a beast out."
"I heard he ain't even branded — moves like a ghost 'cause he is one."
Whispers wrapped around the club like coiling mist. Khazim ignored all of them.
Spots returned, wiping his hands with a rag, still laughing from the last fight.
"Two for two. You keep doin' this, I'm gonna start charging you just to walk in."
Khazim didn't flinch.
Spots cocked his head. "No jokes today, huh? Still salty 'bout that shady promoter? Told you Gor was a slime trail."
Khazim let the silence linger just long enough to make it sting — then finally responded, low and dry.
"Slime is at least useful. Keeps things moving."
Spots let out a bark of laughter. "There it is! I knew you had one left in you."
He leaned in, voice dipping into business.
"Look, tonight's all clean. No scouts. No syndicate ears. But word's spreading. Fast. You're building a file just by breathing."
Khazim tilted his head, but not enough to signal concern.
Spots glanced toward the back bar where a few older figures nursed drinks and pretended not to be watching.
"I know you don't like the heat, but you might wanna catch this flame before it flickers. The heavy hitters tagged me set up a high-stakes bracket — full payout, big pot. Qualifiers are beast battles. But every round after that?"
He grinned.
"Last Rites. Just you and them."
Khazim's eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to register interest.
Spots shrugged. "Could be your kind of chaos."
Khazim stepped away from the wall, pulled his cut of Musa from Spots' inner blazer pocket — always exact, never less — and turned toward the exit.
"Send word if the pot ends up high enough."
Spots called after him, half grinning, half wary.
"Every ghost leaves a trail eventually, Khaz. Just hope yours don't come back louder than it left."
Khazim said nothing. The chain across his chest buzzed once — not with energy, but memory. The faint hum of stored Se'lo pulsing beneath the surface.
He slipped into the alley, boots silent on the worn concrete, and disappeared into the night like the echo of a name no one dared say too loud.