The moment stretched—thin as glass.
Gonk hesitated.
Just a breath. Just long enough.
Dren's hand rose.
Not fast.
Precise.
The arena roared, but the sound dulled, pulled underwater as Dren's palm met Gonk's incoming fist—not head-on, but slightly off-angle. A redirection. A whisper of force instead of resistance.
Bone met bone.
A sharp crack snapped through the air.
Gonk's eyes widened as his balance betrayed him. His punch slid past its target, power spilling uselessly into the dust. Before he could recover, Dren stepped inside the giant's reach and drove a compact strike into Gonk's elbow joint—clean, technical, cruelly efficient.
The crowd gasped.
Gonk snarled and lifted his leg for a brutal kick, thick thigh swinging like a battering ram.
Dren dropped low.
Blocked from beneath.
He caught the leg.
Lifted.
Gonk's world tilted.
Dren pivoted on the ball of his foot and unleashed a lightning-fast roundhouse.
The impact was wet.
Jaw shattered.
Gonk's massive body flew sideways and hit the ground with a sound like collapsing stone.
Dust rose.
Silence fell.
Then—
The giant didn't move.
A heartbeat passed.
Then another.
The announcer swallowed. "DREN THE SEALED HAND is the winner!"
The arena exploded.
Shouts turned to screams. Cheers to curses. Coins were thrown, fists slammed, men howled as fortunes evaporated in a single, merciless exchange.
Dren stood alone in the center.
Breathing steady.
Bandaged hands lowered.
Victory.
And somewhere above, Veron's eyes narrowed—not in celebration, but calculation.
An invisible line had just been crossed.
The manager's smile was tight when he handed Veron the pouch.
"Forty-nine thousand Rizo," he said quietly. "Count it if you want."
Veron didn't.
The leather pouch felt heavy in his palm—too heavy. Not with money, but with consequences.
"You should leave the city," the manager added, voice dropping. "The last man who beat Gonk… they found him two days later. Murdered."
Veron met his gaze, unblinking.
"Thank you," he said calmly. "We'll see each other in the next fight. Make it stronger."
The manager's smile vanished.
Veron turned, leaving, and tossed a smaller pouch to Lucen.
Ten thousand Rizo.
Lucen nearly dropped it. "You— You're serious?"
"You know when to be generous," Lucen said slowly, eyes sharp now.
Veron's reply was simple. "When it matters."
Dren watched the exchange, a faint spark of admiration flickering behind his usual calm. Lucen, for the first time, didn't joke—he nodded with genuine respect.
They met Dren at the gate after he changed his clothes, and they left the arena behind them.
The Inn of the Sky's Paradise pulsed with noise that night.
Laughter. Shattered mugs. Fighters boasting, scars on display like medals. The air reeked of alcohol, sweat, and old blood scrubbed badly from the floor.
Veron didn't join them.
He stood on the balcony instead.
Below, Darinvale revealed its true shape.
Chains clinked in the shadows. Children hauled crates too heavy for their frames. A woman screamed once—cut off abruptly.
Veron's jaw tightened.
This city didn't punish cruelty.
It rewarded it.
The street was alive the next morning—vendors shouting, blades flashing in casual threat, rot and spice mingling in the heat.
Veron bought an apple.
Bit into it.
Crunch.
Then—
Impact.
A body slammed into his chest.
Small. Light.
A girl.
"Hey—!"
"Thief!" a merchant roared. "Catch her!"
Veron's hand closed around the girl's wrist before she could run.
She froze.
Then looked up at him.
Soft hair. Sharp eyes. Dirt on her cheek. Real fear—but beneath it, something alert. Calculating.
"Please," she whispered. "Help me."
For the first time in a while, Veron felt a flicker of surprise.
She's Marin. The girl from the boat.
The merchant was a brute—thick neck, greedy eyes, voice loud enough to gather attention.
"She's mine now," he snarled. "City law. You're my slave now, honey."
Veron calmly placed the apple on the stall.
Then the stolen fruit.
Then seven thousand Rizo.
"Take this," he said evenly. "And forget what happened."
The merchant hesitated—then counted.
Greed won.
He spat and turned away.
Lucen raised an eyebrow. Dren said nothing.
Marin stared at Veron as if trying to carve his face into memory.
That night, the inn burned brighter.
Music. Meat. Laughter.
Marin sat beside Veron.
Too close.
Her shoulder brushed his arm. Fingers played with her hair. She leaned in, chest pressing softly, eyes glinting with charm.
"You saved me today," she murmured. "And at the port."
"I didn't save you at the port," Veron replied without looking at her. "I set boundaries. And about today—you'll repay the debt later."
Her lips curved. She moved closer.
"I'll pay you back… my way. Am I part of your group now, with Lucen?"
Veron finally turned.
Cold. Cutting.
"Don't try playing like this. It won't work."
He stood.
"Lucen follows money. So do you. When we leave this city, we part ways."
Marin's smile faltered.
Then she tried one last card.
"But… isn't Dren the leader?"
Veron didn't answer.
Didn't even react.
Someone nearby whispered,
"The Sealed Hand…"
Veron paused—just a fraction.
He turned toward the sound.
Some people were talking about the fight.
He had become famous quickly; it seemed Gonk already had a reputation in the arena.
Names traveled faster than blades here.
"Come," he said abruptly. "I'll show you your room."
He paid for another room. Took the key from the reception girl.
Inside, Marin bowed her head. "Thank you. Truly."
Veron left.
The door closed.
Seconds passed.
Then—
Knock.
Marin turned, heart skipping. "Did you forget something?"
She opened the door.
A man stood there.
Black clothes. No insignia. A presence like a drawn blade.
"Marin," he said softly.
He stepped inside.
Closed the door behind him.
The hallway remained silent.