He stepped inside.
Closed the door behind him.
The hallway remained silent.
The morning arrived.
Pale light slipped through the thin curtains of Veron's room, weak and colorless, carrying none of the warmth a new day promised. The city was awake outside—vendors shouting, chains clinking, boots scraping stone—but inside, the air felt heavy, as if the night had left something unfinished behind.
Veron woke with a sharp inhale.
Sweat clung to his shirt, damp against his chest. His muscles were tense, coiled as though he had been fighting in his sleep. For a long moment, he didn't move. He simply stared at the ceiling, eyes clear, mind already working.
Something had shifted.
He sat up, reached for the jug on the table, and poured cold water into a cup. He drank slowly, deliberately, the chill cutting down his throat, grounding him. Outside, the city breathed.
Veron stepped onto the narrow balcony.
Below, in the inn's rear yard, Dren was already moving.
Bare arms wrapped in fresh bandages, feet planted in the dirt. His motions were steady—no wasted movement, no flourish. Each strike flowed into the next, angles tight, weight perfectly centered. Fists cut the air with a low whistle. Breath slow. Controlled.
A man who had won yesterday and forgotten about it today.
Veron watched for a moment.
"Good morning," he said.
Dren didn't stop. "You're late."
That was all.
The silence that followed was strange. Comfortable—but edged. Like a blade resting on skin without drawing blood.
The training yard behind the inn was alive with motion.
Fighters stretched, sparred, laughed too loudly. Weapons clanged. Dust rose beneath bare feet. This was where egos were tested before bodies were broken in the arena.
Dren faced Veron.
No ceremony.
They moved.
Fast.
Dren stepped in first—solid, direct, his presence heavy, grounded. A straight punch meant to test, not finish. Veron slipped aside at the last instant, pivoting on his heel, rhythm changing mid-motion. Dren followed with an elbow. Veron ducked, shoulder brushing fabric, countering with a short strike to the ribs that stopped just short of contact.
They circled.
Dren pressed forward, controlling space, forcing Veron back with sheer pressure. His style was stone—angles, structure, raw strength disciplined into precision.
Veron was water.
He shifted pace without warning. Fast, then slow. Close, then gone. His timing was wrong in a way that made it dangerous—beats skipped, pauses inserted where they shouldn't exist.
Dren attempted a sweep.
Veron hopped over it, landed light, spun—
Their forearms collided.
Impact rang through bone.
Both stopped an inch apart, fists raised, eyes locked.
Veron smiled faintly. "Your last fight didn't slow you down."
Dren lowered his hands. "I heal fast."
The dust settled around them.
Other fighters had gone quiet.
They entered the inn together.
The door to the corridor creaked open.
Marin stepped out.
Her hair was wet, clinging to her neck and shoulders, droplets sliding down pale skin. She looked… smaller somehow. Tired. Shadows beneath her eyes she hadn't bothered to hide.
The two of them froze for a second.
Just for a breath.
Veron's gaze passed over her once, unreadable. "We're going to wash up," he said calmly. "Go find Lucen. Wait downstairs."
Marin nodded.
She didn't lift her eyes.
Steam lingered in Veron's room afterward. Water dripped from hair, clothes were changed. Dren leaned against the wall after he finished his shower and entered Veron's room, waiting while Veron fastened his sword belt, movements neat, precise.
"This city isn't a place to linger," Dren said.
"No," Veron replied. "We leave after we determine the next destination."
Dren tilted his head. "And before that?"
"We expand our reach."
Dren didn't ask how.
A knock.
Lucen burst in, grin sharp as ever. "He's coming," he said. "Let's go."
They headed down.
The dining hall buzzed with morning noise.
Marin sat at a table, hands wrapped around a cup, staring into nothing. She looked like she hadn't slept. Lucen ordered breakfast loudly—eggs, bread, coffee for five—drawing glances.
Then—
The room shifted.
A man entered.
The manager of the south arena.
Well-dressed. Clean lines. No weapons visible, yet everyone made space. His eyes lingered too long on Marin before sliding to Veron.
"Wolles Darinval," he said smoothly. "A member of one of the founding families of the city. We didn't meet officially last time. And you already know my work."
Veron met his gaze without blinking.
"Nice to meet you, Mister Wolles."
Later, Wolles continued, fingers steepled. "Javam. Dragon Bone style. Old school. His center of gravity shifts—hard to read. Harder to stop."
"I'll bet eighty thousand Rizo," Veron said.
Lucen choked. "We're forty short!"
Veron didn't look at him.
He looked at Wolles.
A slow smile. "You can enter the leverage table," Wolles said. "We double your capital and your winnings—but also your losses."
"If I lose, what?" Veron asked.
Wolles' eyes darkened. "Forced labor. Slavery. Organs. Or property rights."
Lucen slammed the table. "This is madness!"
"I accept," Veron said.
Dren said nothing.
That scared them more than anger ever could.
Breakfast ended in silence.
Veron noticed Wolles watching Marin again.
"Liquidity?" Veron asked.
"Seven to nine hundred thousand. Big fights reach two million at least, total."
Veron smiled, and the meeting ended.
At the door, Wolles paused. "What is your relation to the girl there?"
"You could say the female face of the group," Veron said lightly.
Wolles hesitated. Thought of asking for more.
Thought better of it.
Veron smiled after he left.
At the breakfast table—
A hand grabbed Marin's wrist.
A hunter. Big. Smiling wrong.
"Your fighter dog's too protective. Make me buy you a drink," he sneered at Dren.
"Sorry," Marin answered. "I don't like losers."
"Let her hand go, friend," Dren said. Calm. Deadly.
Before the man could answer—
Veron was there.
"And what if the fighter is a friend of a hunter?" Veron asked softly.
"What's your rank?" the man scoffed.
"Two-one-zero-zero Ika."
Silence.
A whisper from behind. "That's him. From the port."
The hunter released Marin immediately.
"Sorry, brother. Don't take what happened seriously," he said, then left.
Lucen stared. "2100?!"
"I started hunting at fifteen," Veron said.
"And you started training in the womb, maybe?" Lucen said with a stunned smile.
"Unfortunately, no. I started chess at three. Combat at four. Sword at nine."
Lucen eyed the black-wrapped blade. "So you use it."
"Not much," Veron said. "Family relic. I don't like it."
"Why?"
"Every time I draw it… blood must be spilled."
And in a dark corner of the tavern, a woman sat at the bar, listening to everything.
A calm smile.
A glass slid beside her.
"Mira," a man said quietly.