The moment Veyra's foot shifted, Arven knew she was going in fast.
She didn't test the distance or probe for weaknesses. She launched without warning. No words. Just raw movement. Her first strike came high, a sharp jab toward his jaw, but Arven ducked low and pivoted, feeling the air ripple past his cheek. Her second attack followed instantly, a tight hook aimed at his ribs.
He turned with it, letting the force glance off his side.
Then the third hit landed.
Her elbow rammed into his shoulder. The blow rocked him, sent him stumbling three steps back. His boots skidded on the ground, but he didn't fall. He rolled with the momentum, snapped upright, and reset his stance.
Veyra smirked mid-swing. "You're getting faster."
Arven didn't reply. He breathed slow and deep, eyes tracking every inch of her frame.
She came again. No hesitation.
A flurry of strikes followed, left, right, low, high. Arven blocked one with his forearm, parried the next with his open palm. Her next punch grazed his temple. A kick snapped toward his thigh, and he shifted just enough to avoid the full force. Another punch hit his chest, but he let it land, absorbing the impact with a backward step.
He wasn't stopping her. But he wasn't backing down either.
Veyra danced back, circling him now. Her expression had shifted. More focused. Less teasing.
"Alright, Ghoul," she said, cracking her knuckles. "Let's see how much you've really got."
She burst forward again, this time lower. Her footing dug deep with every step, each move tighter than before. Arven read it in her body. The discipline. The fight-honed instinct.
Then came the scent.
It wasn't blood.
It was older. Wilder.
A sharp, primal edge that bit into his senses.
And then her fist collided with his chest.
Hard.
He didn't just reel, he flew.
His feet left the ground. The sky tilted. But instinct caught him midair. Arven twisted, landed hard but on his feet. His breath came fast, shoulders heaving.
Veyra tilted her head slightly. Her grin didn't fade, but something in her eyes had shifted.
"You're evolving too fast."
She moved again. A blur of motion, spinning low. Her heel swept toward his knees.
Arven jumped.
The kick passed under him. He landed, barely had time to brace before her next blow came. A sharp jab. He blocked it.
Then a second strike. He deflected that too, barely.
The third snuck through, knuckles cracking against his collarbone. Pain jolted through his chest, but he held his ground.
He didn't retaliate. Not yet.
Every inch of him was focused on the rhythm. Her footwork. Her tempo. The rising pace of her breathing. She was faster. Stronger. But he could see it now. The subtle shifts. The moments between attacks.
He wasn't just surviving.
He was learning.
They circled. A punch. A dodge. A shoulder feint. A counterstep. His body moved on reflex, adapting, adjusting. Their dance became smoother with every breath.
Veyra let out a laugh, half breath and half battle-cry.
"Didn't think I'd get tired sparring you," she said, sweat shining on her brow.
Before Arven could answer, a voice cut in.
"Veyra!"
They both paused.
A young runner stood at the edge of the ring, clipboard clutched in one hand.
"Your match. Now."
Veyra groaned, placing her hands on her hips. "Of course. Just when it gets fun."
She turned to Arven, eyes bright and sharp.
"Next time, I'm not stopping until you're flat on your back."
Arven gave a small bow. "I'll try to last more than ten minutes."
"You lasted pretty damn well already."
She slapped his shoulder hard and turned to leave.
Arven stood still for a second, his blood still humming. His body ached, but it was the good kind. The kind that told him he had survived. And maybe even learned.
And the next time they fought, it wouldn't just be a spar.
Another staff member approached almost immediately. He was older, in a crisp uniform, his speech short and sharp.
"Arven Kayn. You're being summoned."
"For what?"
No answer. The man simply turned and began walking.
Arven followed.
The deeper corridors of the Arena changed with each step. The cold crept in slowly. The sounds of training and voices faded behind them. Rough stone gave way to smooth marble. The torches were brighter here, fixed in polished brackets trimmed with gold. There were no chalk marks on the walls. No signs of fighters brushing past.
This was the upper sphere.
He passed rooms dressed in velvet and silence. Private lounges hidden behind heavy curtains. He glimpsed nobles through open doorways, dressed in tailored finery, sipping wine and muttering about wagers.
A few noticed him.
One woman narrowed her eyes, then turned quickly to whisper to her companion.
Another man met his gaze without flinching, his expression twisted with contempt.
Arven didn't look away. He didn't slow down. But the heavy air stank of perfume and money, and it made his skin itch.
Eventually, they stopped before a tall oak door. The staff member gave a nod, then stepped aside.
Arven pushed it open.
The office beyond was spacious, but not extravagant. Everything inside was meticulously arranged. A large desk dominated the back wall, flanked by shelves packed with ledgers and betting records. A single high window let in sunlight that stretched in long, golden lines across the floor.
Behind the desk sat a man in his thirties, lean and clean-cut, suit tailored without flaw, hair tied back tight. He glanced up.
"Please. Sit."
Arven paused, then moved to the chair and settled into it slowly.
The man offered a small smile.
"Name's Zane. I handle the finances of this Arena."
Arven met his gaze. "You brought me here over money?"
Zane's smile didn't fade.
"Let's talk about your last fight."
Arven's jaw clenched. "Borzak."
Zane folded his hands. "You understand betting odds?"
"I know ninety-nine percent thought I'd lose."
"And one percent didn't."
His voice stayed smooth, but something colder sat beneath it.
"You turned the whole economy on its head. That one percent made a fortune. But the rest, the nobles, the syndicates, the guilds, they lost more coin than they've ever risked on a single match."
Arven shrugged. "Not my fault."
"Of course not! You fought. You won. But you did cost people a great deal of money."
Arven leaned back, arms resting on the chair. "So what? You planning to bill me?"
Zane chuckled. "No, no. I placed a bet too you know."
That caught Arven off guard.
"I bet on you," Zane said. "Not a huge sum. I don't usually play favorites. But someone gave me a tip."
Arven frowned. "A tip?"
Zane reached into his desk and tapped a folder. His smile became harder to read.
"A name. No context. Just a scrap of paper. But enough to convince'"
Arven stared.
Who would've sent that?
Zane let the silence hang before sliding the folder forward.
"This is why you're here."
Inside were schedules, broadcasts, and fight records. Every single one with his name, blacked out. Redacted. Only one title remained:
The Ghoul.
"You're too visible now," Zane said quietly. "Too unpredictable. Too profitable for some. Too dangerous for others."
Arven's voice lowered. "You're erasing me?"
"From the paperwork only. Not from the Arena itself."
Arven stared at the inked-out pages.
"Why?"
"Because I want my fighters alive. And right now, there are people upstairs who want you gone. People who don't enjoy being humiliated by someone they consider beneath them."
Arven gave a slow nod. "So... this is just protection?"
Zane didn't answer that directly. Instead, he leaned forward slightly.
"You'd better win this tournament."
Arven met his gaze.
"There are new stakes," Zane said. "You're not just a fighter anymore."
Arven stood. His fingers curled slightly at his sides.
"Good," he said. "I was getting bored."
Without another word, he turned and walked out.
Zane watched the door close behind him. Then, after a moment, he opened a drawer on his right.
Inside lay a single letter. Sealed in black wax. Still unopened.
He looked at it for a long moment.
But didn't touch it.
Not yet.