The Arena halls were quieter than usual.
The final match of the day had ended only minutes ago. Veyra, of course, had stood blood-slick and grinning over two twitching twins, a blur of red hair, muscle, and reckless joy. She hadn't even stayed for the announcement. She never did.
Arven hadn't watched.
Now he wandered the outer corridors alone, his steps unhurried, moving without purpose. His boots echoed beneath the high stone arches, the sound trailing after him like a shadow. No crowds waited here. No gamblers whispered near the walls. No other fighters crossed his path. Only the occasional hiss of torch flame and the faint smell of hot dust and blood baked into the stone.
It gave him space to think.
And lately, thinking was dangerous.
Everything had happened too fast.
Few weeks ago, he'd been scrubbing floors and carrying buckets. A no-name. A body. Nothing worth remembering. Then the System had woken up. Now he had killed a former champion. He had been summoned by the man who controlled the Arena's fortunes. His real name had been stripped from the records, replaced with a title no one would hopefully forget.
People were watching him now.
Not just the crowd. Not just the fighters.
Someone else.
But what now?
He'd never planned this. No goal. No dream. No great ambition to climb. Just survive….
But that wasn't enough anymore.
His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the System.
He had taken it for granted. When it first spoke to him, when the interface appeared in front of his eyes, it had felt natural. A gift. A tool. Something the world had simply provided.
But now, when he focused on the details, the shape, the font, the structure of its messages, something in his memory pulled tight, like a string waiting to snap.
It didn't feel like this world. Not at all.
And yet, it felt familiar.
Like something built. Like something from Earth.
He couldn't finish the thought. His chest tightened. A faint tension coiled behind his skull, low and sharp like the start of a headache.
The System flickered to life as if summoned by his doubt:
Upcoming Bracket: Countdown – 23:12:47
Target Affinities: 2 Active (Veyra, Evelyne)
Current Physical Efficiency: 72%
"Be consistent with the kind of information you give, would you?" Arven muttered, his voice flat.
He dismissed it with a flick of thought.
Too many questions. No answers.
He exhaled slowly and turned toward the training yard.
The training yard was nearly empty. A few weapons rested against the wall, worn and dented. A rack of old iron weights leaned crooked in the corner. Stone dummies stood at the far end, chipped and beaten, their faces nearly gone.
Arven stepped into the center of the yard and pulled off his shirt. The night air cooled the sweat already.
He wasn't like Veyra, who looked like she'd been carved by battle. He wasn't like Evelyne, who moved like she'd spent years being sharpened. Arven was tall, taller than almost anyone here, with lean muscle stretched over him, but there were still gaps. Places where he hadn't filled out yet. He could feel them when he moved.
So he trained.
Pushups first. Slow. Chest to stone. Breath steady.
Then pullups on the iron bar. Then grip work. Pinching weights until his hands ached. Then squats. Slow and deep until his legs shook under him.
He paused between sets, wiping sweat from his face. His heartbeat settled faster than it used to.
He thought about his first fight. Jucir. How his body failed halfway through. How his arms stopped working. How his legs collapsed.
That wouldn't happen again.
He strapped on a weighted vest and ran. Lap after lap around the yard, the weight dragging on his shoulders, his lungs burning just a little.
On the second lap, he felt it.
Someone watching.
He didn't stop. Didn't look. Just caught the shape in the corner of his eye.
A shadow near the stair rail.
Tall.
Still.
Feminine.
Gone a heartbeat later.
Could've been Evelyne. Could've been someone else.
He focused instead on shadowboxing. Light strikes. Sharp steps. Keeping his guard high. His body moved without thinking now, reacting, reading the space.
Eventually, he sat at the edge of the training platform, his arms resting on his knees, his breath steadying, sweat cooling across his skin.
He looked up toward the high stone arches overhead.
And he thought about Veyra and Evelyne.
One of them would be next.
Veyra was wild. She fought with heat and instinct, fast and brutal. She didn't plan, she didn't wait, she didn't care. She charged.
Evelyne was the opposite. Calm. Controlled. Every movement sharp. Every strike chosen. She watched, she measured, she waited.
Could he beat either of them?
Not yet.
But maybe soon.
The System shimmered to life.
Favor Ranking: Evelyne - 74%
Projected Bracket Match: Veyra (High Probability)
Note: Subject's combat growth aligns with aggression-based styles.
Arven frowned.
"Since when did you start sharing that kind of detail?"
He dismissed the window with a flick of thought.
His gaze shifted toward the Arena's outer balcony. The stands beyond were empty now, stone benches catching pale streaks of moonlight. The breeze drifted through the corridor, dry and faint, carrying the scent of sand, smoke, and the memory of old crowds.
He stood and stepped onto the ledge, looking down at the quiet Arena below.
No crowd. No noise. Just the weight of what came next.
"Alright," he said quietly.
"If it's one of them... I'll evolve again."
His fingers curled into fists.
In front of him, the System pulsed quietly, like a second heartbeat.