The Arena common area was always noisy on bracket days.
The stone chamber thrummed with low voices. Fighters paced along the walls, leaned against columns, or checked the edges of their weapons for chips and cracks. The air smelled of old sweat, heat-warped leather, and the faint trace of dried blood soaked into the seams between the stone tiles.
Arven sat on a bench near the edge of the chamber, one leg stretched out, his arms resting loosely at his sides, eyes half-lidded.
He hadn't spoken to Veyra or Evelyne since the last round.
He hadn't avoided them.
But they hadn't come looking either.
He didn't blame them. They were past the opening matches now. Past the posturing. There were thirty fighters left. Most carried bruises like extra skin. Some had dried blood flaking from their gear. A few wore their fear in how still they stood, pretending they weren't rattled.
The next round would be real.
No more soft hands.
No more easy wins.
Arven's gaze drifted toward the side arch as a few familiar figures limped into view.
The three from yesterday.
The beastman's steps were stiff, his jaw swollen and purple at the edges, his eyes scanning the chamber like he half-expected someone to finish the job. The dagger girl had her nose wrapped in a thick bandage, her breathing tight. The shield man dragged one leg with each step, leaning on the wall as if the stone might hold him upright.
They kept close to the edges, clinging to the walls like barnacles.
Arven allowed himself a faint smile.
Guess they didn't learn enough.
A loud clang snapped through the chamber as three Arena staff stepped in, their boots ringing on the floor. They carried scrolls, clips, and one held a slender length of thin crystal — a conduit for projecting names onto the stone wall.
Fighters moved quickly, closing in on the board.
Arven stood, taking his time, and moved to join them, holding back in the second row. He didn't shove for a closer look. He didn't need to. The names flickered into view one by one, carved briefly in light before settling in clean twin columns.
There it was.
Ghoul vs Darius
He stared at the name.
Not his name.
His title.
"Ghoul," he muttered under his breath.
That was all he was now.
He glanced over the rest of the board, eyes sweeping for Veyra and Evelyne. He saw their names, but didn't bother memorizing who they would face. It didn't matter. The bracket would push them together soon enough. Whether it was next or later, their fights would come.
He turned away before the crowd settled, heading for the training grounds.
The noise faded behind him.
He needed space.
The early heat had already settled into the stone floors by the time Arven reached the practice hall. His muscles felt loose, but he didn't feel like swinging anything. Not today.
He just wanted a wall and a quiet moment to think.
He stepped inside.
A tap on his shoulder stopped him before he could settle.
He turned quickly, sharp, ready to snap, but the man standing behind him wasn't a threat. Just another Arena staff member in a crisp uniform, face blank, eyes distant.
Without a word, the man handed him a wrapped package, the cloth tied tight at the corners. No explanation. No salute. No message spoken.
Then the man turned and walked away.
Arven stared down at the bundle in his hands. The cloth was black, knotted firmly, still warm from someone else's grip.
He sat on the nearest bench, worked the ties loose, and unfolded the fabric.
Inside was a mask.
It wasn't what he expected.
Stone-colored, though it clearly wasn't stone. Some hardened material — rough under his fingertips but surprisingly light. The surface was uneven, mottled, shaped to cover the entire face. Narrow slits marked the eyes. No mouth hole.
He turned it over.
There was a mechanism tucked into the side. A hinge. The lower jaw could open by hand — wide enough to bite if he wanted.
Of course.
His fingers tightened along the mask's edge.
Tucked inside the cloth was a small folded note. Plain. No seal.
He opened it.
From now on, you will conceal your face while fighting.
Do not question it. I will explain soon.
: Zane
Arven stared at the note for a long moment.
First his name, now his face.
What's next? My voice?
He looked down at the mask again.
There was nothing beautiful about it. No careful carvings. No painted symbols. No trophies mounted along the brow. Just stone and silence.
He turned it over and slipped it on.
The world narrowed at once. His vision tunneled through the thin slits. His breath caught behind the mask, harder to draw, the air stale inside the enclosure. The inside smelled clean — too clean, like it had never been worn.
He tested the hinge. The jaw clicked faintly as it opened and closed.
The weight pressed on him.
Claustrophobic.
Suffocating.
He ripped it off after only a few seconds and set it in his lap.
What is Zane doing?
Why build me into a persona?
Maybefor show? Or something else?
His thoughts drifted back to their last conversation. Zane had never told him who left the tip. Never said who the Arena truly answered to.
Zane didn't look like a man chasing coin.
He looked like a man building something.
Arven leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the mask cradled in his hands.
The nickname Ghoul wasn't going anywhere.
Now it had a face.
He traced the edge of the mask with his thumb, feeling the weight settle in his palm like an order.
"Fine."
He slid the mask into his pack.
He didn't like it.
But if this was the game Zane wanted to play, he would play.
For now.
Just as he stood to leave, the door to the practice hall creaked open.
Another fighter entered, someone Arven didn't know. Young. Light armor. Sword strapped across his back. He walked in with the lazy confidence of someone looking for an empty space to practice.
His eyes landed on Arven.
On the mask still in Arven's hands.
The young man froze mid-step, his breath catching, his weight shifting backward like he'd stumbled onto something he shouldn't have seen.
Arven raised the mask slowly, turning it just enough for the light to catch the empty slits.
The fighter's throat worked in a hard swallow.
Without a word, the man turned and left, his footsteps uneven as he hurried through the door.
Arven watched him go, the mask resting in his grip.
He didn't chase. He didn't call out.
He just slipped the mask back into his pack and walked out, slow and quiet, leaving the empty hall behind him.