The barracks were quieter than usual when Arven returned.
His boots struck the worn stone floor with a steady rhythm, each step soft but distinct in the lingering hush. The smell of sweat, oiled leather, and burned cloth hung low in the air, a familiar weight that clung to the walls and the beds. A few fighters lounged near their bunks, stretched out with their arms behind their heads or hunched over weapons in need of care. Some whispered quietly, words folded behind cupped hands, pretending not to watch him as he passed.
But they did.
They always did now.
Some tried to hide it, casting only the occasional glance when they thought he wasn't looking. Others didn't bother. They tracked him openly, measuring the way his shoulders sat, how his gait had changed, how far he'd climbed.
Most simply stepped aside, clearing his path without being asked.
Arven wasn't sure if they feared him, respected him, or simply didn't want to get caught in whatever was circling above his head these days.
Probably a little of everything.
He reached his bunk near the far wall and sat heavily, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. His gauntlets sat where he'd left them, scratched, still faintly dusty from the sand, the joints stiff from the last fight.
His pack slumped against the frame of the bed. The weight of the mask pressed from inside, heavier in his thoughts than on his shoulders.
He'd won again.
Another name crossed off the bracket. Another round survived.
The crowd roared louder now, louder each time, the sound carrying from the Arena into the stone halls long after the bell had rung. The nickname followed him wherever he went, whispered, shouted, scratched onto walls by other hands.
The Ghoul.
His. But not his.
The System flickered softly behind his eyes, the familiar blue text glowing in the corner of his vision:
Combat Efficiency Increased: 3%
Vampiric Trait Progression: +1
Public Favor: +9%
He exhaled and dismissed the window with a quiet thought.
It was all moving faster now. Too fast to fully track. The crowd's love, the gamblers' shifting odds, the creeping silence when he passed through the halls.
He leaned back slightly, tilting his head, letting his muscles loosen just enough to feel the ache settling in his shoulders.
The moment didn't last.
Footsteps echoed nearby, hurried, unsteady.
A younger Arena runner came to a stop at his side, panting from a sprint he clearly hadn't prepared for.
"You've been summoned."
Arven turned his head slowly, his voice flat. "Let me guess. Zane?"
The boy nodded, catching his breath, his eyes flicking nervously to the gauntlets on the floor.
Arven stood, stretching his arms briefly, the tension cracking in his shoulders and spine.
Without another word, he followed.
This time, Zane waited for him in a smaller office.
There were no grand ledgers here. No walls lined with scrolls or ledgers so heavy they threatened to collapse the shelves. No polished wine cabinets or gilded maps showing the flow of Arena wealth. Just a plain desk with worn corners, a few modest shelves stacked with stray records, and a simple lockbox resting near the edge.
It was a room for quick conversations. For the kind of business that didn't need to be remembered.
Zane gestured him in without standing.
"You've had a good run," he said, folding his hands neatly in front of him. "And good runs deserve good pay."
He slid the lockbox forward across the desk. The weight of it was undeniable, the coins inside clinked with a slow sound as the box shifted.
Arven flipped open the latch.
Inside, the box was full. Gold and silver coins stacked together, gleaming faintly under the flickering lamplight.
"Your first payout," Zane said, his tone flat, as if it was a routine transaction. "Arena shares, adjusted for your bracket progression and betting margins."
Arven let his thumb drift across the coins, feeling the cold press of the metal, but he didn't lift any.
"Seems generous," he said.
Zane's expression stayed polite, his smile just soft enough to seem cordial, but his voice hardened slightly.
"You've made the Arena a lot of money. But you've also… upset certain balances."
Arven arched an eyebrow, settling his weight comfortably into the chair. "Because I keep winning?"
Zane's fingers drummed lightly on the edge of the desk.
"Because you weren't supposed to."
Arven leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his posture loose, his voice calm. "That's not really my problem."
"No," Zane agreed. "But it's mine."
His fingertips tapped once more, a soft rhythm, then stopped.
"The higher you climb, the more attention you attract. Investors. Sponsors. Nobles." Zane's gaze sharpened. "They place bets. They bend rules. They pull strings. When a fighter ruins the odds? People notice."
His voice lowered, not in threat, but in simple fact.
"You're drawing eyes, Arven. Both the kind you want… and the kind you don't."
Arven tilted his head slightly. "Is that why you erased my name?"
"In part."
"And the mask?"
Zane's polite smile didn't waver, but there was something colder under it.
"Let's call that… strategic branding."
Arven smirked. "So I'm a product now."
"You always were. But now you're a profitable one."
Zane let the words hang between them, giving them time to settle like dust in still air.
After a quiet pause, he continued, "Your mask. Keep wearing it. There's more moving around you than you can see right now."
Arven's eyes narrowed behind the slits of the mask still tucked in his pack. "Meaning?"
Zane's fingers tapped the desk again, soft and measured.
"I'll explain soon. But for now, take your pay. And be careful."
Arven closed the lockbox gently and lifted it under his arm.
"I'm always careful."
Zane smiled faintly, but there was something in his eyes that said otherwise.
"Good. You'll need to be."
Back at the barracks, Arven sat on the edge of his bunk, the lockbox resting at his side.
He opened it, dragging a few coins across his palm, feeling the smooth edges and cool weight settle between his fingers. It was a good haul. More money than he'd ever seen at once when he was cleaning the halls of noble houses. More than he'd been paid in a year of his old life.
But the thrill had already burned out.
Money was useful. He knew that. It bought supplies, bought favors, bought breathing room. But it wasn't enough.
Arven leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the coins sliding back into the box one by one as his mind drifted.
He wasn't chasing coin. He wasn't chasing applause.
He wanted something that didn't dissolve when the Arena got bored of him.
What that was… he hadn't fully decided yet.
The noise of the barracks rose and fell around him in waves, laughter, the clink of tin mugs, the scuff of boots, the scrape of steel across a whetstone. Life went on. Fighters joked, gambled, traded bruises in the corner rings.
Arven slipped a few coins into his pocket and stood, leaving the lockbox behind.
He made his way toward the common area, his boots tapping softly against the stone, his pace unhurried.
He bought drinks for a couple of lower-ranked fighters, the kind who always watched him but never spoke first. He didn't overdo it. Just enough to earn a nod. Just enough to make them remember who paid.
He didn't pitch alliances. He didn't offer handshakes.
He just let the moment settle.
Small seeds. Low cost.
Veyra passed by, red hair damp from a recent wash, grin wide and familiar.
"Buying friends now?" she called, her voice sharp but playful.
Arven raised his cup toward her. "Just sharing the wealth."
She snorted, rolling her shoulders as she walked. "Next thing you know, you'll start giving speeches."
"I'd need an audience first."
She glanced back, still grinning. "You've already got one."
Her hand clapped against his shoulder in passing, a firm smack that lingered like a small reminder.
Arven leaned against one of the wide stone columns, sipping slowly, his eyes drifting across the room.
It was his world, for now.
Later, as he walked the upper halls, the air cooler under the higher arches, he passed a small group of finely dressed nobles gathered near one of the viewing balconies. They spoke in low tones, their words sharpened by the distance they believed separated them from the fighters below.
Arven didn't mean to listen. He wasn't trying to spy.
But some words were too sharp to miss.
"…can't allow him to reach the finals."
"…next bracket… ensure a proper challenge."
"…fatal, if necessary."
They didn't notice him.
They barely even looked his way.
Just another fighter passing by.
He kept walking, slow and even, his hands loose at his sides, his steps steady on the stone.
He smiled faintly to himself, the edge of it hidden beneath the mask hanging from his pack.
"Let them try."