The tavern room smelled of stale ale and old sweat, the kind of place where the floorboards stuck to your boots and the candlelight never quite reached the corners. Elira perched on the edge of a rickety chair, fingers drumming against her thigh. The rhythmic creaking of the bedframe next door hadn't stopped for what felt like hours.
A woman's laughter, breathless, pierced the thin wall, followed by a groan that curled Elira's toes. She rolled her eyes and flicked a copper coin across her knuckles, faster each time the noises grew louder.
Finally, the bed gave one last shuddering groan. Silence.
Boots thudded against the floorboards. A door slammed. Heavy footsteps trailed down the hall before stopping outside Elira's room. The door swung open without a knock.
Victor stepped inside, shirt half-laced, hair damp at the temples. The scent of sweat and something muskier clung to him. He tossed a pouch onto the table, coins clinked inside and dropped into the chair across from her.
Elira arched a brow. "Enjoying yourself?"
He smirked, reaching for the pitcher of wine left on the table. "She was enthusiastic."
"Could hear that."
Victor poured himself a drink, the red liquid swirling as he lifted the cup. "You ever been with a woman?"
Elira snorted. "That your idea of small talk?"
"Just curious." He took a slow sip, watching her over the rim.
She flipped the coin again. "Not my thing."
"Fair." He set the cup down. "But you know how to take from people."
Elira leaned back, chair creaking under her weight. "You want something stolen?"
"Information."
Her fingers stilled. "What kind?"
"Everything." Victor leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Names. Territories. Who runs what. Who's weak. Who's greedy. Who's got enemies."
Elira whistled low. "That's a tall order."
"You know the streets better than anyone, right?" His gaze didn't waver. "And I pay better than anyone."
She chewed her lip, considering. "Why?"
"Because I will not walk blind into this mess."
She snorted. "You're new. That's obvious."
"And you're sharp enough to at least consider the offer." He tapped the coin pouch. "That's obvious too."
Elira eyed the pouch, then him. "How much?"
Victor slid it toward her. "For starters, just take all of this, as prepaid searching costs "
She snatched it up, weighing it in her palm before tucking it into her vest. "Fine. But if I'm risking my neck, I want more than coin."
Victor's smirk deepened. "What else?"
"Protection."
"You think I can't?"
"I think you're cocky." She leaned in. "Prove me wrong."
Victor studied her, the way her fingers twitched toward the dagger at her belt, the way her shoulders tensed just enough to betray her nerves. He chuckled. "Deal."
Elira stood, chair scraping against the floor. "Give me three days."
Victor raised his cup in mock salute. "Don't disappoint me."
She flashed a sharp grin, before slipping out the door.
Victor exhaled through his nose as the door clicked shut behind Elira. The pouch had been the last of his coin.
He leaned back in the chair, fingers tracing the outline of the crimson mark over his heart. The weak pulse resembled a second heartbeat.
"Open"
[Vice Points]
Lust: 23
Greed: 5
Wrath: 37
Envy: 1
Pride: 16
Sloth: 0
Gluttony: 0
The numbers wavered in the air. He'd earned them haphazardly, Lust from the tavern girl, Wrath from beating those guys near the port, Pride was the only where the source wasn't that clear.
"System, Crown Path."
[Wrath]
10 VP - Killer's Instinct (Unlocked)
25 VP - Street Fury (Unlocked)
His fingertips tingled. He'd already felt the difference when he fought, the way his strikes aimed for vital points he hadn't even consciously noticed before. But he needed more.
Money first.
He stood, rolling his shoulders. Three days wasn't much time, but he wasn't some desperate street rat. He'd rebuilt power from nothing before.
The cobblestones ground was slick with rain when Victor stepped out of the tavern, the night air thick with the scent of wet garbage and cheap perfume.
He'd clocked the place earlier, an unmarked door between a butcher's shop and a boarded-up brothel. No sign, just a pair of bruisers flanking the entrance, arms crossed like they owned the street. But Victor had seen the steady stream of rough-edged men slipping inside, the way they glanced over their shoulders before disappearing into the shadows.
Underground fights.
He knew the type. Back in Saint Petersburg, he'd run his own basement rings before the bratva sucked him in. The same rules applied here, blood, money, and the kind of men who didn't like to ask questions.
Victor rolled his neck as he approached. The larger of the two guards shifted, blocking the door with his bulk.
"Private property," the man grunted, voice like gravel.
Victor didn't slow. "I know what happens inside."
The guard smirked, revealing a missing tooth. "Don't matter. You ain't invited."
Victor exhaled through his nose. He could've sweet-talked, could've offered a bribe. But he'd never been the patient type.
His fist snapped forward in a clean, brutal strike to the bridge of the man's nose. Cartilage crunched, blood spattering the wall as the guard staggered back, eyes watering in shock. Before the man could even groan, Victor grabbed him by the collar, twisted, and slammed his face into the nearest crate.
The guard went limp.
Victor didn't hesitate. He heaved the unconscious man up, stuffed him inside the crate, and kicked the lid shut. The second guard hadn't even moved, too busy blinking at the speed of it.
Victor wiped his knuckles on his coat. "Problem?"
The man swallowed hard and stepped aside.
The inside stank of sweat, blood, and cheap liquor. A ring of splintered wood sat in the center of the room, surrounded by a jostling crowd of men shouting bets into the smoky air. Victor shouldered past them, eyes scanning, fighters with bare fists wrapped in rags, bookies scribbling odds on scraps of parchment, and at the back, a heavyset man draped in fur-trimmed robes counting gold.
The boss.
Victor didn't waste time. He walked straight toward him, ignoring the mutters of protest as he cut through the crowd.
The boss glanced up, beady eyes narrowing. "You ain't one of ours."
Victor leaned against the table, letting his weight settle. "I'm here to fight."
A chuckle rippled through the men around him. The boss smirked, gold flashing between his fingers. "You pay to watch, boy. Not to bleed."
Victor reached into his coat, pulled out the last of his coin, and dropped it onto the table. "That's my entry."
The boss rolled the coins between his fingers, considering. "We don't take outsiders."
Victor smiled, slow and sharp. "Then make an exception."
The room quieted. The boss studied him, the way Victor stood loose but ready, the way his fingers twitched like he already knew how this would end.
A gamble. A test.
The boss grinned. "Fine. You want to fight? You get the next slot." He jerked his chin toward a scarred brute by the ring. "But you don't walk out once you step in."
Victor shrugged. "Wasn't planning to."
The crowd roared as the first fighter hit the dirt.
Victor rolled his shoulders as he stepped into the ring, bare knuckles already itching for contact. The pit was a crude circle of packed dirt and splintered wood, stained dark in patches where blood hadn't quite scrubbed out. Around him, men brawled in chaotic clusters, no order, no rules, just a free-for-all of broken teeth and shattered pride.
A meaty fist came swinging at his temple.
Victor ducked, pivoted, and drove his elbow into the man's ribs. The fighter wheezed, doubling over just in time for Victor's knee to meet his face. Teeth scattered across the dirt like dice.
No magic here.
He'd been watching since he walked in, no sign of fire, no whispered spells, just brute force and desperation. Either these gutter rats didn't have access to it, or they were too stupid to use it.
Another attacker lunged, wild-eyed and swinging. Victor sidestepped, caught the man's wrist, and twisted until the joint popped. A scream tore through the air, cut short when Victor slammed his forehead into the bridge of the bastard's nose. Blood sprayed as the man crumpled.
Victor wiped his face with the back of his hand, scanning the fray.
Still nothing. No shimmer of arcane energy, no telltale glow of enchanted fists. Just sweat, blood, and the stink of unwashed bodies.
A grin tugged at his lips.
Easier this way.
A hulking brute charged him, arms spread like he meant to tackle. Victor waited until the last second, then dropped low and drove his fist upward into the man's gut. The air left his lungs in a wet gasp. Victor didn't let up, he grabbed a fistful of greasy hair and yanked downward, smashing the man's face into his rising knee.
Something shattered. The brute collapsed, twitching.
Victor stepped over him, breathing steady. His knuckles throbbed, but the pain was distant, secondary.
He exhaled, rolling his neck. The crowd roared, drunk on violence, but Victor barely heard them. His focus narrowed to the next fighter, a wiry bastard with a jagged scar across his cheek. The man circled him, knife glinting in the torchlight.
Victor didn't flinch as the knife slashed toward his throat.
Victor caught the man's wrist, twisted hard, and drove the blade back into its owner's gut. The fighter gasped, eyes widening as his own steel buried itself in his flesh. Victor leaned in, lips brushing the man's ear.
"Should've stuck to fists."
He shoved the dying man aside and turned, just in time to see the boss rising from his seat, face dark with fury.
Victor smirked.
Finally.
The crowd parted as the boss lumbered forward, rings glinting on thick fingers. "You're costing me fighters, boy."
Victor flexed his hands, blood dripping from his fingertips. "Then pay me to stop."
The boss laughed, a deep, grating sound. "Or I could just kill you."
Victor's grin sharpened. "Why waste such talent."
A sharp whistle cut through the din of the crowd. Victor glanced up, the boss was gesturing him over with a meaty hand. The men around the ring hesitated, fists lowering as the signal rippled through the room.
Victor wiped his bloody knuckles on his pants and stepped out of the pit. The crowd parted for him this time, murmurs trailing in his wake.
The boss jerked his chin toward a door at the back of the room. "Come."
Victor followed without a word. The office was cramped, a desk cluttered with ledger books, an oil lamp casting a yellowish light over a decaying wallpaper. The boss dropped into a chair that groaned under his weight.
"You got a real talent for breaking noses," he said, pouring two cups of something that smelled like turpentine. He slid one across the desk.
Victor took it but didn't drink. "Comes easy."
The boss smirked. "Name's Grisha. You?"
"Victor Kaiser."
Grisha's eyebrows lifted. "Foreign?"
"Not anymore."
Grisha snorted, downing his drink in one gulp. "Need work, Kaiser?"
Victor swirls the foul liquid in his cup. "Money is always useful."
"Got a job for you." Grisha tapped a thick finger against the desk. "Easy work. Bodyguard detail, three others already hired. Just stand around looking mean until they tell you to stop."
Victor set the cup down untouched. "Where?"
"Warehouse district. Tomorrow night." Grisha leaned back, chair creaking. "You can bunk here 'til then. Lucky for you, we just had a room open up."
Victor smirked. "How convenient."
Grisha chuckled, the sound like gravel in a barrel. "Don't get cute. Just don't like my investments wandering off before payday."
Victor stretched his arms over his head, shoulders popping. "How much?"
"Ten silver now. Twenty more when the job's done." Grisha opened a drawer and tossed a small pouch onto the desk. It clinked promisingly.
Victor scooped it up, weighing it in his palm before tucking it away. "Who's the target?"
Grisha's grin slipped. "Not your concern."
A tense silence stretched between them. Somewhere outside, a man screamed, whether from pain or pleasure was impossible to tell.
Victor leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "I like knowing what I'm guarding."
Grisha's fingers twitched toward a drawer. "You like silver more."
Victor held his gaze for a long moment before huffing a laugh. "Fair point."
Grisha relaxed, ever so slightly. "Smart man." He pushed a rusted key across the desk. "Third door on the left upstairs. Don't fuck anything that ain't paid for."
Victor pocketed the key and stood. "No promises."
The hallway stank of mold and piss. Victor counted doors as he climbed the narrow stairs, one, two, three. The lock groaned but turned.
The room was barely larger than a closet, a straw-stuffed mattress on the floor, a cracked chamber pot in the corner. Someone had scrawled obscenities on the wall in what he hoped was charcoal.
Victor exhaled through his nose and shut the door.
"Open"
Text unfurled in his vision:
[Vice Points]
Lust: 23
Greed: 37
Wrath: 59
Envy: 1
Pride: 28
Sloth: 0
Gluttony: 0
A slow smile spread across his face. The fight had paid better than he'd thought.