Location: The Gullies, Maatari
Time: 07:30 AM
Khazim sat still, cross-legged atop the roof of a decaying high-rise near the city's southern edge.
The Maatari skyline hadn't stirred yet. Shadows still slept beneath the heat-rippled neon. Rustline shimmered far in the distance, pulsing with yesterday's residue.
Tre'co lay beside him, partially phased — corrupt signal outlines flickering, almost twitching with each slow breath. The air was dry, cracked open by silence.
Khazim didn't speak. His hand slowly lifted, fingers brushing the scar that ran from his hairline, down across his blinded eye, to the hollow of his cheek.
It wasn't pain that stirred the memory.
It was ritual.
"Trauma Bond"
Location: The Gullies, Maatari
9 years earlier...
He'd been small then. Ten, maybe eleven. Already out of place, already distant from the home whose warmth didn't include him.
The Ghostglint Herringbone chain swung lightly at his chest — back then, just metal and weight, tossed away by someone who didn't think it had much meaning. A trinket he'd nearly pawned more than once.
The Gullies were more alive back then — more dangerous too. Vendor stalls spilled into alleyways like veins in overgrowth. You could find food, oddities, weapons, or a backhand if you looked long enough.
Khazim wasn't looking for trouble.
But it found him anyway.
A tall man, bone-thin and twitching, stepped from the edge of the Cragline strip, breath sharp with chems. His coat hung off him like rotted paper.
"Nice shine for a street rat," he rasped, licking his teeth. "Hand it over."
Khazim didn't blink. He didn't speak either. He'd learned early — your first answer is in your eyes.
The grifter's knife flicked out without ceremony.
Khazim turned too slow.
The blade kissed his skin with a screech of pain — a clean, cruel line splitting from the ridge of his forehead, across his right eye, down to the meat of his cheek. Heat and ghostlight bled out of him in equal measure. His world pitched sideways. His knees buckled.
The knife came back around.
But the grifter never landed his second blow.
Three shapes crashed into him from the side — barking, biting, gnashing fur and teeth. Not trained. Not timed. Just there. Just fast.
Stray dogs — wild and scrappy. But not feral. Not to him.
The man screamed, kicked, stumbled back through the alley, bleeding and confused. The dogs didn't chase him. They turned and circled Khazim instead — snapping at the shadows, growling at the air like it might try to hurt him too.
Then the world went black.
He came to in an abandoned rail tunnel. The dogs curled around him like sentinels. The air smelled like dust and engine grease. Pain spiked behind his right eye with every breath.
He stole gauze and seal-foam from an unattended stall the next morning. Wrapped himself up. Failed a few times. Passed out twice. But he managed. Enough to keep from going blind — though the eye never worked again.
The dogs didn't leave.
He called them nothing but fed them everything he could. Bones from vendors. Bits of dried rootbread. Rainwater and stolen snacks. They followed him through alley runs and rooftop jumps. Slept beside him in rusted-out cars and the heat vents of scrapyard towers.
They didn't need names.
They were his.
Then the storm came.
Not wind. Not rain. Not thunder.
A glyphstorm.
It tore through Rustline like a scream made real — tendrils of se'lo static, violent pulses of raw t'alü bursting from cracked earth and corrupted sky. It shredded banners and shorted out pulsegrids. It convulsed the air like a seizure.
Khazim was caught mid-sprint, the dogs ahead of him, bounding toward an old stairwell.
They didn't make it.
The blast hit with no warning. Light fractured the alley into ribbons of static. When it passed, their bodies were frozen mid-motion — jaws open, paws extended — like statues struck in the moment of life.
He crawled to them. His scar burned.
Then he saw it.
Faint blue flickers hovered above the dogs' fur — not flame, not light.
Data.
Cryptdata. Still fresh. Still tethered.
He didn't know what to do — only what he couldn't do.
He couldn't let go.
His hand, bloodied and shaking, touched the remnants.
The Ghostglint around his neck pulsed once — like a heart skipping.
Three data streams spiraled together. Ghostlight shimmered across his scar.
Then — a growl.
Not a dog.
Not quite.
Tre'co stood above him. Still ghostlike. Still newborn. But whole.
Three heads. One beast.
Three spirits. One tether.
Khazim passed out cold, hand still outstretched.
Sher'oh stood in the alley's mouth, watching from the shadows. His hood low. His coat weighed down by time and silence. He didn't flinch. He didn't interfere.
Only when the light had faded did he step forward.
"You stitched death," he muttered, voice dry like old gravel. "And didn't flinch."
Khazim stirred, eyes still burning faintly with ghostlight.
Sher'oh tilted his head.
"Either you're cursed… or you're chosen."
He crouched, not as a rescuer — but as someone bearing an offer.
"Come with me. Or wait here for the next storm."
Present day...
Back on the rooftop,
the morning air shifted.
Tre'co stirred, fur rippling in its phased state.
Khazim's fingers dropped from his scar.
He didn't smile.
He didn't sigh.
He just breathed — steady, quiet, claimed.
The scar pulsed faintly… then faded.
"Man of the Hour"
Location: Rustline, Maatari
Time: 7:15 PM
The hum of Rustline buzzed below like a shorted circuit.
Khazim dropped down from the rooftop ledge, landing without sound. Tre'co phased beside him, a glitch in fur and muscle, before slipping back into the tether. His scar dimmed beneath his hood.
Rustline's bracket hall sat behind a collapsed power junction, hidden under a rust-choked refinery. You felt it before you found it — the bass from beast howls and the chant of gamblers. Down there, rules blurred like corrupted code. Brackets weren't tournaments. They were collisions.
Tonight, the entry line coiled halfway through the alley — Se'lo sages, ex-bracket champs, dreamers, dealers. Khazim walked past all of them.
No one stopped him.
Inside, ghostlight glyphs lit the walls like neon veins. The central pit pulsed; beast claw marks still etched into the tile from earlier rounds. Betting screens floated in the haze, cycling through fighter stats, odds, and sponsor glyphs. You could win a fortune in Musa or lose a year's worth of Tal'uun sync rights.
"Look who finally burned off the dog scent."
Spots Ren leaned over the top rail with a cigarette that lit itself. His shirt was half-buttoned, gold teeth flashing in sync with the holo-displays. He tapped a screen with his knuckle, betting interface pulsing.
"Thought you'd vanished. Turns out you scared Gor shitless and he's the one who vanished. Timeout, you didn't —"
A pause. A smirk.
"…Wait. Don't tell me. Plausible deniability."
Khazim gave him nothing.
Spots grinned wider. "Fine. Play it like that."
He flipped the screen toward Khazim, shifting the bracket display.
"Got you in the second heat. Same prize pot, but better mix this time. Root-types been crawling out the alleys like mushrooms." He leaned in. "One even swears he's gonna phase into your shadow just to piss Tre'co off."
Khazim blinked. That was enough.
Spots lit another cigarette off the first. "You still don't smile. Shit. That's consistency, I guess."
Before Khaz could turn, Spots snapped his fingers. "Oh — meant to tell you. That tip I dropped — You never said thank you."
Khazim paused.
"…Didn't realize you were fishing for gratitude."
Spots held his heart. "Fishing? I damn near wanted a tear. Or a chuckle. I'm easy."
"You're loud."
"And yet… here you are." He tapped the screen again. "Try not to kill anyone before the finals. Bracket needs drama. And Musa."
Khazim stepped past him, eyes already scanning the other fighters.
Tre'co flickered in his tether — silent. Waiting.
The club's lights dimmed. A glyph-crackled voice rippled through the loudspeaker:
"ROUND ONE: KHAZIM vs. BRONT.
Beasts only."
Spots whistled. "Oh, good. He brought the Boruun. This'll be quick."
Khazim didn't slow his walk.
The pit door slid open.
➤ RUSTLINE BRACKET – QUALIFIER ROUND ONE [BEASTS ONLY]
Sage: Bront Kurg
T'alü Alignment: Forge Pulse
Se'lo Archetype: Storm Brute
Beast: Gravehide Boruun
Type: Bonehide Predator
The pit floor shimmered under a false field — cracked concrete and dusty ash tiles, retrofitted with glyph stabilizers that flickered from prior abuse. Spectators clung to the upper rails, chanting over spilled drinks and wager chips.
Bront cracked his neck, already hyping the crowd. His Root Se'lo tattoos bloomed like roots across his back and arms, glowing faint green. The Gravehide Boruun emerged beside him — twice the size of most beasts seen that night. A walking wall of ivory-plated muscle, its obsidian mane curling like scorched wire.
"Tell your pup not to piss itself," Bront spat across the field. "Gravehide doesn't do play fights."
Khazim gave no reply. His posture relaxed. Cold. Watchful.
The field glyph pulsed green.
Clash initiated.
Bront tapped his tether. The Gravehide Boruun pounded the ground with one horned skull, then charged like a ruptured freight train.
Khazim didn't blink.
Tre'co phased in mid-air — not summoned but erupted — materializing just fast enough to catch the collision with a spectral shoulder roll. The Boruun stumbled, recalibrating its approach, swinging its armored skull again for a follow-up Skull Lunge.
Tre'co ducked low and snapped at the Boruun's exposed leg joint — not to injure, but to off-balance. A feint. Then vanished again.
The crowd reacted — gasps and howls. They weren't used to beasts with finesse.
Bront growled, signaling another glyph pattern — a defensive shield pulsed around the Gravehide's ribcage, fortifying its bone plating. But Tre'co didn't aim there.
The phantom hound reappeared behind the beast and struck its hind flank — targeting mobility. The Gravehide buckled for just a second… and that was enough.
Khazim's eyes narrowed — no words spoken.
Tre'co vanished again, blinked upward mid-leap, then spiraled directly into the Boruun's blind spot, landing a jaw-snap just under its exposed throat plate.
The Gravehide staggered.
One more step forward—
It collapsed.
Spots' voice tore through the crowd like a cannon:
"AND THAT'S A WRAP! Tre'co with surgical ghostwork — Gravehide grounded before it even found its rhythm! Khazim advances!"
Cheers.
Bets exchanged.
Tre'co faded into ether — not in shame or pride, just function. Khazim gave a slight nod, then turned back toward the sideline with no reaction.
The bracket lights flickered.
Round Two loomed.
Spots met Khazim near the side barrier, a drink in one hand and a grin sharp enough to slice Musa.
"You know you're starting to piss people off, right?" he muttered under the roar of the crowd. "That was Gravehide. Bront's golden goose. Fucker put half his rent on his own beast."
Khazim didn't respond.
Spots leaned closer, eyes flicking toward Tre'co's fading tether glow.
"Not even a scratch. You got that hound playing like he studied law."
Khazim's voice was low. "Should've studied silence."
That earned a sharp bark of laughter. "There it is! Was starting to think you left your humor in the last bracket."
Spots took a sip, then nodded toward the ring.
"Word of advice — your next opponent ain't gonna swing like Bront. She's slick. Uses those blink glyphs. Real dancer-type. Tied to Storm alignment if the whispers are true."
Khazim rolled his shoulder once, slow.
Spots arched a brow. "You good?"
"Just hungry."
Spots grinned. "Eat her then. She's half spine and smoke."
The lights dimmed. The bracket glyph pulsed again, signaling prep for the next round.
Khazim stepped forward, unbothered.
Spots called after him, loud enough to rile the crowd:
"Somebody tell the next fighter she's up against a ghost!"
The ring lights dimmed, shifting from deep rust to strobe blue. Storm glyphs shimmered in the floor etching, responding to the charge in the air like static to silk.
➤ RUSTLINE BRACKET – QUALIFIER ROUND TWO [BEASTS ONLY]
Opponent: Velari Jinn
T'alü Alignment: Sacral Pulse
Se'lo Archetype: Rainmaker
Beast: Quilltide Yuna
Type: Stormbreaker Feline
Velari walked with all the calm of a dancer before curtain. Slim frame, coiled stance, and eyes that never quite looked at you directly — always beside you, as if reading where you'd be.
The Quilltide Yuna emerged behind her in a low ripple, paws never quite landing, body slipping forward in measured phases. Its fur rippled in sheets of light, shifting from deep violet to silver depending on the angle, storm glyphs dancing like restless spirits along its spine.
Khazim remained silent in his corner. No adjustment. No posturing.
Tre'co stepped forward — low and unphased, three pulses of his phased body solidifying just enough to plant his weight with precision.
The ring sealed.
Velari raised a single hand. "Don't blink too long, silent type," she said, voice airy but sure. "I carve around hesitation."
Khazim didn't answer. He never did.
The round began.
Quilltide vanished.
A crack of displacement echoed in the pit as Yuna blinked twice in rapid succession — first behind Tre'co, then above, claws catching light.
Tre'co rolled.
A glint of Flickerfang sparked as Yuna swiped where his spine had just been, but the Ghostweaver beast twisted midair and bit down on stormlight.
Bite. Shift. Growl. Release.
Tre'co snapped into a ghost-flicker state, reappearing near the ring wall just in time to intercept a second phase-dash.
Yuna was fast — unnaturally so — but Tre'co was surgical.
They circled.
Storm glyphs exploded as Yuna activated Arclash Pulse, sending a localized shockwave across the ground. Tre'co tanked it, claws locking into the ring floor, one spectral limb skimming through the discharge.
Velari's blink glyph flared again.
But this time Tre'co was ready.
He let Yuna blink forward — let her close in — and shifted slightly too soon.
Yuna corrected mid-air. Blinked again.
And met teeth.
Tre'co had faked the delay, expecting the second blink.
His fangs sank into her shoulder, dragging her from mid-phase into a brutal slam against the glyph wall. Yuna yowled, dissipated into a storm cloud of static — Blinkstep Curl activating in defense — and reformed twenty feet away, crouched and shaking.
Spots grinned from above. "I told y'all. Ghostweavers don't chase ghosts. They make 'em."
Velari exhaled and bowed her head. She waved the match.
"Beautiful," she said, even in defeat.
Khazim just turned. Tre'co phased beside him without a sound.
The round was done.
And somewhere in the arena's darker corners… someone else had started watching.
The floor hadn't even cooled from the last beast clash when the ring lights dimmed again.
Spots Ren stepped up onto the elevated announcer slab — his coat half-buttoned, gold grill catching stray beams as he raised a mic to his mouth.
"Alright, prize rats. That's enough roaring and tail-slinging. From here on out—" He paused for effect, letting the tension ferment. "It's Last Rites only."
A ripple moved through the crowd — not fear, not excitement. Something in between. The seasoned knew what that meant. The flashy didn't.
"No beasts. No glyphs. No field mods. No tricks. Just you, your Se'lo, and the bones the Yatatu gave you. If that's not enough?"
Spots grinned.
"Then you shoulda stayed home."
Khazim was already sitting in a squat near the far corner, tightening the grip wrap around his Hunterfly's retracted handle, though he had no intention of using it. Not for this.
Across from him, a few remaining fighters whispered, uncertain.
"That guy… he's better with his beast, right?"
"Bet he freezes when it's up close."
"He don't even talk."
Spots leaned forward, scanning the names on the bracket board one last time. Then his voice cracked through the overheads.
"Next match: Khazim versus Leydren 'Switch Hands' Caldo."
Murmurs followed.
Khazim stood without ceremony. He didn't crack his knuckles or puff his chest. Just adjusted his footing and stepped into the ring.
In the distance, Tre'co's form faded into the shadows — no longer needed. Not for this kind of fight.
Spots leaned back in his seat, mic still on.
"Last Rites, baby. Nothing but pain and presence. Let's see who stays standing."
➤ RUSTLINE BRACKET – SEMIFINALS
Fighter: Leydren "Switch Hands" Caldo
Talu Alignment: Core Pulse
Se'lo Archetype: Flare Brawler
The bell didn't ring. It barked — a guttural metallic tone that sounded like a pipe being cracked over concrete.
Leydren lunged first, his left-hand catching fire mid-stride. He spun low, then high, switching fists mid-combo — the technique that earned him his moniker.
Khazim tilted his head.
Then he vanished.
The crowd gasped as Leydren's strike passed through after-image static. His fist hit nothing but the trace shimmer of corrupted Se'lo — and then he stumbled forward, off-balance.
Khazim reappeared behind him. No aura flare. No dramatic stomp. Just a flicker and a twist.
He struck Leydren in the base of the spine with two fingers. A pulse surged outward like broken signal — Leydren's knees locked. Then buckled.
He turned, one fist igniting again.
Khazim ducked under it, swept his leg, then shifted back with a reverse step that glitched half his body out of frame. Not teleportation. Ghostweaving.
Leydren came in again, more desperate than before, swinging wild and hard with both flame-dripped hands.
Khazim didn't counter.
He waited.
Let the strikes pass just close enough to kiss his coat sleeve. Then when the gap opened—
Snap.
His palm hit Leydren's throat just hard enough to fold him backward. Not to kill. Just to disarm.
Leydren crumpled, coughing smoke, his Se'lo dispersing from his hands.
Khazim stepped back, still without a word.
The bell barked again. End.
Spots (over mic):
"Y'know… sometimes a fighter throws hands. Sometimes he just rewrites your nervous system and walks off like he forgot to care."
The crowd didn't cheer. They just watched.
Khazim turned toward the exit. His shadow moved half a beat after his body did.
➤ RUSTLINE BRACKET – FINAL ROUND
Fighter: Kuraen Vost
Talu Alignment: Root/Forge Hybrid Pulse
Se'lo Archetype: Terrain Breaker
Kuraen came in thunderous — fists lined with quake-surge knuckles, stomping seismic bursts with every step. He cracked the floor with his heel, sending a surge wave toward Khazim's feet.
Khazim didn't jump.
He phased through it.
Signal distortion shimmered around his coat as his body blinked left, dodging the follow-up elbow meant to take his jaw off.
He planted, struck low. Kuraen's right leg bent the wrong way.
Roaring, Kuraen gripped both fists together, lightning threading between them, and brought them down overhead.
Khazim caught them — barehanded.
For a moment, time stalled.
Khazim's eyes lit with corrupted glow — even the dead one.
The grip shifted. Then—
Snap.
Khazim's foot twisted behind Kuraen's heel, dragging his center off axis. He lifted the weight with his shoulder, redirected the drop — and flipped him.
The whole room flinched as Kuraen slammed spine-first into the mat, glyph-circuit sparks blinking on the floor beneath him.
The signal faded. Kuraen didn't get back up.
The bell didn't bark this time.
It sighed.
Spots, grinning into the mic,
"Someone wanna call his momma? Tournament's done."
No cheer. Just stillness. Then murmurs.
They didn't just witness a win.
They witnessed something rare — cold-blooded dominance.
Khazim climbed the stairs to the side exit instead of waiting for the trophy. He didn't need it. Never did.
But someone was waiting at the top of those stairs.
A man in a sleek gray vest. One gold ring. Sharp grin. And a drink in his hand.
Drev.
"You're colder than the rumors," he said, sipping. "That's rare currency around here."
Khazim didn't answer.
"That's fine," Drev went on. "I'm not here for conversation. I'm here for transactions."
He stepped closer. Handed Khazim a folded card with a glowing glyph seal on it.
"I've got problems that need fixing. Thought you might want in."
Khazim stared at the card. Said nothing.
"Spots'll vouch for me," Drev added. "Ask him. Or don't. Doesn't matter. You'll come."
Then he was gone.
The card in Khazim's hand pulsed with the faint rhythm of old blood and new glyphs.
Khazim didn't open the card until he was halfway down the side stairwell. The glyph seal pulsed in sync with his heartbeat.
He didn't like that.
Behind him, the crowd was already shifting back to drink and deals. But one voice caught up.
"You gonna take it?"
Spots leaned against the alley door, arms crossed, still wearing the smirk of a promoter who'd made his Musa back and then some.
"Who was he?"
"Name's Drev. Drev Rouzeau. One of the top handlers in Maatari. Used to run ghosttags for bounty nets — now he runs half the damn black contracts in the southern districts."
Khazim stayed silent, watching the glyph seal pulse.
"He's not just some recruiter. He's the head of the Shatter Syndicate."
That made Khazim's brow twitch — just a hair.
"They don't play Tethari, Khaz. Not for fun. Not even for power. They steal. They deal. They kill. And when they do play, it's for keeps."
A long beat passed.
"You sure you wanna dance with them?"
Khazim slipped the card into his coat.
"You already know the answer. And apparently so does he."