The arena floor trembled beneath the weight of violence.

Bright watched from the eastern platform as two squads collided in the pit below—House Marlowe's "Crimson Fang" against an independent unit calling themselves the "Stone Wardens." The fight had been going for three minutes, and it was already over. Anyone with eyes could see it.

The Crimson Fang moved like a single organism—strikes flowing into blocks, feints bleeding into counters, every motion deliberate and drilled into muscle memory. Their captain, a silver-haired woman with cold precision, directed them with hand signals so subtle Bright almost missed them.

The Stone Wardens fought with heart. But heart wasn't enough.

A Crimson initiate swept low, hooking his opponent's leg. Before the man hit the ground, another Fang member drove a knee into his ribs. The Warden gasped, rolled—tried to rise—

A blade pressed against his throat.

The horn blared.

"VICTOR—CRIMSON FANG!"

The crowd erupted. Nobles leaned forward in their cushioned seats, coins changing hands, bets settled. Somewhere in the upper tiers, a man laughed—too loud, too pleased with himself.

Bright's jaw tightened.

This wasn't war. This was theater.

And they were all actors bleeding for an audience that would forget them by dinner.

Duncan limped up beside him, fresh bandages wrapped tight around his calf. The bite from the cave had been deep, but the healers had done their work. He'd walk with a limp for a few days, but he'd walk.

"You watching our competition?" Duncan asked.

"Always."

"Learn anything?"

Bright pointed to the Crimson captain as she helped her teammate to his feet. "She's good. Disciplined. But predictable. Watch her hands—she signals every move three seconds before it happens."

Duncan squinted, following Bright's gaze. Sure enough, the captain's fingers twitched in silent commands—a language her squad had learned through endless repetition.

"So we target her first," Duncan said.

"Or we feed her false signals," Bright replied. "Make her think she's reading us, then break the pattern."

Duncan grinned despite the pain in his leg. "I like the way you think."

A voice boomed from behind. "OI! Morgan! Stop daydreaming!"

Bright turned.

Baggen stood near the prep area, arms crossed, looking irritated. Behind him, the rest of the Sunshine Squad was assembled—Mara adjusting her wrist guards, Adam triple-checking his ammunition count, Rolf stretching with the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution.

"We're up in fifteen," Baggen called. "Get your asses over here."

Bright and Duncan exchanged a glance, then moved.

-----

The prep area smelled like sweat, leather, and something sharper—fear, maybe, or anticipation. Hard to tell the difference anymore.

Mara was the first to speak. "Who are we fighting?"

Adam flipped open a small notebook he'd been keeping—detailed notes on every squad they'd seen fight. His handwriting was cramped, obsessive, filled with diagrams and annotations.

"Golden Spears," Adam said. "Sponsored by House Veylin. Three wins, zero losses. Their captain is a mid-tier initiate with a lightning affinity core. Fast. Aggressive. Hits like a siege weapon."

Rolf groaned. "Of course he does."

"There's more," Adam continued. "One of their members has a defensive talent—redirects kinetic energy. Punching him is like punching a mirror. The harder you hit, the worse it gets."

Baggen frowned. "So we don't punch him."

"Easier said than done," Mara muttered.

Bright stepped forward, studying the notes over Adam's shoulder. "What about weaknesses?"

Adam hesitated. "They're coordinated, but rigid. They follow patterns. If we disrupt their rhythm, they'll struggle to adapt."

"Then that's what we do," Bright said simply.

Duncan planted his spear into the ground. "And if they don't break?"

"They will," Bright said. He didn't know if he believed it, but doubt wasn't useful right now. Confidence was.

The horn blared—sharp, final.

"SUNSHINE SQUAD—REPORT TO ARENA THREE!"

Rolf let out a short chuckle, joined by snickers from the watching crowd. Honestly, there were few things more shameful than getting beaten by a team named Sunshine.

And that was the effect he wanted, even if his squad was made up of fighters barely old enough to grow a proper shadow on their chins.

Baggen cracked his knuckles from the side. "Here we go."

They moved as one, boots echoing on stone as they descended the tunnel toward the arena floor. Ahead, light spilled through the archway—harsh, unforgiving, exposing everything.

Bright's hand drifted to his pocket, where the two cores rested. He'd made his decision last night, but the timing had been wrong. Too public. Too many eyes.

But tonight… tonight would be different.

-----

The arena floor was packed dirt mixed with sand—designed to soak up blood without becoming slick. It was smart, efficient and revolting.

Obstacles dotted the space—stone pillars, low walls, scattered debris meant to simulate real battlefields. Fifty meters across. Nowhere to hide, but plenty of places to use.

The Golden Spears waited on the opposite side.

Six fighters, all wearing gold-trimmed armor that gleamed in the afternoon sun. Their captain stood at the front—a broad-shouldered man with a square jaw and eyes like frozen iron. Lightning flickered faintly around his gauntlets, crackling with barely-restrained power.

Bright studied him.

A mid-tier initiate, confident and dangerous.

The kind of man who'd killed before and would kill again without hesitation.

The judge stepped into the center, raising both hands. The crowd noise dimmed—anticipation building.

"ARENA MATCH—SUNSHINE SQUAD VERSUS GOLDEN SPEARS!"

Roar.

"RULES: First team to incapacitate or force surrender of all opposing members wins. Lethal force is discouraged but not forbidden. Medics stand ready."

Discouraged. Not forbidden.

Bright's jaw set.

"COMBATANTS—READY!"

Bright drew his blade—a standard-issue sword, functional but uninspired. Soon, he'd have something better. Soon.

Duncan planted his spear, weight balanced despite the injured leg.

Mara's hands drifted to her twin blades.

Adam raised his firearm, barrel steady.

Rolf cracked his knuckles, flames already flickering around his fists.

Baggen gripped his hammer, stone-faced and immovable.

Across the arena, the Golden Spears mirrored them—weapons raised, formations perfect.

The judge lifted the horn.

The world held its breath.

"BEGIN!"

-----

The Golden Spears moved first.

Their captain barked a command—voice sharp, military—and the squad split. Three rushed forward in a tight wedge formation. Three hung back, providing ranged support.

A Classic pincer.

"SPREAD!" Bright shouted.

The Sunshine Squad scattered instantly—Duncan and Baggen moving left to meet the charge head-on, Mara and Rolf flanking right to cut off the angles, Adam and Bright holding center.

The first Golden Spear reached Duncan—a heavy fighter wielding a war axe that looked like it could split a horse in half.

He swung.

Duncan blocked with his spear shaft—clang—wood and steel screaming. The force drove Duncan back a step, but he twisted, using momentum to throw the man off balance.

Baggen surged in, hammer raised—

CRACK.

The Golden Spear hit the ground, gasping, ribs cracked.

On the right flank, Mara engaged a twin-blade wielder—fast, aggressive, relentless. Their blades sang as they clashed, sparks flying with each impact.

Rolf circled, waiting for an opening, flames coiling around his fists like living things.

In the center, Bright faced the captain.

Lightning crackled brighter as the man closed the distance—faster than Bright expected, far faster than someone that size should move.

He swung.

Bright's spatial sense flared—half a second of warning, just enough—

He pivoted.

The lightning-wreathed fist missed by inches, close enough that Bright felt the heat singe his jacket.

The captain didn't pause. He followed up immediately, a brutal combination—left hook, right cross, knee strike—

Bright blocked the first two, dodged the third, blade snapping up to deflect a fourth strike he hadn't even seen coming.

The captain's eyes narrowed. "You're fast."

"Fast enough," Bright replied.

He pressed forward, testing. His blade lashed out—once, twice, three times—each strike aimed at gaps in the captain's defense.

Lightning flared, deflecting two strikes. The third slipped through, drawing a thin line of blood across the man's forearm.

The captain hissed.

Then smiled.

"Good."

He exploded forward, faster than before, lightning surging—

Adam's shot cracked through the air.

The bullet clipped the captain's shoulder, disrupting his rhythm just long enough—

Bright moved.

His spatial sense guided him—not through conscious thought, but instinct. He dropped low, swept the captain's legs—

The man fell.

Bright's blade pressed against his throat before he hit the ground.

"Yield," Bright said quietly.

The captain stared up at him, lightning still crackling weakly around his gauntlets. For a moment, Bright thought he'd refuse.

Then the man exhaled. "I yield."

The horn blared.

"GOLDEN SPEARS CAPTAIN—ELIMINATED!"

The crowd erupted.

Bright stepped back, breathing hard, adrenaline humming through his veins.

Around him, the fight continued—but the tide had turned.

Without their captain, the Golden Spears faltered. Their rigid formations crumbled. Uncertainty crept in.

Duncan and Baggen overwhelmed their targets with raw power.

Mara cornered the twin-blade fighter, her precision cutting through his aggression.

Rolf caught one of the ranged fighters in a burst of flame—not lethal, but enough to force surrender.

Adam picked off the rest with methodical shots, each one placed with surgical accuracy.

Three minutes later, it was over.

The horn blared three times.

"VICTOR—SUNSHINE SQUAD!"

The crowd roared louder than ever.

Bright stood in the center of the arena, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face.

They'd won.

*They'd won.*

And for the first time since Grim Hollow fell, since the evacuation, since the cave—

He felt something shift inside him.

Not confidence, exactly.

But potential.

-----

Later that evening, as the sun bled orange across the horizon, Bright stood in line at the Outpost Vester logistics office.

The building was cramped, smelling of ink and old paper. A bored clerk sat behind a desk stacked with ledgers, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Next," the clerk droned.

Bright stepped forward. "Merit withdrawal. Grim Hollow contingent."

The clerk barely looked up. "Name and unit."

"Private Bright Morgan. Former attached to Captain Atheon's command."

The clerk flipped through a ledger, finger trailing down rows of names. "Morgan… Morgan… here. Grim Hollow merit balance transferred. Total: four hundred and seventy three points."

Bright blinked. That was more than he'd remembered.

The clerk continued, still monotone. "Includes combat bonuses, survival credit, and hazard pay for Shroud exposure. Sign here."

Bright signed.

The clerk stamped a form, then slid a chit across the desk—a small metal token embossed with Vester's seal.

"Present this at any authorized vendor. Next."

Bright pocketed the chit and left.

-----

The armory district was busier than he'd expected—soldiers browsing racks of weapons, merchants hawking their wares, the smell of oil and steel thick in the air.

Bright moved through the crowd with purpose, scanning the stalls until he found what he was looking for.

A blacksmith's shop tucked into a corner, less flashy than the others. The sign above the door read: Kael's Forge—Quality Over Flash.

Inside, weapons lined the walls—swords, axes, spears, daggers, all gleaming under lamplight.

A man stood behind the counter—Kael, presumably. Older, scarred, with arms like tree trunks and eyes that missed nothing.

"Help you?" Kael asked.

"I need two weapons," Bright said. "Specific ones."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "I'm listening."

"First: a katana with reinforced steel. Balanced for speed, not just cutting power."

Kael nodded slowly. "Can do. And the second?"

"Any flexible or extending blade you got."

Kael's eyebrow climbed higher. "That's… ambitious. You know how expensive those are?"

"I have merit."

"How much?"

"Enough."

Kael studied him for a long moment, then grunted. "Alright. Come with me."

He led Bright to the back of the shop, where more exotic weapons were displayed—rare, expensive, often commissioned by nobles or high-ranking officers.

Kael pulled a katana from the rack. The blade was beautiful—dark steel with a faint ripple pattern, edge honed to perfection.

"Reinforced carbon steel," Kael said. "Lightweight, durable. Won't shatter against Shroud-beasts. Three hundred merit."

Bright tested the weight. Perfect.

"I'll take it."

Kael moved to another rack and retrieved a coiled weapon—a flexible blade wound around a reinforced handle. When he pressed a mechanism, the blade extended smoothly, locking into place at two meters.

"Experimental," Kael said. "Designed by a Shroud-walker who got tired of monsters staying out of reach. Extends, retracts, controlled by soul force infusion. One hundred fifty merit."

Bright ran his fingers along the blade. It was sharp, deadly, and unlike anything he'd ever used.

"I'll take this too."

Kael calculated. "Four fifty total. You have exactly twenty-three merit left."

Bright handed over the chit without hesitation, took the wrapped weapons and left.

-----

That night, alone in the barracks, Bright sat cross-legged on his cot.

The two cores rested in his left hand—Mental Dampening and Body Enhancement.

The two weapons lay beside him, still wrapped.

He stared at the Body Enhancement core, feeling its faint warmth pulse against his skin.

No more waiting.

No more hesitation.

He pressed the core against his forearm.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then—

The core sank.

Not melting, but dissolving—flowing into his skin like water into sand.

Heat flooded his arm.

Bright gritted his teeth.

The warmth spread—up his shoulder, across his chest, down his spine, into his legs.

His muscles screamed—contracting, expanding, tearing and rebuilding in rapid, agonizing pulses.

His bones felt like they were being pulled apart and reassembled fiber by fiber.

His skin tightened, thickened, toughened.

Bright doubled over, biting down on his sleeve to keep from crying out.

His ribs—still bruised from the cave—cracked. Then healed. Stronger.

His legs burned with fresh vitality.

His hands tingled as calluses hardened, scars fading into tougher skin.

And his senses—

They sharpened.

Not like his spatial foresight.

This was now.

He could hear individual voices from the courtyard outside more clearly.

He could feel the grain of the wooden cot beneath him, every splinter and crack.

He could smell oil from the lamps, blood still clinging faintly to his jacket, sweat drying on his skin.

Everything was louder. Sharper. More.

And then, as suddenly as it began—

It stopped.

Bright collapsed onto his back, chest heaving, skin slick with sweat.

He lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling his body settle into its new configuration.

Slowly, he flexed his fingers.

They responded instantly—faster, more precise than before.

He sat up.

No dizziness. No lingering pain.

Just strength.

Raw, controlled, humming strength.

He stood—and nearly stumbled.

His legs were stronger, but his balance was off. He'd have to relearn how to move, compensate for the increased power in every step.

But that was fine.

He had time.

Bright picked up the wrapped weapons, feeling their weight differently now—lighter, more manageable.

Tomorrow, he'd fuse them.

Tomorrow, he'd become something more.

Tonight, he rested.

And dreamed of storms breaking apart beneath unrelenting sunlight.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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