The next morning, Alden woke up feeling better. He was expecting sore muscles and aching bones, but surprisingly, he almost got none of that.
He slowly sat up, peeling off his shirt and unwinding the bandages with care until bare skin met cool air. A dark bruise bloomed faintly along his ribs on the left side, right where Varo had hit him.
But it looked nearly healed.
He flexed his arm, watching the muscle shift beneath his skin. Maybe it was just in his head, but he could've sworn he felt stronger.
His thoughts drifted to the dream, to the glowing orb. Whatever that thing was, it had helped.
He was still piecing it together when a low rumble cut through the quiet.
Hunger.
After rewrapping his bandages, Alden made a stop at the communal washroom. The place was crowded, packed with fighters scrubbing away sweat and blood, their voices echoing against damp stone.
He lingered at the threshold, then turned away. Too many eyes. Better to skip the wash and head straight for the Mercy Inn.
On the way, he passed the Arena's management office.
And his steps slowed.
After last night's clash, he'd already decided Jarek wouldn't be managing his matches anymore. The bald bastard wouldn't let their spat slide, and Alden wasn't about to hand him another chance to meddle.
He stopped in front of the office door and knocked. The faded sign above the threshold read Fighter Liaison Office, though the chipped paint make it look more like a warning than a title.
Inside, a squat man in a sleeveless vest looked up from behind a cluttered desk. Greasy black hair clung to his scalp, his breath wheezed like leaky bellows, and a single eyeglass perched crookedly on his nose.
"Silver Hunter?" the man grunted. "Didn't expect you here."
Alden briefly nodded his head in greetings. "I'm here to clear some things up. I'm done working with Jarek."
The man raised a curious eyebrow at that, then he snorted. "Yeah? Bit late for that. He already filed your next match."
Alden blinked. "What?"
With a sigh, the man dug through a heap of crumpled rosters and fished out a slip of thick parchment. He slapped it on the desk.
"Afternoon slot. Rank-up category. Name's already processed."
Alden stared at the paper. His name. Time. Match designation. All stamped in ink.
His grip tightened. "That bastard… I didn't approve of this."
"Doesn't matter," the man said with a shrug. "Once a manager submits your match and it's logged, it's locked in. No backing out unless you're dead. You planning on dying before noon?"
Alden stared at the name of his opponent: Marrow Quinn. He didn't recognize it. That wasn't comforting.
The man leaned back in his creaking chair. "Rank-up fights get priority, Silver. Higher payout. Better visibility. And tougher competition."
"So I've heard."
"But here's the part you'll love," the man went on, grinning through a mouthful of tobacco-stained teeth. "Rank-up fights can't be forfeited. Once you're locked in, you're in, you have to fight. Gotta say, Jarek left you one hell of a parting gift."
Alden's frown deepened.
Rank-up fights meant facing someone above your tier. Alden was currently holding steady as a rank 3. A bit above average. But nowhere near elite.
Arena fighters were grouped from rank 1 to 6. The higher ranks flirted with the strength of low-tier cultivators.
"Quinn's a pro," the man added, flipping through a worn logbook. "Rank 5. Fast, efficient. Tough to read. Hasn't killed anyone in a while, but don't press your luck. If you annoy them, that might change."
Alden exhaled slowly. "Any known weaknesses?"
The man smirked. "Why don't you ask your manager?"
That earned him a glare.
"You'll fight in Pit Two. Mid-tier crowd. Try not to die, and make it entertaining!"
Alden didn't respond. His jaw tightened. Was putting on a show the best he could hope for? He clenched his fists, frustration prickling under his skin.
It sucked to be this weak.
The man's voice dropped slightly as he leaned forward. "Look… I don't know what happened. You split from Jarek. You're walking straighter. Healed? Helped? Don't care. Just don't die out there, alright? You're still young, and you've got some potential. It would be a shame to waste that."
Alden gave him a curt nod and turned away.
The door creaked closed behind him. He looked down at the parchment in his hand, creased now from how tightly he was gripping it.
At least it wasn't a death match, he comforted himself. Not that he believed it was out of mercy. More likely, there just weren't any on the schedule.
He made a quick stop at the bar for a simple hot meal. Something to warm the gut, calm the nerves. And mentally prepared himself for the second destination of the day: the Vein.
************************************
Rain had started to fall over Lint. It was a steady, miserable drizzle that clung to everything. The old streets, crooked and narrow, ran between stone houses with overhanging timber frames and slate roofs that leaked more than they held.
Alden didn't have a cloak to shield him from the rain. Water soaked through his worn clothes as he pushed on. But thankfully, the Vein's outpost wasn't very far from the Arena.
It stood half a dozen winding alleys from the Mercy inn, tucked behind a butcher's row that stank of blood and brine. It wasn't a place for regular customers. It was for the desperate kind.
By the time he reached the entrance, his shoulders were slick with rain. Above the reinforced door hung the Vein's mark: three interlocking fangs carved into blackened stone.
Alden paused for only a breath before pushing the door open and stepping inside.
Strangely enough, the room felt colder than the streets. The stone walls were smooth and dark, reinforced with thin lines of copper thread. The room was furnished with a few chairs, tables, and some bright art that were plastered on the walls.
At the end of the room was a counter. And behind it sat a woman with ink-black hair pulled into a tight braid.
Her eyes flicked up as he approached. "Hello, what can I do for you, sir?"
"Hello… I'm here to check my debt." Alden replied, feeling a little nervous.
"Oh, so you're an indebted." She replied, her tone changing. The way the she didn't blink, but slowly stopped smiling weirded Alden out. But he kept his composure.
"Do you have a handler?"
"Jarek," he replied. "But I think he's been siphoning money. I want to verify what I actually owe… and from now on, I'll be the one making the payments directly."
Her lips twitched, just barely. "Jarek, huh? I see."
Without another word, she turned and disappeared into the back room, leaving Alden alone in the unnervingly cold room.
When she returned, she wasn't alone. A man in gray followed her. It was a scribe, from the looks of it, with sigils inked down one arm and a blank mask covering half his face.
"Identity verification," the woman said flatly.
The scribe silently stepped forward. He raised a hand and pressed a small crystal to Alden's forehead.
He felt a flicker of warmth. Then a pull in his chest, as though something buried deep inside had been dragged forward, examined, and then returned.
"Verified," the scribe said, voice distant, muffled behind the mask.
The woman gave a curt nod and handed Alden a slip of parchment.
"Current debt: 133 silvers remaining. Total paid: 67 silvers. Payment history: irregular. All Arena earnings have been routed through Jarek."
Alden's fingers curled around the paper. Two years of blood, broken bones, and near-death fights, and he wasn't even halfway done.
His thoughts flashed to the people who dumped the debt on him. The people who walked away. And his anger flared, his hands trembling slightly.
"Bastards…" he muttered, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
The woman didn't react.
"Will that be all?" she asked coolly.
Alden took a deep breath to calm his nerves and nodded. "Thank you for your time."
He turned and walked out, the door creaking shut behind him.
Unbeknownst to him, the scribe's gaze followed his retreating form in silence.
"Is something the matter, Sir Kai?" Alya, the receptionist, asked after a pause. She turned to find the masked scribe still staring at the door.
"…His presence felt off." Kai responded after a small moment of contemplation. "His spirit feels more active than even an aspirant. What's his background?"
Alya looked through the document in her desk, and frowned. "Just an unlucky soul without any significant background."
"I see… I suggest we keep an eye on him."
*********************************
Unaware of the conversation he'd left behind, Alden walked through the rain, his pace slow, his expression distant. The drizzle soaked through his shirt, clung to the bandages on his arms, and turned the grime on his boots to slick mud.
Still, he walked, deep in thought.
Two of the biggest weights on his back had just been addressed. First, he got rid of Jarek's management. And second, he confirmed his debt with the Vein.
Things still sucked, but at least he knew where he stood now.
If not for his upcoming match in the afternoon, Alden would even have allowed himself to splurge a little. A drink. A nap in a real bed. And maybe a steak.
Unfortunately, the world didn't offer him luxuries, it handed him ultimatums.
His thoughts circled back to his upcoming fight.
In a regular rank-up match, his chances of dying were already quite high. And yet, he would be fighting against a rank 5, someone 2 whole levels above him.
He clenched his jaw and made a decision.
If this rank-up match was going to kill him, he might as well enjoy what could be his final hours. Not in that rotting room under the arena. Not on that stiff cot with its moldy stink. Somewhere else. Anywhere else.
He turned on his heel and made his way towards the Arena.
Back through the alleyways. Past the crooked doors and guttering lamps. Down into the Arena's underbelly where the fighters slept and bled between matches.
Inside the room that had become more prison cell than shelter, Alden quickly gathered everything of value. It wasn't much. A pouch of coin. The faded spare shirts he barely used. A small, chipped flask tucked behind a loose brick. A half-decent pair of boots.
He wrapped everything in cloth and tied the bundle with cord, then glanced once more at the four stained walls and the sagging bed that had housed more injuries than sleep.
He wouldn't miss it.
Shouldering the bundle, Alden left without a second thought.
At the Mercy inn, he spoke to the clerk and laid his coins out with care. It wasn't enough for comfort. But it could afford privacy. A cheap but clean room.
The clerk took the money without comment and slid over a key.
The room itself was little more than a broom closet with a bed. The sheets were thin, and the floor creaked when he shifted his weight. But it wasn't part of the arena. And that alone made it feel like a luxury.
He washed quickly, scrubbing at the dirt and sweat with a worn cloth dipped in lukewarm basin water. The bandages came off, replaced with fresh ones. He pulled on a clean shirt, and headed downstairs for a meal.
He ordered what the Scourge had eaten the day before: smoked steak, roasted roots, and a dark ale that burned its way down his throat. It cost more than he wanted to spend. But if he died in that pit, he didn't want his last meal to be broth and regret.
Back in his room, stomach full and body warm, Alden sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window. The rain had finally stopped. The sky was surprisingly bright. A shaft of sunlight filtered through the buildings and touched the rooftops with gold.
The town, for once, looked less like a beast and more like a painting.
Silver had never looked at Lint this way. He had too much fear, too much weight dragging him down. But Alden marveled at the novel experience.
He leaned back against the wall and let the tension bleed from his limbs.