The tournament grounds hummed with restless energy, the morning light spilling across the bleachers like molten gold. Bodies pressed against bodies in the stands, a sea of uniforms and civilian clothes from both Torrent and Jerkin bases, their voices merging into a constant, buzzing drone that seemed to vibrate through the very air.
Elijah moved through the crowd, his cap pulled low, his movements deliberately unremarkable. Beneath the holographic overlay that shifted his features into those of Leo Jerkins, his true expression remained hidden—a mask atop a mask. He was just another face in the throng, another body pressed against the railing as the first matches of the day prepared to commence. But his ears were open, drinking in every word that drifted past him like smoke on the breeze.
To his left, a cluster of three stood close together—two from Jerkin base, one from Torrent. Their conversation carried toward him, raw and unfiltered.
"Three days in a row now," the first one said, a stocky man with a scar tracing a jagged line along his jaw. "Three days of this nonsense, and we're supposed to care about who throws a punch harder than who?"
His companion, a wiry woman with cropped hair and eyes that never seemed to settle on one place, shrugged. "It's tradition. Keeps morale up. You know how it is."
"Morale." The scarred man snorted, the sound dripping with contempt. "I'll tell you what keeps morale up—knowing that the people who got me killed actually paid for it. Not watching some glorified cage match while pretending everything's fine."
The third figure, a younger man with nervous energy practically radiating from his twitching fingers, leaned in. "You heard about the top three ranked competitors? Word is, they're practically guaranteed winners. They've been through the grinder longer than anyone else in this place."
"So?" The wiry woman raised an eyebrow. "Top ranks always win. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked."
"Maybe." The nervous one chewed his bottom lip, his gaze distant. "But I don't know. It reminds me of that old story—the one about the underdog who came from nowhere and took the crown. The one they made that movie about. What was it called?"
"Rocky," the scarred man said flatly. "You're talking about Rocky."
"Yeah! That one. The guy nobody believed in, and he went the distance. Fought the champion and refused to fall."
"Come on." The wiry woman laughed, but there was no humor in it—just the hollow echo of someone who'd seen too much to believe in fairy tales anymore. "Not everything is some fairy tale. This is real life. Real training. Real consequences. People die here, in case you forgot."
The nervous one deflated slightly, his shoulders slumping. "I know. I just... I don't know. Sometimes you hope, you know? Sometimes you need to believe that anything's possible, or else what's the point?"
"Hope doesn't keep you alive." The scarred man's voice was grim, his eyes hardening with old memories. "Hope doesn't help you hold your breath underwater for two minutes while your lungs are screaming and your vision starts going dark around the edges. Hope doesn't help you do a thousand push-ups on a tree branch until your arms feel like they're going to fall off and your muscles are on fire."
Elijah's eyes flickered toward them, his expression unreadable beneath the holographic mask. His hands remained still at his sides, but something cold and calculating stirred behind his gaze.
The wiry woman nodded slowly, her gaze growing distant. "Remember when we signed up? Me and my buddy, we thought we were just getting government jobs. Some steady income, a place to sleep, three meals a day, a future. We didn't know what we were getting into. Didn't have a clue."
"None of us did," the scarred man agreed. "They gave us those documents, all that fine print in tiny letters. Who reads fine print when you're desperate? When you've got nowhere else to go and nothing else to lose?"
"Exactly." She shook her head, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "My buddy got sent to some base in the northern territories. Haven't heard from him in two years. Probably dead. Probably just another statistic they don't talk about, another name filed away in some folder that'll never see the light of day."
The nervous one swallowed hard, his throat working. "I came with three friends. We all got separated. Different bases, different programs, different everything. I don't even know if they're still alive. I don't even know if I want to know."
Silence fell between them, heavy and uncomfortable, the weight of their shared history pressing down like a physical force.
Elijah's jaw tightened. He heard the pain in their voices, the resignation, the quiet desperation of people who'd been promised a future and given a cage instead.
---
Across the arena, Wonko stood in a shadowed alcove, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes scanning the crowd with practiced precision. He'd positioned himself away from the main viewing platform, close enough to observe but far enough to remain invisible—a ghost in the margins.
That's how they recruit, Elijah's voice echoed in Wonko's mind, the mental connection humming with clarity. By not revealing exactly what they're getting into.
Wonko's lips curved into a thin, humorless smile as he responded through the same channel. Where else would they fetch and acquire guinea pigs for their demented experiments than a bunch of hot-headed, mediocre youths who can barely think for themselves? His mental tone turned acidic, almost venomous. Poorly educated. No direction. No prospects. No surprise at all, really. If you ask me, them ending up dead was all in their coat from the very beginning. They just couldn't read the writing.
Elijah's mental voice carried a note of grim acknowledgment. You told me that.
Because it's true. Wonko's gaze swept the arena, cataloging every face, every movement. But we're not here to mourn the masses. We're here to ensure no unnecessary attention falls on us. Remember that. Focus on just making a slight show for them, but not that much. We don't need unnecessary attention, do we?
And Caleb. Elijah's mental voice dropped even lower, barely a whisper in the mindlink. With him added to the equation, I have two days before he finds clues of my existence here. Two days before everything unravels.
Then we make sure he finds nothing until we're ready. Wonko's thoughts were cold steel, sharp and unyielding. We control the narrative. We control the timeline. We make him see what we want him to see.
They fell into silence, their attention shifting to the stands where the VIP sections were arranged. Higher. More comfortable. More visible. The seats of the privileged, the ones who watched from above while others bled below.
---
The VIP section sprawled across the upper tier, a collection of repurposed seats that had been hastily cobbled together from salvaged materials. It wasn't elegant—nothing in this place was—but it was elevated, literally and figuratively, from the common rabble below. It was a parody of luxury, a theater box in a house of concrete and steel.
Dhivya Rana sat in the middle of the cluster, her posture rigid, her expression a carefully maintained mask of boredom. She was a compact woman with sharp features and a restless energy that she channeled into tapping her fingers against her thigh in an irregular rhythm.
"I was supposed to be in strategic planning today," she said, her voice carrying a note of petulance that cut through the ambient noise. "The higher-ups had me scheduled for eight hours of tactical simulations. Eight hours. I had my whole day mapped out, every minute accounted for. And then—" she gestured vaguely at the arena below, her gesture encompassing the bleachers, the fighters, the entire spectacle, "—this happened. All through Ke1 and Brenda's decisive roles in ensuring it happens, of course. And now I'm stuck here watching some glorified brawl instead of doing actual work."
Valerik, lounging beside her with the casual arrogance of someone who'd seen it all and wasn't impressed by any of it, shrugged. "Nothing too biggy for such situations to occur. What do you expect from two egos who don't put either of their institutions in their eyes? They clash. They posture. And we all suffer the consequences. It's just the way of things."
Brenna leaned forward, her expression curious, her eyes glinting with interest. "My sister mentioned something interesting to me recently. She said Ke1 has ties to an established family court in Europe. Old money. Old power. Just like my family. The kind of connections that span generations."
Nikolai Morozov let out a low whistle, the sound sharp and appreciative. His eyes flickered with a knowing glint. "Now that's some exclusive club type stuff right there. The kind of connections that open doors most people don't even know exist." He paused, his gaze drifting toward Brenna with something that might have been amusement lurking beneath the surface. "Those people are really weird, though. Got a history of being some inbreds, if you ask me. The kind of families who keep everything in-house, if you catch my drift. The bloodlines run a little too close together, if you know what I mean."
He stared at her for a moment too long, his eyes challenging.
Brenna met his gaze evenly, her expression calm and unruffled. "I'm not taking shots or anything," he added quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just making an observation. No offense intended."
"I'm fine," Brenna said, her voice flat, her eyes never leaving his. "I know exactly what you meant. And I'm not offended. It takes more than that to ruffle my feathers."
Across the VIP section, Eugene Torrent was pacing, his movements sharp and agitated, his expression dark as a thundercloud. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a perpetual scowl etched into his features and a tension in his frame that suggested he was ready to explode at any moment.
"This is ridiculous," he growled, his voice carrying across the section. "Instead of focusing on finding those suckers who dared attack one of our operations stores—instead of finding the employer who got kidnapped—we're here riding on some high cocktails of entertainment nonsense. We should be hunting, not sitting here like spectators while the real threats slip through our fingers."
Valerik's head snapped toward him, his eyes narrowing. "Who was the one who allowed those thugs to get away in the first place? Who was supposed to be on watch that night? Who dropped the ball?"
Eugene's face twisted with fury. "Oh, I'm sorry. Look at the one who got his ass beaten. Unlike myself, who actually survived the encounter. Who actually walked away with his life and his dignity intact."
"What did you say?" Valerik's hand went to his belt, his posture shifting into something predatory, his weight shifting onto the balls of his feet. His eyes blazed with barely contained rage.
Jericho Jerkin stepped between them, his voice sharp as a blade. "That's enough. Stop fighting like a couple of children." He glanced around, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. "Seriously. Even if that Von Bron was taken, even if they got Intel about our bases, it's not like they're too stupid to try infiltrating them. That would be some level of gutsy performance that I doubt could happen. Only fools who've caught death and are too ignorant to know what they're about to do could dare such a stunt. It would be suicide."
Eugene scoffed, his eyes still locked on Valerik. "Don't underestimate any criminal opposed to our operations. Especially those with firepower to strike back. Such matters shouldn't be taken so lightly." His voice dropped, taking on a graver tone, the anger fading into something more cautious. "Especially if you factor in the fact that they know the Sutran way arts and have veinframes with them. That really surprised me very much. That's not something ordinary criminals have access to."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the group, his expression darkening further.
"The higher-ups have been really quiet lately. That means the mastermind perpetrator is someone who makes them worried. Someone they've decided to keep silent precautions about. Someone they're afraid to name. That kind of silence speaks volumes."
Isha Patel raised an eyebrow, her expression skeptical, a faint smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. "Who is powerful enough to cause Mysterium clan operatives and higher-ups to be wary?" She shook her head slowly, dismissively. "It can't be those northern dwellers. They might be strong, but they don't dare start a war with us. They know we have more numbers and ammunition than them. They know their place. They wouldn't risk open conflict."
The group fell silent, the weight of her words settling over them like a shroud.
---
Eugene's eyes glazed over, his gaze becoming distant, almost reverent. The anger drained from his face, replaced by something that looked almost like awe—or fear. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, taking on a quality that was half-prayer, half-warning.
"Only a man with nothing to lose," he said slowly, each word measured and deliberate. "Only a man with the will and instinct to survive. Only a man capable of causing an uprising against those who once bound him. Only a man who now has the capability of making them feel fear can do such a thing."
His words hung in the air, strange and heavy, like incense smoke that refused to dissipate. The others exchanged glances, unease flickering behind their eyes. A chill seemed to pass through the group.
Valerik's expression shifted, something flickering behind his gaze. His voice dropped to match Eugene's, the earlier bravado completely absent. "Of late," he said carefully, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "only one wanted man made headlines and escaped unscathed."
One by one, the group turned toward him. The name that followed passed between them like a whisper of death, like a breath that carried the weight of myth.
"Azaqor."
The word fell into the silence like a stone into still water, sending ripples through every person who heard it. Dhivya Rana stiffened. Brenna paled. Eugene's eyes flared with something that might have been recognition, might have been fear. Jericho's jaw tightened. Nikolai's hand stilled mid-gesture.
Elijah heard it from his position below. The name traveled through the crowd like a current, passing from lip to ear, growing in intensity with each repetition. It was a name that carried weight, that summoned shadows.
Azaqor.
The man who had escaped. The man who had evaded capture. The man who had made the Mysterium clan operatives and higher-ups so quiet, so cautious, so afraid. A name that made powerful men tremble and women cross themselves.
Elijah's lips curved into the faintest smile beneath his holographic mask—a ghost of emotion that disappeared almost as quickly as it appeared.
Wonko noticed through the mindlink. His mental voice carried a note of dark amusement. Interesting.
Elijah said nothing. He simply turned his attention back to the arena, his mind already racing with the implications of what he'd heard.
The day was young.
The game was just beginning.