The room looked smaller than it should have—a shack dressed up as an office. Thin walls patched with mismatched metal sheets. A single table pushed to one side. One proper chair in the middle, and a second one that had lost a leg and been replaced with a stacked crate. The air carried a stale mix of smoke and dust, the kind that settled in your throat if you breathed too deep.
Ragna had the only good seat.
Of course he did.
He leaned back like the room belonged to him, one leg stretched out, the other hooked under the table. A thin stick of smoke burned between his fingers, the glow steady as he drew from it. The smell was cleaner than anything sold in the lower tiers—almost sweet.
Money.
I stepped in and let the door close behind me.
The man who brought me here stayed near the entrance, his frame filling most of the space. Arms loose. Still. I glanced at him out of habit.
Level eight.
Same as before.
The size didn't matter as much now.
Not in the same way.
Still… he would be a problem.
Different kind of fighter. Heavy. Experienced. The kind that didn't lose because of one mistake.
I shifted my attention back to the man in the chair.
Ragna.
I caught the number—fifteen.
Higher than anyone I had seen up close.
He didn't look it.
That was the part that bothered me.
Lanky build. Narrow shoulders. Hands that didn't look like they had done the kind of work the pit demanded. No obvious scars. No bulk. If anything, he looked like someone who had learned to avoid getting hit at all.
Which meant the number meant something else.
Something I didn't fully understand yet.
That helped.
If levels weren't obvious—
Then mine weren't either.
Good.
Ragna took another slow draw, then let the smoke out through his nose, watching me through it like he was taking his time deciding what I was worth.
"Hola," he said finally, the word slightly uneven, his accent slipping through. "You are even younger than I expected."
I didn't respond.
Didn't see the point.
He kept going anyway.
"I've been watching your fights," he said, tapping ash onto the floor without looking. "Fast. Efficient. You don't waste movement."
A small pause.
"I like that."
I stayed where I was.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees now, the smoke curling around his face.
"I want you to be my champion."
No buildup.
No negotiation.
Just said it.
I let the words sit for a second—not because I needed time, but to see if he would add anything else.
He didn't.
Of course he didn't.
"I'm not interested," I said.
Simple.
Enough.
His expression didn't change.
If anything, he looked like he had been expecting that.
"Yeah," he said, nodding once. "You'll come around… eventually."
I didn't move.
There was no point arguing.
He watched me for another second, then the corner of his mouth pulled slightly.
"Or what," he added, voice dropping just a little, "you plan to chicken out?"
There it was.
Pressure.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Just placed.
He leaned back again, studying me.
I waited for the reaction.
The irritation.
The urge to respond.
It didn't come.
That was new.
Before, something like that would have stuck, even if I didn't show it. There would have been something underneath.
Now—
Nothing.
Or close enough.
Angel again.
Not stepping in.
Just… shifting things.
I met his gaze.
"I'm not running from anything," I said.
He held it for a moment longer, then waved a hand like the conversation was already over.
"Go," he said.
Just like that.
No second attempt.
No threat.
That part stayed with me more than anything else.
The man at the door pushed off the wall and stepped forward, not rough, just enough contact at my shoulder to guide me back toward the exit.
Message received.
I didn't resist.
Didn't look back.
The door opened, letting the outside noise slip in again, softer here, filtered through distance and metal.
I stepped out.
The air felt different.
Not cleaner.
Just… less contained.
I moved through the corridor without thinking too much about what had just happened.
That would come later.
Or not.
Didn't matter yet.
What mattered was the next stop.
Payment.
The counter sat near the side passage, half hidden behind a metal partition. A single clerk stood behind it, bored, fingers tapping lightly against the surface until I stepped forward.
He looked up.
Paused.
Recognition.
"The Black Knight," he said, more to himself than to me.
I didn't confirm it.
Didn't need to.
He reached under the counter, pulled out a stack of coins, then another, counting quickly before pushing them toward me.
"Eight hundred."
I looked at it.
That was more than anything I had made here.
By far.
I picked them up. The weight settled into my palm—solid, real.
Enough to matter.
Enough to change something.
I tucked them away without counting again.
If it was wrong, I would find out later.
I stepped away from the counter and headed toward the lockers. The armor felt heavier now that everything had settled, the strain finally catching up.
I changed into my usual clothes—light cotton, loose fit. Mask and head cover ready for the dust outside.
The fabric felt lighter.
Less restrictive.
More like me.
Or what I used to be.
I stepped out of the pit a few minutes later. The sky was already shifting toward evening, dust hanging low in the distance, another storm building—or passing. Hard to tell.
I adjusted my mask as I walked.
Automatic now.
Everything was.
I glanced back once at the entrance.
Didn't stop.
I had what I came for.
And tonight—
Mary was getting something better than usual.