Ronin blinked, but there was nothing to focus on—only a swirling kaleidoscope of color. Reds, greens, purples, streaks of silver. All of it melted together into a blur, warping around the edges of his vision like a dream he couldn't quite wake up from. For a few disorienting seconds, he couldn't tell where up or down was. His stomach flipped once.
Then the color snapped away like a pulled curtain.
He stood in a wide, sterile booth with polished metal floors and seamless silver walls. Bright, white lights buzzed overhead, casting a glow too clean to feel natural. Beside him, Oren swayed slightly, blinking through the dizziness, while Aurelia casually tucked her phone away like she hadn't just stepped through a damn wormhole.
A few guards stood along the booth's edges. They wore dark navy uniforms with matching helmets and silver chest plates, but none of them looked up. No greetings. No instructions. Just silence and stillness, like statues in a museum. Then again, with how often people probably came through these teleportation booths, Ronin figured it wasn't their job to roll out the red carpet.
He took a breath and stepped forward.
And the city of Xyros opened up in front of him.
The air was dry and fresh—crisp even. Not a speck of dust floated in the wind. The streets were wide and immaculately paved, bordered by low railings that pulsed faintly with mana currents. Gleaming towers stretched upward in the distance, their reflective glass facades catching the sun like shards of polished crystal. Sleek, hovering cars hummed quietly through the avenues, gliding with eerie silence. Everything was modern, seamless, and spotless.
Ronin exhaled a short, bitter laugh.
It was rich territory. He could feel it.
Barely anyone walked the sidewalks, and those who did wore finely tailored clothes, some escorted by guards in ceremonial armor. The poor didn't exist here. If they ever did, they were scrubbed out like graffiti on a museum wall.
"C'mon, taxi's this way," Oren said, waving down one of the sleek black cabs that floated a few inches off the ground.
Ronin and Aurelia climbed in behind him. The inside of the cab was just as clean as the rest of the city. Black leather seats, holo-display up front, quiet humming under their feet.
"Where are we headed?" Ronin asked, glancing at Oren.
"Hotel. I booked us a place near the tournament grounds," Oren replied, already typing something into the car's screen.
Ronin raised an eyebrow. "You always throwing around cash like that, or are you from some rich-ass family?"
Oren let out a chuckle—low, awkward. "Something like that."
Aurelia scoffed from the other side. "He is. Family's loaded. But Oren here's a rebel. Doesn't like the name, doesn't like the money, doesn't like being told what to do."
"I like sleeping in," Oren muttered, leaning back.
The ride didn't take long. A few quick turns and they were slowing down in front of a mid-sized hotel—not flashy, but decent. Three floors, dark tinted windows, a mana-powered security system glowing faintly at the entrance.
As the taxi floated off, Ronin noticed the crowd.
It wasn't massive—maybe twenty or thirty people—but for a place like Xyros, that many folks bunched together meant something was up. They stood just to the right of the hotel, gathered in a loose half-circle. Heads craned. Phones were out. A few people whispered to each other, eyes wide.
The three of them exchanged a glance.
"Let's check it out," Oren said.
They made their way through the loose ring of onlookers. At the center stood two men, and even without a proper scan, Ronin felt the mana rolling off them like heat from an oven.
Awakened.
The first guy was massive—easily over six foot five. Tan skin, wide chest, arms the size of Ronin's head, and no shirt in sight. His muscles practically pulsed with mana, and cracks of stone occasionally crawled across his forearms like an earth-based aura leaking out.
The other was… normal. Almost suspiciously so. A smaller man in a grey hoodie and cargo pants, short-cropped hair, and plain sneakers. No visible weapon. No stance. Just standing there, smiling like he'd already won something.
"What's going on?" Oren asked a guy at the edge of the crowd.
The man jerked a thumb toward the bigger guy. "That's Brock. He's a favorite for this year's tourney. Earth affinity. B-rank physical and magical. Total monster. The short guy said something that pissed him off, and now Brock's gonna teach him a lesson."
Ronin tilted his head. "What'd the other guy say?"
"No idea. Just started mocking him outta nowhere."
As if on cue, Brock snarled and took a heavy step forward, the ground crunching faintly beneath his foot. "What's your name?" he bellowed, veins pulsing in his neck. "I wanna know the name of the guy I'm about to kill."
The smaller man laughed. Calm, cocky.
"Lucas."
And that was all he said.
Then Brock moved.
One second he was in front of the crowd—next second, he was gone. A cloud of dust burst where he had stood. He launched forward with a booming step, arm cocked back, a punch that could probably crater a wall lined up for Lucas' head.
Ronin narrowed his eyes, trying to track it.
Lucas didn't flinch. Didn't even move.
Then came the silence.
Thump.
Something hit the ground.
It was Brock's arm.
Completely severed, just above the elbow, flopping to the concrete with a wet, dull sound. The crowd gasped. Some screamed. Brock kept swinging, momentum carrying his now arm-less shoulder forward—until pain caught up with him.
He collapsed to his knees, howling, clutching the bloody stump where his arm used to be.
Ronin's eyes were locked on Lucas, but even now… he hadn't seen it. Maybe a flicker of movement—just maybe—but no blade, no flash, no sound. Nothing.
And something else.
That blue crystal embedded in Ronin's head, usually dormant and silent, stirred.
Only for a second. Just a faint vibration in his mana. But it felt like it was watching. Or reacting.
What the hell was that? he thought.
Lucas turned to the crowd, voice calm and amused. "Anyone else?"
Dead silence.
No one stepped forward. Hell, no one breathed.
Lucas chuckled and turned away, walking off like he'd just left a restaurant, not a guy bleeding out behind him.
Oren let out a low whistle. "So… uh… B-rank, you think?"
Ronin shook his head. "Nah. No way. That guy's too fast. Gotta be A-rank. Minimum."
He kept watching Lucas disappear down the street, but part of his attention was still inward—still focused on the strange ripple from the crystal.
Whatever that guy was… he wasn't normal.
And Ronin had a feeling they'd be seeing him again.