Ronin woke with a throat full of sandpaper and a headache like he'd been sucker-punched by a mana construct. He blinked up at the unfamiliar ceiling, one of those fake-plaster types with cheap swirls, and groaned. The hotel room was dim, the curtains drawn, but enough light peeked in to remind him the day had already started without him.
He sat up slow, the bedsheets tangled around one leg like they'd been fighting him all night. He rubbed his eyes and tried to remember where the hell he was. Then it hit him—Xyros. The city of money, mages, and egos the size of a stadium.
And today? Today was the tournament.
"Shit," he muttered to himself, dragging a hand down his face.
Memories came trickling back—after that spectacle outside the hotel yesterday, the three of them had checked in. They'd grabbed some half-decent food from the lounge, Aurelia had said she'd crash in her room for the night, and, naturally, Ronin and Oren did the only responsible thing they could think of.
They drank. Hard.
They'd found some shady back-bar around the corner, one of those places that looked like it served poison shots but tasted like heaven once you had five. The rest was a blur of laughter, swearing, and Ronin trying to convince Oren that he could definitely do a backflip. Spoiler: he couldn't.
Now here he was, taste of dried vomit just about gone from his mouth, standing on shaky legs in a hotel bathroom.
He peeled off the stale clothes, stepped into the shower, and let the warm water slam into him like a cleansing spell. Steam filled the cramped space, and for a moment, everything was still. He leaned against the wall, breathing deep, letting the steam loosen the knots in his back and the dread in his gut.
Today was the tournament.
He dried off, slapped on some deodorant like it was armor, and threw on a black long-sleeve shirt and jeans. He left the coat off—didn't want to look like he was trying too hard. Just enough rough edges to pass as "Peter," the fake B-rank fire-affinity participant.
Speaking of which—he still hadn't done that screening thing. The official pre-check thing they made you do to even qualify for the damn tournament.
He pulled his phone from the nightstand and messaged Kara.
[Ronin: yo i forgot to do the screening lmao am i screwed]
[Kara: Handled it. You're in. Don't ruin the identity.]
He exhaled. Damn, she really thought of everything.
Heading down to the lobby, he found Aurelia already there—sitting with perfect posture on one of the leather couches, scrolling through something on her tablet. She wore a white turtleneck and tight gray pants, her black hair tied in a loose ponytail, her face untouched by stress. She looked like she belonged in Xyros—sharp, sleek, and silently judging everyone around her.
Ronin walked up, surprised. "Didn't think you'd be waiting for us."
She glanced up. "I figured Oren would get lost on the way here if I didn't. Considering both of you idiots spent the night trying to outdrink each other."
Ronin grinned. "Aw, look at you, being all caring. Didn't expect Miss Prodigy to have a soft spot."
"Don't call me that," she said, wrinkling her nose.
"Miss Prodigy."
"I will set you on fire."
Just then, Oren appeared, yawning dramatically and adjusting his shirt. "Alright, lovebirds. Ready to walk?"
They stepped out into the city. Xyros in the morning was a whole different beast—cleaner than it had any right to be, silent cars gliding across silver roads, floating signs flashing tournament ads above the rooftops. Wealth shimmered off everything like perfume. Even the people walking around looked like they stepped off magazine covers—sleek suits, private guards with mana detectors, and an absolute lack of concern for anyone not on their level.
But the streets closer to the stadium? Packed.
Excitement buzzed in the air. People pressed against security barriers, betting on names they barely knew, holding up signs for their favorites. Hover-drones whirred overhead, capturing every second of it.
The stadium was absurd. Towering black walls wrapped around a massive glass dome at the top, crystalline panels reflecting the sky, banners fluttering on massive screens. This wasn't just a tournament—it was a goddamn event.
They flashed their IDs to the guards—Ronin pulling out his "Peter" card with just a bit of sweat on his back—and were escorted into a side entrance that led them through the belly of the beast. No fans here. No press. Just a hallway that hummed with magical reinforcement and smelled like sterilized mana crystals.
They were taken to a large waiting room already packed with other awakened. Most were chatting, stretching, or meditating. The air reeked of nervousness and suppressed mana.
And then Ronin saw him.
Brock.
He was leaning against a wall, surrounded by his little posse. The massive idiot was still shirtless, muscles flexing with every breath, but his arm was back. Fully regrown, like it had never been sliced off by Lucas' ghost-step.
Ronin muttered under his breath, "Of course. Bastard went to a high-end awakened hospital."
Those weren't your average healing places. Awakened healers with serious ranks ran them, and they charged more than a private jet ride to another continent. But the rich didn't care. Replacing an arm was just an afternoon expense.
Ronin's gaze flicked across the room—and then his stomach dropped.
There. In the corner. Calm, legs crossed, hands in his lap like he didn't have a care in the damn world.
Lucas.
That walking nightmare.
Oren saw it too. His expression fell flat, like someone unplugged the soul out of him. "No way," he muttered. "He's in the B-rank division?"
Ronin felt something cold crawl up his spine, but he shook it off. No. This was good. He wanted the strongest, didn't he?
Didn't matter how Lucas did what he did. Ronin would beat him. Somehow.
The door opened, and in stepped someone that looked like he was grown in a lab for professionalism—blonde hair slicked back, blue eyes like polished sapphires, broad shoulders packed into a perfectly fitted suit.
He spoke in a clear, bored voice. "Welcome. Due to the number of participants in the B-rank division, we're holding preliminary rounds. These will not be public. Each match is one-on-one. The winner moves to the main room. The loser... leaves."
No one objected. They all knew how it worked.
The official nodded. "First match. Nira Velon. Daro Kean."
A young woman—nervous, chewing her lip—stood up alongside a bald, tank-built man. The room hushed as they walked into the room behind the official.
A minute passed. Then another.
The door opened.
The girl returned, shoulders low, eyes blank. She didn't say anything. Just walked past them, out of the room.
The bald guy? He swaggered off toward the main tournament lounge.
One by one, names were called. One by one, losers walked out quiet. Winners left with a smirk or a shrug.
Then—
"Lucas Rane. Veylor Drax."
The room didn't react. Not most of it.
But Ronin turned. Oren stiffened. Aurelia's jaw clenched.
Brock straightened up, watching.
Lucas walked in like he was entering a meditation chamber. Calm. Confident.
The stylish guy he was up against strutted in behind him, looking like he was ready for a magazine shoot.
Two minutes later, the door opened.
Stylish guy walked out, face pale like he'd seen a demon wearing his skin.
He didn't speak. Didn't even glance at Brock, who called out, "Hey—hey! What happened in there?!"
Nothing. The guy vanished.
The room tensed.
The official didn't miss a beat. "Next match: Zeke Glade. Peter White."
Silence.
Ronin blinked. Then blinked again.
Oren slowly turned to him. "You are Peter."
"...Right."
He stood, heart pounding, fake name ringing in his ears.
His opponent?
Zeke Glade.
Let's go.
If he wanted to face Lucas… he had to start here.