Chapter 65 – Lucky Number Seven

  The Aftermath of Fluffy’s Duel

  The roar of the arena crowd still echoed when Fluffy hobbled off the field, her grin wide despite blood dripping from her foot. The adrenaline that had carried her through her bout against Lola finally burned off, leaving her ears drooping and her face twisted in pain.

  “Owie, owie, owie!” she whined, hopping on one leg like a child. “Do you know how much that spear hurt? It was like stepping on a really angry carrot!”

  Rhea was already waiting, staff in hand, lavender eyes calm. She guided Fluffy firmly onto a bench. “Sit.” Her voice was steady, commanding without being harsh. Sigils pulsed along her staff as she pressed glowing palms to the wound, binding it in enchanted bandages that tightened with a faint hum of magic.

  “You fought admirably,” Rhea said softly. “But your body has limits. Treat it kindly, or you’ll regret it later.”

  “Limits?” Fluffy puffed out her cheeks. “I’ve got at least five more gears left!”

  “Which is exactly why you end up in my care so often,” Rhea replied dryly.

  Nearby, Raven crossed her arms, her stoic gaze unyielding. “That’s your problem, Fluffy. You burn through energy like you’ve got an endless well. Efficiency wins battles, not flash.”

  Fluffy stuck out her tongue. “Says the ice queen who doesn’t even sweat when she shoots people from half a mile away.”

  Raven’s mouth twitched—almost a smile. “And yet I’m the one still standing.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Brinley clomped over, soot streaking her gloves. “Honestly, I thought you were going to topple right through the arena floor with all that hopping around. But… good work, Fluff. You kept Lola on her toes.”

  “See!” Fluffy beamed, raising her bandaged foot like a trophy. “Brinley gets it!”

  Seven’s Quiet Reflection

  Seven sat a few paces away, his training sword balanced across his knees. He said nothing, but his eyes stayed fixed on the arena floor, watching the chalk dust settle after Fluffy’s match.

  Five months in the Guild, and still… what did he have?

  Biggus had raw power. Raven had surgical precision. Fluffy had speed and flair. Even Brinley had her gadgets.

  And him? A missing arm. A soldier’s instincts. A body that remembered combat but not the world it belonged to. His enchanted combat techniques—his greatest strength—were still forbidden in the arena. Ripper drilled into him the same lesson every day: adapt first, rely on power second.

  This bout could prove whether he had learned anything.

  High above, Miss Hopps leaned on the balcony rail, her red eyes sharp. Hopper, Brinley, Fluffy—she saw promise in them. But Seven? She still wasn’t sure. He had grit, yes, but grit alone wasn’t enough to convince Novastra’s council. She needed to see more. Much more.

  On the lower benches, recruits whispered behind their hands.

  “Did you see the way Fluffy dodged those spears?”

  “Yeah, but she wasted so much mana. Raven was right.”

  “And that human… he hasn’t even fought yet. What’s he hiding?”

  “Nobody survives outside the walls alone without a trick. Nobody.”

  Seven ignored them, his jaw tight. His gaze stayed fixed on the lacquered box at the center of the arena floor. Each slip drawn meant another fate sealed. Only a few remained. His gut churned.

  “Next!” Ripper’s voice cracked like a whip. His gaze swept the crowd and locked on Seven. “You. Down here.”

  The whispers ceased instantly. All eyes followed as Seven rose. The weight of their stares pressed against his back as he walked to the pedestal. His one hand brushed the rim of the box before reaching in.

  He pulled a slip free. Unfolded it.

  Number 7.

  For a heartbeat, silence. Then a ripple of murmurs spread through the crowd.

  “The same as his mark…”

  “Lucky number…”

  “Or cursed…”

  Seven felt the phantom burn at his neck, the faint glow of his branded 07 pulsing in memory.

  Enter Arne

  “Well, well, would you look at that.”

  The drawl came lazy, playful, but laced with edge. Arne stepped forward, rifle slung across one broad shoulder, a fox’s grin splitting his face. His long frame was all swagger, his sharp eyes gleaming with mischief.

  “Lucky number Seven,” he chuckled. “Guess fate’s got a sense of humor.” He spun his rifle casually, the etched runes along its stock flaring to life with a dangerous hum. “You ready to dance with death, rookie? Don’t worry—I promise to make it fun.”

  The crowd erupted in cheers and laughter. Some clapped Arne on the back, others muttered wagers under their breath.

  Seven tightened his grip on the training sword, the wooden hilt rough against his palm. His pulse thundered in his ears.

  Fun was not the word he would have chosen.