The crowd roared like a storm echoing off the steel walls. Dane hadn't even broken a sweat. Only one man might've lasted longer, the one who felled the Chimera. This crucible was at once different and precisely what he expected: a meat grinder dressed up as entertainment.

  Something about it gnawed at him. But if he didn't play their game, Chronowell would pay the price.

  "Demon! Demon! Demon!" The chant rose like thunder from the stands.

  Dane pushed through the iron gate into the holding area. A guard stepped in front of him.

  "You should go to the medical ward," the man said.

  "Thanks," Dane replied, voice flat. "But I don't have a scratch on me."

  The guard blinked, startled, then cleared his throat. "Then wash up. You've earned passage to the mid-tier cells."

  Dane gave a curt nod and stopped by a wash basin beside an ornate bronze door. The water ran red as he scrubbed his hands, the copper scent rising in waves.

  Should've packed some of that crystal wash, he thought, watching the crimson spiral vanish down the drain like everything else in this place.

  He pushed open the gate to the mid-tier cells and stopped.

  Opulence. That was the only word for it. The chamber stank of roasted meat and cheap perfume, like victory and excess. Gladiators lounged on wooden benches, drinking wine from chipped cups and tearing into platters of pig. Women in threadbare silks laughed too loudly, clinging to sweat-slicked champions as if they were royalty.

  It was disgusting.

  When the first man noticed him, the hall went still, then erupted in a fevered whisper.

  "That's the Demon."

  "Did you see what he did to all of them?"

  "I heard he's been blessed by devils."

  Dane ignored the looks that followed him through the hall. He could feel the fear like heat on his back. Rumors multiplied faster than he could even step, deals with devils, soul bargains, whispers that he'd killed a god in the pit.

  He didn't bother correcting them. But he knew what those eyes really meant: He's alone.

  The others drank together, laughed together. He had no crew, no table, no one to share the victory with. In the Dungeon, that hadn't mattered. Down there, solitude was strength. But here? Here, it looked like weakness.

  Then he saw another man sitting alone near the back. He didn't flinch when their eyes met. No awe, no fear. Just a calm, deliberate watchfulness. The same look Dane remembered from his father when he was assessing a room, dangerously aware of everything, but quiet and keeping to himself.

  He sat down beside him.

  The man's steely blue eyes lifted, locking with Dane's. For a moment, neither spoke. Then Dane's gaze caught the tattoo inked along the man's forearm, a globe, an anchor, and an eagle perched atop it. Beneath, in bold, faded letters: U.S.M.C.

  "My dad had a similar tattoo," Dane said quietly.

  The man's expression barely shifted. "It may have looked the same," he said, voice rough and measured, "but none of you aliens know what it means."

  Dane tilted his head. "Well, my father's meant he was a Marine. But if yours is different, then I guess I'll leave you be."

  The man studied him like a tired man who'd survived too long to take words at face value. In a world where skills could strip truth straight from the mind, trust had become an endangered species.

  "You could be from Earth," he said finally, "but those eyes… they're not like any human I've seen."

  "Picked them up when I evolved my race."

  A slow exhale. "Hmph. Okay, say I do believe you. That still doesn't change the fact I'm sitting here to be left alone." He nodded toward the crowd. "Go have your pick of whores and wine, Demon. Leave me to my silence."

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  Dane didn't move. He felt a pull of Karma. It was faint, but it was the same as when the Snake God showed it to him.

  He didn't know why, but somehow, this man was tied to his path.

  The fluorescent light of the med bay was too bright, sterile, and wrong. It hummed against the back of Ryn's skull, needling his senses until he had to squint to think. He wiped the crust from his eyes. He hadn't even realized he'd fallen asleep, but he felt… better. Better than he had in years.

  Tubes ran from his arms into a rack of glowing vials, mana pulsing through them in slow, hypnotic beats. In the corner stood one of the Machine God's priests, robes humming with circuit-light, his featureless mask reflecting the pale green glow of the fluid.

  Then the door hissed open. The Enslaver stepped in, robes immaculate, smile polished.

  "Good," he said. "I was wondering when you'd wake up."

  Ryn's voice came out rough. "What do you want?"

  "Easy now," the Enslaver said, tone smooth and patient. "Is that any way to greet your generous benefactor?"

  "You mean owner."

  He waved a hand dismissively. "Semantics, my boy. You'd do well to remember that while I technically own you, I am every bit as invested in your success as you are."

  Ryn didn't reply. He started pulling at the tubes instead, grimacing as each one hissed free from his skin.

  "I wouldn't do that quite yet." The Slave Master gestured toward the glowing vials. "Those tubes are delivering your hard-earned gifts."

  Ryn froze, half-dislodged line hanging loose from his arm. "What gifts?"

  "Why, the gifts from your adoring fans, of course." The Enslaver's grin widened. "You are the Chimera-slayer, after all. The people may chatter about the Demon, but deep in their hearts, they want to back a hero, not some devil. So the crowd has voted, and you've been awarded as the champion of the first trial."

  Ryn glared at the green liquid climbing through the tubes. "I don't need this shit."

  "You're underestimating your foe," the Enslaver said lightly, strolling closer. "I've seen you both fight. If you met him head-on, it wouldn't be a contest. You'd die before you ever drew your second breath. But…” He tapped one of the vials with a metal finger. "You'd have to be a god to win without the crowd's blessing. That..." he nodded toward the glowing tubes " is a brew from the Machine God's own System. It accelerates cultivation in proportion to the energy from the crowd."

  He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Demon doesn't have that. They want to see him fall. Dominance is the enemy of drama, and each person in the stands wants to be entertained, not see a one-sided slaughter."

  Ryn clenched his jaw, staring at the slow rhythm of the green fluid.

  "I don't care what they crave."

  "Oh, but you should," the Enslaver murmured. "Because in this place, belief is power. And the crowd, your crowd, is about to make you very strong."

  The Enslaver lingered by the mana rack, watching the green light fade from the tubes as the last of the serum drained into Ryn's veins.

  "Good," he said softly. "The Machine God's brew works best when belief is fresh. You'll need every drop for what comes next."

  Ryn shifted on the cot. "You still haven't told me what that is."

  The Enslaver smiled the kind of smile that came from someone who already knew your reaction. "The Trial of the Void Sea. Seven ships, one prize. A storm of steel and mana that won't end until only one vessel still floats."

  "Seven," Ryn repeated. "Why so many?"

  "Because the Shattered Reach has five systems, and everyone needs a team to root for. You and this Demon don't fit neatly into any of the usual ideals. I suppose you could represent the Legion, but I have it on good authority that the Demon belongs to none. The architects wanted balance, and you, being unaffiliated, are the perfect choice for the people's champion.”

  He began to pace, hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Two ships would be predictable. Seven gives the audience stories to choose from—the zealot, the thief, the beastman, the Machine God's priestess, the noble exile, the Demon, and you, the Chimera-Slayer. The crowd will bet, cheer, and rage with every sinking hull."

  Ryn frowned. "And I'm supposed to win?"

  "Of course. You're the favorite now. They adore you. You bleed, you survive, you give them hope. But don't mistake affection for mercy." He tapped a metal finger against one of the drained vials. "They'll turn on you the moment you stop entertaining them."

  Ryn's voice hardened. "And you?"

  The Enslaver smiled. "I'll profit either way."

  Ryn stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled under his breath. "You really believe I'm just going to dance for them?"

  "I believe you'll play your part. That's how everyone survives the Crucible."

  Ryn stood, the tubes hissing as they slipped from his arms. His body felt lighter, stronger, faster, alive with borrowed energy. "Maybe. But I've never been good at following scripts."

  "Oh?"

  Ryn's gaze sharpened. "If the Crucibal feeds on stories, I'll write my own. You said the crowd wants a hero? Fine. I'll give them one. I'll use their faith, their cheers, their damn wagers, and when I'm strong enough, I'll make sure that I walk away with my life back."

  The Enslaver regarded him with mild amusement. "Careful, Captain. That kind of talk makes devils out of men."

  "Then maybe the world needs another."

  Ryn reached for the bronze medallion and clipped it to his belt. The sigil glowed faintly, reacting to the crowd's unseen energy.

  "When does it start?"

  The Enslaver turned toward the door. "When the water calls," he said. "The others are already boarding. I'd hurry, if I were you."

  Ryn flexed his hand, feeling the hum of mana under his skin. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll give them a show they'll never forget."