The noise from the Pits never fully stopped. Even between fights, it lingered. Voices arguing. Coins clinking. Someone laughing too loudly. Someone else screaming and then going quiet.

  Raizō stood behind the bars again, hands resting on the cold iron. Sand still clung to his skin. His breathing was steady, but his body hadn’t fully settled yet. Taren leaned nearby, arms crossed, jaw tight. He didn’t look at Raizō. He didn’t look at the pit either. He stared at the wall like it might crack if he pushed hard enough with his thoughts.

  Up in the stands, Rylan had made himself comfortable. Too comfortable. legs stretched out, hands folded behind his head like this was all a show meant for him.

  “You know,” Rylan said lightly, “most people don’t last long once they’re down here.”

  Shizume turned her head slowly.

  “This wouldn’t have happened,” she said, voice flat, “if you didn’t drag us into your mess.”

  Rylan glanced at her, amused. “Mess is a strong word.”

  Shizume shifted beside him, eyes never leaving the cage below. Her hand drifted toward her blade again, slower this time. Controlled. Measured.

  Rylan noticed. She moved. It was fast. Smooth. Quiet. And it failed.

  Rylan tilted just enough that her strike cut nothing but air. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise. He only leaned back in his seat and smiled sideways at her.

  “Careful,” he said lightly. “People get upset when you try that here.”

  Shizume froze, then pulled her hand back. Her eyes narrowed. Rylan wasn’t exposed. No careless posture. No blind spots. Even lounging like this, he was always positioned where he could move. Always aware of the space around him. There wasn’t a single clean opening to take him quietly.

  That bothered her more than she liked.

  “What are you?” she asked.

  Rylan smiled, but didn’t answer but his smile widened, just a little. Seris exhaled slowly and leaned forward, forcing her attention away from him.

  “How many matches,” she asked, voice firm, “do they have to win to clear this so called debt?”

  Rylan glanced at her, surprised she asked so directly.

  “That,” he said, “Usually three, but it depends on the debt.”

  He gestured lazily toward the pit.

  “Most people finish after three matches. That’s the standard.”

  Seris didn’t relax.

  “If the debt is larger…” Rylan’s eyes flicked down to Raizō, still standing behind the bars. “Then the Pits get… creative.”

  Shizume stiffened. Seris’s fingers curled.

  “The bigger the debt,” Rylan continued, tone almost casual, “the more likely the fights are set up to end you. Bad matchups. Tired bodies. Numbers instead of skill.”

  He paused.

  “And if you happen to walk around with something that belongs to the Black Tithe’s leader…”

  He shrugged.

  “Every match will probably be rigged to kill you.”

  The words settled heavily. The announcer stepped forward, voice amplified by the stone walls of the pit.

  “Next match.”

  The crowd quieted, restless rather than eager.

  “Debtor enters first.”

  Raizō was shoved forward. He didn’t look at the stands. He didn’t look at the cage. He just walked. A few boos started early. Others followed once they recognized him. The announcer waited for it to settle.

  “Known in the Pits as…”

  He paused, glancing at the slate in his hand.

  “Mood Killer.”

  The name landed wrong. Not exciting. Not fun. The crowd answered with louder boos. Rylan laughed under his breath, clearly enjoying it.

  “Oh, that’s sticking,” he said. “They hate you already.”

  The announcer continued, voice flat.

  “No one expected him to walk out of the first round.”

  A gate creaked open behind Raizō.

  “For his next match, he’ll be facing four.”

  The crowd finally stirred with interest. The gate lifted fully. Four figures stepped out. The crowd surged to its feet. One was tall and broad, knuckles wrapped thick with leather and dried blood. Another rolled his shoulders like he was loosening up for a workout, a crooked smile on his face. The third moved with practiced calm, eyes never leaving Raizō. The fourth said nothing at all, standing slightly behind the others, watching.

  “Let’s see if he can kill the mood again.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  The crowd exploded. Above them, Rylan’s posture shifted. He leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the cage.

  “They didn’t waste time, did they,” he said quietly, amusement thinning into something sharper.

  His gaze didn’t flicker back to Shizume or Seris this time. It stayed on Raizō. The sand settled. The gates slammed shut. Raizō didn’t move. He didn’t look at the crowd. He didn’t look at the announcer. He looked at the four fighters in front of him and adjusted his stance. Still calm. Still quiet.

  The noise in the Pits hesitated. Raizō rolled his shoulders and stepped forward, light on his feet. Not rushing. Not stiff. He shifted left, then right, testing the sand under him. His eyes moved between all four opponents, never settling too long on one. They spread out. The big one stayed in front, hands high, chin tucked. The others circled, waiting for an opening.

  Raizō moved first.

  A quick step in. A jab snapped out, sharp and clean, striking the big man’s nose. Not hard enough to drop him. Hard enough to get a reaction. Raizō slid back immediately, feet gliding instead of dragging. The man charged. Raizō pivoted. A low kick cracked into the thigh, followed instantly by a mid kick that slammed into the ribs. The sound echoed. The man grunted and stumbled, surprised by how fast the distance closed.

  Raizō didn’t chase.

  A fist came from the left. Raizō slipped inside it, shoulder turning, and answered with a short hook to the body. Another hook followed to the head. The attacker staggered back, blinking. Movement behind him. Raizō turned on his heel. A straight punch met the rushing fighter, snapping his head back. Raizō followed with an uppercut that lifted the man off his feet just enough to break his balance. A push sent him sprawling into the sand. The crowd roared. The quiet one moved in, blade low and tight. Raizō adjusted his stance.

  He stayed just outside the man’s reach, circling, forcing him to follow. When the blade flashed, Raizō stepped in instead of away. His forearm knocked the wrist aside. A knee drove into the man’s stomach. As the man bent forward, Raizō’s elbow came down across the back of his neck.

  The blade hit the sand. Raizō turned before the body did. The fourth fighter rushed him hard, fast, desperate. Raizō met him head on.

  Jab. Jab. Hook.

  The last punch snapped the man’s jaw sideways. Raizō stepped past him and spun. A high kick whipped across, heel slamming into the side of the man’s head. He dropped without a sound. The big one roared and charged again, rage overtaking caution. Raizō waited. At the last second, he shifted his weight and slid off the line. A straight punch hit the throat. A hook followed. Then a crushing mid kick folded the man over. Raizō finished it with a knee to the face.

  Only one remained.

  The crooked-smiled fighter backed away, fear replacing bravado. Raizō advanced. Deliberate steps. Hands loose. Calm. The man swung wildly. Raizō slipped under the punch and answered with a sharp uppercut. As the man reeled, Raizō stepped in and drove a kick into the knee. The joint buckled. Raizō didn’t hesitate. A final punch ended it.

  Silence spread through the Pits.

  Raizō stood alone, breathing steady, blood trailing from his shoulder, sand clinging to his skin. He turned toward the gate. The crowd didn’t cheer. They just stared. The last body hit the sand and didn’t move. Raizō stood alone in the pit, chest rising slowly, blood trailing down his forearm. He didn’t raise his hands. He didn’t look to the crowd. He just waited.

  Shizume realized she was gripping the railing too hard when her fingers started to hurt. She loosened them, forced herself to breathe, and kept her eyes on Raizō. Not because she was afraid of him. Not because she was impressed. Because she understood what this meant. This wasn’t survival anymore. This was escalation. Every movement he made in that cage had been seen. Not just by the crowd, but by the wrong people. She could already feel it, the way attention shifted, the way the air changed when someone stopped being entertainment and started becoming a problem. She glanced around the Pits, tracking faces, counting eyes. They wouldn’t let this go unanswered.

  Seris didn’t move at all. She stood still, shoulders squared, eyes narrowed, watching Raizō step over the fallen fighters without hesitation. Her mind wasn’t on how he fought. It was on what came next. Four opponents. One fight rigged to kill him. And he walked out of it without looking back. That kind of victory didn’t earn freedom. It earned scrutiny.

  She had seen this pattern before, back in the Order. The moment someone proved they were more dangerous than expected, the rules changed. Quietly. Without warning. Seris exhaled through her nose.

  “They’re not done with him,” she said flatly.

  Rylan didn’t answer. For once, he wasn’t smiling. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on the cage as the guards moved. His usual careless posture was gone, replaced by something sharper. Four fighters. One of them armed. One clearly trained. One reckless enough to rush. Raizō hadn’t flinched once. Rylan’s fingers tapped against his leg, then stopped.

  “Huh,” he said softly.

  No joke followed. The crowd finally found its voice again, louder this time. Some cheered. Some booed. Others shouted the name the announcer had given him, as if daring him to react. Raizō didn’t. He turned toward the gate.

  Shizume’s gaze followed him, her jaw tightening. Seris straightened slightly, already bracing herself. Rylan leaned back at last, eyes never leaving Raizō.

  “Well,” he muttered, almost to himself, “they really didn’t expect that.”

  The gates creaked open. Raizō walked out without acknowledging the bodies behind him. And everyone watching understood the same thing. This wasn’t just a win. It was a line crossed. And the Pits never let that go unanswered.

  The room sat above the Pits, far enough that the noise below sounded dull, like something trapped behind stone. A long table cut through the center. Coins, contracts, and ledgers were spread across it.

  No one was smiling. One man leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping against a metal ring etched with the Black Tithe mark.

  “This is a problem,” he said. “He’s bad for business.”

  Another man flipped a page in a ledger and stopped. He didn’t need to read it out loud. Everyone could see the numbers dropping.

  “Crowds are thinning,” he said anyway. “They don’t cheer. They don’t gamble. They watch one fight, then they leave.”

  A woman near the window crossed her arms. “Sponsors noticed. Three pulled out tonight. They said the same thing.”

  She looked up.

  “Too quick. Too ugly. No suspense.”

  The man with the ring scoffed. “He doesn’t play to the crowd. Doesn’t drag it out. Doesn’t make it fun.”

  “That’s the issue,” another said. “The Pits run on hope. On thinking maybe the next hit changes everything. He takes that away.”

  Someone else spoke, quieter. “They’re calling him a mood killer.”

  That earned a few grim chuckles, but they didn’t last.

  A man near the end of the table frowned. “Where did he even come from?”

  No one answered at first.

  Then someone said, “He wasn’t alone.”

  Heads turned.

  “He came in with that problem child,” the man continued. “Rylan.”

  The room went still.

  The woman by the window narrowed her eyes. “Of course he did.”

  Another voice followed, sharp with irritation. “That makes this his mess.”

  A runner stepped into the room, breathless. “Messages from the sponsors. They want him gone.”

  “Gone how?” the woman asked.

  The runner hesitated. “They didn’t say. Just… gone. Dead, crippled, or removed. They don’t care which.”

  Silence followed.

  The man with the ring leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We can’t let him keep fighting like this. If he keeps winning, we lose money. If he dies too fast, we lose money. Either way, this ends badly.”

  “So we rig it harder,” someone said.

  “That risks attention,” another replied. “And if he survives again?”

  The man with the ring exhaled through his nose.

  “This is his last match,” he said. “Rig it. Make it something the crowd thinks they’ll enjoy.”

  His gaze moved around the table.

  “If he ruins this one too, then we stop pretending this ends in the Pits.”

  The woman by the window nodded slowly. “We deal with him outside.”

  The man with the ring stood.

  “Set it up.”

  No one argued. Below them, the crowd noise dipped again as another group stood and left. And the Black Tithe watched their profits bleed away, already deciding how far they were willing to go to make it stop.