Taren’s opponent would not finish the fight. That was the problem. The man moved well enough to be dangerous, but never enough to win. Every time Taren pressed forward, he gave ground. Every time Taren slowed, the man circled, keeping just enough distance to stay alive. It went on longer than it should have. Sweat ran down Taren’s neck. His breathing grew heavier, not from effort, but from irritation. He tried a heavier strike. The man slipped away. He tried to bait him into a clash. Nothing.

  Taren glanced past him. Raizō wasn’t there. The space where he usually stood near the cage wall was empty. No still presence. No quiet focus watching the fight. Taren felt something cold settle in his stomach. He had barely blocked the next strike. He twisted away, boots scraping against the floor of the cage. His opponent didn’t give him space.

  Another blow came in low. Taren jumped back, breath sharp, eyes flicking past the man’s shoulder for just a second. He looked again. Still nothing. The distraction almost cost him. A punch caught his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. He grunted and shoved forward, forcing distance with the shaft of his spear.

  He should be there.

  The opponent lunged again, relentless. Not sloppy. Not rushed. Just… persistent. Taren blocked, spun, and shouted between breaths.

  “Seris!”

  She looked up immediately from the stands, startled by his tone.

  “What?”

  Taren ducked under a swing and countered hard enough to make the man stagger.

  “Where’s Raizō?”

  Seris’s eyes snapped to the edge of the pit.

  “He was—”

  Taren barely heard the rest. His opponent was already back on him, driving him toward the cage wall. Shizume stood up. Her eyes moved fast. Too fast.

  “…He’s gone,” she said.

  The word hit Taren harder than the punch to his ribs. He parried, shoved, and forced space again, breath coming heavier now.

  “No,” he snapped. “He wouldn’t just—”

  Another strike. Another block. The man didn’t try to finish him. Didn’t overextend. Just kept him busy. That’s when Taren understood. His opponent smiled. Not wide. Not cruel. Knowing. Taren took a step back, glancing at his opponent, who still hadn’t pressed the fight too much.

  “…He’s stalling me,” Taren muttered.

  The realization hit all of them at once.

  “Rylan,” Shizume said suddenly.

  Seris turned. Her stomach dropped. The seat beside them was empty. They hadn’t noticed him leave. That was the worst part.

  Seris’s voice dropped. “They separated him.”

  Shizume clenched her fist. “He’s alone.”

  The crowd roared, mistaking panic for showmanship. Seris moved first. Shizume followed without thinking. They pushed through the crowd, ignoring protests, ignoring shouts. Taren’s grip tightened until his hands hurt. His vision blurred at the edges, not from damage, but from the pressure building in his chest. His opponent stepped forward again, calm as ever.

  “You’re not leaving,” the man said.

  Taren stared at him. And for the first time, fear wasn’t what filled his chest. It was rage. The man stepped in again. Taren’s chest rose and fell hard, each breath dragging heat through his lungs.

  Then it happened.

  A sharp pressure ran behind his eyes. His vision narrowed, colors deepening, edges sharpening. The noise of the pit dulled, but one sound cut through everything else. A heartbeat. Fast. Uneven. Not his. His teeth clenched as a dull ache spread along his jaw. He felt it before he understood it. His canines pressed lower, longer, biting against his lip until he tasted blood. The crowd faded further. The man in front of him took a half step back.

  “What the hell—”

  Taren lifted his head. The man froze.

  Taren’s eyes had changed. The roundness was gone. His pupils pulled tight, thin and vertical, locking onto the man’s chest like a sightline. His shoulders rolled back with a low crack. Muscle swelled beneath his skin, not suddenly, but firmly, like something finally allowed to stretch after being restrained too long. His frame thickened, posture shifting forward, weight settling into the balls of his feet.

  He inhaled. The man’s heartbeat thundered in his ears now. Panic. Sharp. Raw. The man felt it too. He swallowed, hands rising instinctively, palms open like that would help.

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  “This wasn’t supposed to—” he started.

  Taren moved. Not fast. Certain. He stepped inside the man’s guard and drove his forehead forward. The impact snapped the man’s head back, cutting the breath from his throat. Before he could recover, Taren’s hand clamped around his wrist and twisted. Bone popped. The scream was immediate. Taren didn’t flinch.

  He could feel everything. The tremor in the man’s arm. The spike in his pulse. The way his breath hitched when fear fully took hold. The man tried to pull free. Taren pulled him closer. Up close, the panic was overwhelming. The man’s eyes darted, searching for help that wasn’t coming. His body shook as his instincts finally caught up with reality.

  “You stalled the wrong fight,” Taren said.

  Raizō knew there were too many of them the moment his lightning spread. It crawled across the stone beneath his feet and climbed the walls in thin, snapping veins. The air tightened. The weight of his Kaijin pressed outward, heavy enough that the first few attackers slowed as they stepped into it. Muscles tensed. Movements dragged, like they were pushing through deep water.

  One of them hissed under his breath when the lightning bit into his arm. Another staggered as the pressure settled on his chest. But they didn’t stop. Raizō’s breathing stayed even, but something felt wrong. The calm he relied on never fully arrived. The familiar sense of reading every movement, of understanding the rhythm of the fight, refused to settle.

  Too many patterns.

  Too many differences.

  Some of them fought like trained soldiers. Clean footwork. Tight guards. Others moved with the sharp, unnatural precision of Kaijin users, their bodies pushing past normal limits. His Kaijin tried to adapt and slipped instead, pulled in too many directions at once. A blade slid between his ribs before he could turn.

  Pain flared white. His lightning cracked hard in response, arcing down the attacker’s arm and throwing him back into the wall. The man hit the stone and didn’t get up, smoke curling from his armor. Raizō stepped forward, forcing space, throwing a sharp jab into another man’s face, following with a hook that snapped his head sideways. A high kick came next, catching a second attacker under the jaw and lifting him off his feet.

  Steel cut across Raizō’s thigh as he landed. Another blade raked his shoulder. They were learning. One of them stayed just outside the lightning, watching him carefully. Older. Calm. His movements were measured, his eyes steady even as sparks snapped inches from his face.

  “Don’t rush him,” the man said. His voice carried clearly through the chaos. “Let him burn himself out.”

  Raizō felt it then. The lightning still hurt them, but it wasn’t stopping them anymore. The weight of his Kaijin dragged at his own limbs now. His muscles tightened. His reactions dulled by a fraction, then another. That fraction was enough. A Kaijin user lunged low, faster than the rest. Raizō blocked the first strike, twisted away from the second, but the third blade slid deep into his side. He grunted, lightning surging wild as he staggered back. The leader nodded once.

  “See?” he said calmly. “He can’t keep up with all of us.”

  Raizō planted his feet. Blood soaked into his clothes. His vision narrowed, edges darkening. His Kaijin strained, lightning snapping erratically now instead of clean and controlled. He attacked anyway.

  A straight punch crushed one man’s nose. A knee folded another at the waist. He spun, driving a heel into a shoulder, felt bone crack. But for every one he dropped, another took his place.

  A blade slipped past his guard and bit deep into his side. Every breath after that burned, and he knew anything else like it would drop him. Raizō’s breathing broke rhythm. His lightning flared brighter, angrier, but it no longer slowed them the way it had before. The Kaijin user stepped in again. Experienced. Calm. No hesitation. The lightning collided with him, sparks exploding between them. The man smiled slightly as he pushed through it, forcing Raizō back step by step.

  “You’re strong,” the man said, almost approving. “But this is where it ends.”

  Raizō tried to move. Tried to disengage. There was nowhere to go. Stone at his back. Blades in front of him. The pressure of his Kaijin pressed outward, but it had nothing left to give him in return. His body screamed for rest. His hands shook. This wasn’t a fight anymore. It was an ending.

  The Kaijin user raised his blade. Raizō moved first. Not fast. Not clean. Desperate. He stepped inside the strike, ignoring the blade tearing across his forearm. His lightning surged point-blank, flooding the man’s body, locking his muscles for half a second.

  That half second was everything. Raizō drove his knee up into the man’s chest. Felt ribs give. Pulled him down and slammed his elbow into the base of his skull with everything he had left. The sound was wrong. Final.

  The body collapsed at Raizō’s feet. Silence spread outward like a shockwave. The remaining operatives stopped. They didn’t rush him anymore. They didn’t need to. Raizō stood there, swaying, lightning snapping weakly around him. Blood dripped from his hands. From his side. From his arm.

  The leader studied him for a long moment, eyes flicking to the dead Kaijin user, then back to Raizō. Restraint was gone. That was what they saw. They backed away slowly, one by one, never turning their backs on him. When they finally disappeared into the tunnels, the weight lifted all at once.

  Raizō dropped to one knee.

  His Kaijin faded, lightning dying with a soft crackle. He stared at the body in front of him, chest heaving, hands shaking. There had been no other choice. And he knew it. That knowledge hurt more than any blade.

  High above the alley, half-hidden by broken stone and shadow, Rylan leaned against the edge of a rooftop. One knee was bent, boot resting on the ledge, posture loose like he was watching street performers instead of the aftermath of a slaughter. His usual grin wasn’t there.

  He watched Raizō sink to one knee. Watched the lightning fade. Watched the way Raizō stared at the body on the ground like it might move again if he looked away. Rylan’s fingers tapped once against his thigh. Slow. Thoughtful.

  “…That style,” he murmured.

  His gaze sharpened as Raizō shifted, guarding without thinking, weight centered even while exhausted.

  “That’s not from here.”

  Not the Wildlands. Not Frostmarch. Not anything Rylan had seen come out of the Pits or the streets. Too practiced. Too familiar.

  “You didn’t learn that surviving,” he said quietly. “You learned it somewhere else.”

  He didn’t laugh. Didn’t clap. Didn’t look impressed in the way the crowd at the Pits had been. He looked… alert. Interested in a way that wasn’t playful anymore.

  When Raizō finally forced himself upright, Rylan stepped back from the edge, melting into the shadows without a sound. By the time the girls would reach the alley, the rooftop was empty. Only the knowledge remained. Someone had been watching the whole time. But the thought stayed with him.

  Another one like me?