Ronin sat on the edge of his bed—or what passed for one. The sheets were sterile-white, laid taut across a steel table he'd dragged in from some shady surplus store. His actual mattress? Long since discarded for getting in the way of what he called "progress." The room around him was a Frankenstein's wet dream of parts, wires, and repurposed trash. Tools lined the walls, each one with a new name and purpose he'd slapped on them like goddamn DIY gospel. A soldering iron humming faintly with mana—his "cauterizer." Fishing line next to a dull scalpel—"sutures." A hand mirror angled just right over a desk lamp. It was a lab. It was a prison. It was home.
He reached inward, fingers twitching, skin prickling. His mana pulsed through his veins like an old, loyal dog sniffing around for scraps. He felt the yellow core—the familiar hum, the same dull heat it always carried. Then, further up, buried deep in the meat and grey of his skull—he felt it.
The blue one.
It didn't hum. It didn't glow. It didn't even acknowledge him. It just was. A silent, frozen weight buried in his head like a shard of glass he couldn't pull out.
"Dead fucking weight," he muttered, standing up.
No new tricks. No flashy bullshit. No raw power waiting to explode out of him. Just a splitting headache and a silent passenger lodged in his goddamn brain. He hadn't even gotten a new nosebleed since the surgery. Not even a flicker.
Fine.
He needed out. He'd been holed up too long, the walls whispering madness in between notes of disinfectant and solder smoke. And he knew just the place. Familiar. Simple. Damned.
The bar.
"Just one," he told himself, like a liar rehearsing lines he didn't believe.
The bar still smelled like what a therapist might call "coping mechanisms." Stale liquor, burnt regret, and that underlying musk of people who gave up just enough to keep breathing. His boots clacked against the floor, tracking in guilt like mud.
He didn't come to drink himself stupid this time. He came to celebrate. Or lie to himself about celebrating. The difference was just semantic anyway.
The bartender gave him a short nod. Tall guy, weathered face like cracked leather, one cloudy eye and a tattooed neck. Ronin had definitely asked for his name once during one of those black-out wallowing sessions. He never remembered the answer. Now it was too awkward to ask again.
So he just nodded back, that universal man-code for "what's up" and "don't ask questions."
The drink was cold, bitter, and gone faster than it took to blink. So was the second. The third had the decency to linger a bit. So much for just one.
He sighed, leaning an elbow on the bar—and that's when he noticed the guy next to him.
About his age. Blonde hair, messy but in that unbothered kind of way. Clean-shaven, decent posture, and for some godforsaken reason—reading a newspaper. Like an actual, physical stack of paper.
Who even prints those anymore?
The headline was bold enough to catch from across the stool.
THE GAUNTLET: NATIONAL TOURNAMENT OPENS IN XYROS
Ronin stared a little too long.
The guy noticed, looked up, then offered a polite smile. "Curious about the tournament?"
Ronin raised an eyebrow. "Curious about why anyone reads that ancient thing."
The man chuckled softly. "Fair. I like the feel of paper. Helps me focus."
Ronin smirked. "You one of those vintage types? Gonna order wine next and judge me for this swill?"
"I wouldn't dare," he said, amused. "I've had three of those myself. You just beat me to the fourth."
Ronin took a closer look. His glass was empty. Again.
The guy folded the paper and offered a hand. "Name's Oren."
Ronin shook it. "Ronin."
Oren's grip was firm, warm. He looked like the kind of guy who'd say please and thank you even in a knife fight.
"You thinking of joining?" Oren asked, gesturing at the paper.
"Dunno. Just heard about it."
"Well," Oren said, "it's a ranked tournament. Split into divisions—B, A, and S. B-ranks fight B-ranks, and so on. No cross-divisions, so no one's getting stomped by someone way above their weight class."
Ronin narrowed his eyes. "And the reward?"
Oren took a small sip of his drink before answering. "Winner of each division gets a B-rank crystal. Big incentive, even if you're already ranked."
Ronin's brows shot up. "That's a hell of a prize for punching a few faces in a ring."
"It is," Oren admitted. "I'm in the B-rank division myself. Figured it was time to… do something with the rank."
Ronin leaned on the counter. "Something?"
There was a flicker of hesitation in Oren's eyes, like he wasn't sure how much to say. Then he sighed. "I froze on my first real mission. Saw the monster and just… couldn't move. Team had to pull me out. Haven't taken another since."
"Still kept the rank?"
He nodded. "Technically. Rank's about potential, not courage. I've got the power, but no stomach for carnage. The tournament's cleaner. Safer. No monsters. Just rules. I can handle that."
Ronin looked at him for a long second. "You ever think about selling the crystal instead?"
"Every day," Oren said with a tired smile. "But if I win it… I might hold onto it. Might try again. On my own terms."
Ronin respected that. Even if the guy looked too polished, too well-spoken, too... sane.
And still, he might win a B-rank crystal just by playing ring fighter.
Ronin, on the other hand—E-rank on paper, officially stamped and sealed—couldn't even enter the tournament.
Unless…
Unless he stopped being Ronin, E-rank nobody.
He needed a new name. A new face.
And someone to make that happen.
His thoughts drifted like smoke to the one person who owed him more than words.
Kara.
Yeah.
She could make this happen.