Ronin stood at the gates of a mansion. No—calling it a mansion would've been an insult. This thing was massive. Impossibly tall walls, white marble pillars etched with gold filigree, and a garden that looked like it could host a small war. Even the damn driveway had better maintenance than his entire apartment building. The kind of place that screamed money louder than a noble's ego.
He'd taken a taxi to get here. Pulled up like some lost tourist while the rich bastards inside probably hadn't even seen a yellow cab in their lives.
He rubbed the back of his neck and looked up again at the Montclair estate.
Last night, after talking to Oren, this idea had clawed its way into his head. Kara. She was his best shot if he wanted to pull off what he was planning. And Oren… hell, the guy turned out to be more fun than he thought. Crude, chaotic, reckless—a perfect drinking buddy. Maybe even someone worth tagging along to the tournament if he could sort out the whole identity problem.
But first things first.
Three guards stood by the front gate. All of them decked in sleek silver armor polished enough to see your soul in. They weren't tense, not even wary. Just curious. One had a hand on the hilt of his blade, but more out of boredom than caution. Probably because they knew that if he tried anything, they'd drop him in seconds. They were confident like that. The kind of confidence that came from having killed before—and knowing you could do it again without breaking a sweat.
He should've been nervous. Hell, a few weeks ago he would've been. But something in him had shifted lately. The crystals. The embedding. The burns. Maybe he was losing his humanity, bit by bit. But what came in its place was... focus. Sharp, blinding focus. He didn't feel fear anymore—just purpose. Strength was the only thing he cared about now.
He stepped forward.
"I'm a friend of Kara Montclair," he said.
The guards looked at each other. Then at the third one—much larger, his silver armor trimmed in gold. That one was clearly the leader. Or at least the one who got the final say in situations like this.
The gold-armored man studied Ronin for a second longer than necessary. Probably wondering if he was someone important. That respectful pause meant something in noble circles.
"I'm afraid Lady Kara isn't available at the moment," he said, tone measured, respectful. "But if you'd like, I can take a message."
Ronin didn't argue. This was better than he expected.
"Tell her Ronin stopped by."
The gold guard nodded. He raised a hand and tapped his bracelet. A small pen and a piece of paper slid out of it, like a magician's trick. Dimensional storage—compact and expensive as hell. Only nobles and their top dogs had shit like that. Ronin's curiosity sparked, even as he suppressed it. If he could get his hands on one of those, he knew he could rip it open and understand how it worked. Another time.
For now, he'd left the message.
That meant Kara would come to him.
He turned and left without another word, caught a cab, and headed back to his apartment. There was research to be done—tournament details, rules, names of past winners. Anything that could give him an edge.
————
Two hours later, the sun was sinking. Warm orange light stretched across his tiny kitchen floor when his phone buzzed. A single message.
"Where can we meet?"
No name. Didn't need one. Kara.
He replied with the name of a small restaurant down the block. Not a fancy place—just something normal. Comfortable. To him, at least. To someone like Kara, it probably looked like a trash heap. But he didn't give a damn. All that mattered was getting what he needed.
Then something clicked in his mind.
When did I start thinking like this?
Cold. Practical. Everything else had turned into background noise lately. Even the people. Even himself. He shook it off. No time to self-analyze. Not when he was this close.
He grabbed his jacket and headed out.
————
The restaurant wasn't bad. Simple interior. Wooden floors. Wobbly tables. That warm, greasy smell that said, "You'll feel slightly guilty after this meal, but you'll love it anyway."
He sat at a booth in the back.
A waitress came by—a young girl with blonde pigtails, probably still in high school.
"What'll it be?"
"Just a drink. I'm waiting on someone."
She nodded and left.
Five minutes passed.
Then the bell over the door rang, and she walked in.
Kara Montclair.
Her brown hair was tied back, neater than the last time he saw her in that dusty-ass dungeon. She wore a white blouse and black pants—simple but unmistakably expensive. The kind of outfit where every thread probably had its own price tag. Right behind her was a man built like a truck, clearly her bodyguard.
As they walked toward him, she leaned toward the man and whispered something. Whatever it was, the guy didn't like it, but he turned and left anyway, standing by the door instead.
She slid into the booth across from Ronin, smiling faintly.
"Well, I didn't expect you to seek me out."
He didn't waste a breath.
"I need a favor."
Her brow raised at his bluntness, but she waved her hand casually. "Go on."
"I want to enter the Xyros tournament."
That caught her interest. Her smile widened slightly.
"And let me guess—you want help... with your rank?"
Ronin blinked. "Yeah."
"Figured." She leaned back in her seat, studying him. "I can pull it off. But it won't be free."
"Name your price."
He already knew it wouldn't be money. People like her didn't care about coins—they cared about leverage.
She tapped her finger against the table, thoughtful.
"I know someone," she said. "An awakened. B-rank. Fire affinity. Wears a mask most of the time. Doesn't care much for tournaments. He's willing to lend you his identity."
Ronin narrowed his eyes. That was... absurdly convenient.
"You're telling me this guy just happens to be fire affinity?"
She smirked. "I am."
Either this was Montclair influence working overtime, or she'd planned this ahead of time. Either way, it didn't matter.
He nodded. "Fine. I'll play the role."
"But," she added, voice quieting, "if you win... during your winner's speech, I want you to say you did it to support Kara Montclair."
There it was.
Of course she wanted something political out of this. Nobles always did. The Montclairs were in some kind of internal race—each heir clawing for control. A public statement like that from a tournament winner would be a huge boost to her standing.
Ronin leaned back and sighed.
"Done."
He extended his hand. She shook it.
He didn't give a shit. If he won, he'd say whatever she wanted. If he lost, it wouldn't matter anyway. Either way, he was going to tear through that tournament like fire through dry wood.
Strength first.
Everything else was noise.