Ronin shoved a wrinkled black shirt into his backpack, not bothering to fold it. The fabric was still damp in places from the sink—he hadn't waited for it to dry. He didn't care. His clothes were a mix of faded, scorched, and vaguely clean. Two shirts, one spare pair of pants, socks, and a threadbare hoodie that might've once been grey. That was the whole wardrobe.
He zipped the bag halfway and kicked it shut when it refused to close.
Once upon a time, Lyra would've packed it for him. Neatly folded shirts, maybe a new set of gloves she picked out without telling him. There'd be snacks hidden in the side pocket, and something stupid like a note with a dumb drawing of them on stick figures. She'd always add her name beside his. "Team Ronra" she used to call it.
Now?
He spat into the kitchen sink and yanked the strap onto his shoulder.
No more teams. Just Ronin.
————
The restaurant was still buzzing from the dinner crowd when he met Kara. Same place as last time. She wore something sharp and understated—a dark red jacket over a black shirt, slim-cut pants, gold rings glinting on her fingers. Even dressed down, she radiated money and power.
He sat across from her at the table. The air smelled like oil and spice, and the chatter around them made it hard to think straight. Probably her plan.
She sipped a glass of wine like she wasn't born a rich kid playing mob games.
"You still look like a disaster," she said, setting the glass down.
Ronin didn't blink. "You like that in a man, don't you?"
She gave a slow smile. "You're not my type. I like people with life expectancy."
He leaned back, arms crossed. "So, we done flirting, or are you going to tell me what I'm walking into?"
Kara's fingers tapped her glass.
Then she pulled out her phone, slid it across the table.
"The identity's ready. His name's Peter White. B-rank in both stats. Fire affinity. Crippled. Masked. You'll do fine."
He picked up the phone, reading it twice.
"Crippled?" he asked.
She nodded. "Lower spine fracture. Permanent damage. He doesn't do awakened work anymore—just lives off compensation and his family's hush money. He never went public. No footage. No affiliations. No flags on him."
Ronin let that settle. "And he just happened to leave his entire legal existence in your lap?"
She leaned in, lips curling like she was about to kiss a loaded gun. "Let's just say his family owes me. And they're not fans of the awakened world anymore. Peter won't be needing his name."
He nodded. "Fine. And the mask?"
"Stylish, full-face. Covers your jawline, chin, everything except your hair and eyes. You'll pass if no one looks too close."
He was quiet for a beat.
Then: "You doing all this for someone who might not even win?"
Kara smiled again. But this one didn't reach her eyes.
"You're going to win," she said. "And when you do, you'll stand up there in front of a thousand cameras, holding that trophy, and say whatever I want you to say."
Ronin met her gaze, fire under his calm. "Well... Whatever"
He stood. Grabbed his half-eaten breadstick and took a bite.
"I'll see you whenever," he said around the chew, then walked out without another word.
————
The next morning.
His phone buzzed twice.
First, from Kara again.
"Don't forget. Peter White is soft-spoken, polite, and doesn't brag. He doesn't have friends. No one will recognize him. Just don't talk too much."
Then, a new message:
Oren:
"Let's go to Xyros together. I booked the gate already. 3 passes. Meet me near the East end—by the ShimmerMart. Try not to be late."
Ronin stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then he typed:
"You got it"
He agreed. Oren wasn't bad company, and a free ride was a free ride.
————
He spotted Oren first—same messy blonde hair, though this time it looked like he'd run a comb through it. He was standing near a cheap corner store, eating something fried and dripping in sauce. His clothes were cleaner than last time—baggy grey hoodie, black pants, and a scuffed backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.
Ronin walked up slowly.
Oren grinned through a mouthful of food. "Well, if it isn't Ronin the walking bonfire."
Ronin paused, eyes narrowed slightly. Then he gave a casual shrug.
"Yeah… about that. I lied."
Oren blinked.
Ronin kept his tone light. "Name's not Ronin. It's Peter. Peter White."
Oren squinted at him for a second. "The hell?"
Ronin chuckled, scratching his jaw. "Didn't know if I could trust you back then. You seemed like the type to rob me and use my blood as potion fuel."
Oren snorted. "That's fair." He extended a fist. "Peter White, huh? Sounds rich."
Ronin bumped it. "I'm poor enough to qualify for free instant noodles, I promise."
Oren smirked. "Alright, Pete. Let's get going. My sister should be nearby."
"Didn't know you had a sister," Ronin said.
"She's the family prodigy," Oren said, mock bitterness in his tone. "B-rank magic, D physical. Runs on caffeine and rage."
Ronin raised a brow. "Sounds charming."
"You'll see."
A few minutes later, a girl emerged from the crowd with the exact energy of someone who hated being late but refused to run. She was maybe nineteen, wore a fitted white top tucked into dark jeans, orange boots clacking on the pavement. Her hair was shoulder-length, black with streaks of orange at the tips, and she had a tired, impatient look that mirrored Oren's—just meaner.
She wheeled a small suitcase behind her with silent, practiced annoyance.
"Aurelia," Oren greeted, spreading his arms like a goof.
She didn't hug him. Didn't even smile.
"Please tell me this is the right gate this time," she said flatly.
Oren winced. "Hey, that was one time."
Her eyes flicked to Ronin. "You bringing strays now?"
"This is Peter," Oren said. "He's joining us."
Ronin nodded. "Nice to meet you."
She didn't shake his hand. Just studied his face for a moment. "You talk like someone twice your age."
"I feel twice my age."
"Good. Less babysitting."
She turned on her heel and walked toward the teleportation gate plaza like she owned it.
Oren gave Ronin a sheepish look. "She's nicer once she's killed a few people."
————
The teleportation plaza.
It felt like standing at the edge of the world.
The crowd buzzed with energy—people hauling bags, hugging goodbye, checking their IDs over and over again. Drones hovered above, scanning everyone as they entered the security line.
The gate itself was massive. Circular, pulsing blue. Enchanted sigils wrapped around its frame like vines of molten light. The hum of stored mana was so intense it made Ronin's teeth buzz.
They waited in line for nearly twenty minutes. Oren kept the conversation alive, talking about Gauntlet rumors—how some guy supposedly brought a pet wyvern into the last round and was still disqualified for using "outside tools."
Aurelia ignored them both, scrolling on her phone.
Ronin stood silent between them. Watching the glowing gate. Rehearsing the name in his head.
Peter. Peter. Peter.
Not Ronin. Not anymore.
The woman at the checkpoint scanned their bracelets and waved them through.
One more step forward. One more life discarded.
When the gate pulsed and their names were called, he stepped into the light.
And Peter White went to Xyros.