The arena wasn't built. It was dug into the ground like a pit meant for animals—or worse. Hidden behind crooked buildings and foul-smelling alleys, it looked like nothing from the outside. Just a narrow door under a rusted sign. No guards, no banners. Just danger, thick in the air.
Reid walked in.
The smell hit hard—stale ale, sweat, and old blood. The floor was sticky, and the air felt thick, like it hadn't been moved in years. Mold clung to the walls. The ceiling was low, the light dim. But none of that mattered.
All eyes were locked on the center.
A large space had been cleared, ropes stretched around it like a makeshift ring. Two men fought inside, shirtless and bloodied, swinging fists with wild rage. The crowd shouted and laughed around them, drinks in hand, money changing fast. Men and women leaned in close, screaming bets and curses.
Reid stood still, watching. This place wasn't new to him. The kind of filth, noise, and tension—it felt familiar. It felt right.
He pushed through the crowd. No one blocked him. His size and silence made people step aside without thinking. He reached the far side, where a raised wooden platform stood. On it sat a thick man with a braided beard, wrapped in furs despite the heat. Rings gleamed on his fingers, and a heavy pipe hung from his mouth.
The man was shouting, calling out bets.
"Ten to one on Maargus! Who's brave? Who's dumb? Come on, you lot!"
Reid stepped in front of the platform. The man paused, looking him over. At first amused. Then unsure.
"You want to bet?" he asked.
"No," Reid said flatly. "I want to fight."
The man's eyes narrowed. "You sure? You don't look like you've lost everything yet."
"I haven't," Reid said. "But I'm close."
That earned a smirk. "You got a name?"
"Reid." He gave it without a thought.
"Never heard it."
"You will."
The man laughed. A deep, ugly sound. "We've already got fighters lined up."
"I don't care," Reid said. "Put me in the ring. Give me the worst you have. The one nobody walks away from."
The smirk faded. The crowd nearby had started to quiet, picking up on the tension.
"You think I'm here to humor you?"
"I think you're here to make money," Reid said. "And a man like me in a hopeless fight? That sells."
The man stared at him a moment longer. Then barked a laugh and waved over a wiry man nearby.
"Fine," he said. "You want the hardest fight in this hole? You'll get it. Ten coins if you win. Nothing if you die. Which you will."
"Generous," Reid said with a sharp smile.
"You're either crazy or cursed."
"Why not both?"
The bearded man leaned back. "This'll be good."
The ring cleared. One fighter was dragged out, barely breathing. The other raised his hands, blood dripping from his knuckles. The crowd roared.
Then the voice rang out again.
"We've got a newcomer! Straight from the streets. No mark, no rank, no name you'd care to remember—Reid!"
The crowd laughed and booed. A few coins flew through the air.
Reid stepped over the ropes and into the ring. His bare feet met the bloodied ground. His eyes were steady, his face unreadable. Then his opponent came out.
A giant.
Taller than Reid by the width of a finger, maybe two. He stood like a mountain had been carved into a man — dense, immovable, breathing slowly like the earth itself. His arms were thicker than most men's legs, a map of ink coiled around them — beasts with fangs, flames that danced all the way to his shoulders.
Scars wove through the tattoos like old stories, half-told and half-forgotten. But the worst was his face. Or what was left of it. One side was fire-kissed, flesh blackened and shiny, cracked like dried mud. His eye on that side was a pearl, milk-white and still. The other eye burned with something hungry.
The name came like thunder from the crowd:
"KORRUN!"
Over and over. A chant. A promise.
Korrun raised his arms and flexed. A roar answered him.
Reid didn't move. Didn't flinch.
He stood loose and quiet, like a man already at the edge of a cliff, wind in his coat, knowing the fall was coming. His hands hung at his sides. No fear in his face. No fire either. Just stillness. He watched Korrun like a hunter might watch a bear — not afraid, but aware. Everything in him coiled and ready.
The ring was nothing more than a rope, four posts, dust. Blood from the last match hadn't dried yet. A smear of it darkened the center.
There were no rules here. No referee. No bell. Just a nod from the man on the platform, and that was it.
The rope pulled tight as they stepped forward. Korrun cracked his knuckles. It sounded like bones breaking. The crowd leaned in, hungry.
A pouch of coins hit the ground at the edge of the ring.
Ten coins. That was the wager. Ten for the man who walks away.
Dust swirled at their feet. Breath held.
Let's see who ends up on the floor....