The training pit was nearly empty this early in the morning.
Dust hung in the air, thick with sweat and the clatter of steel against dull straw targets. Arven moved like a man possessed, no rhythm, no elegance, just raw repetition. He struck the padded dummy again and again, The bruises along his ribs burned with every movement, but he didn't stop."
The second round began tomorrow.
Sixty fighters remained.
He was one of them.
And if he wanted to stay that way, he needed to keep moving.
His fists slammed against the practice dummy. Not fast. Just hard. The makeshift wrappings on his hands were already soaked. The Arena didn't hand out fancy gear to newcomers. You earned your blades. Your name. Your place.
His mind still replayed the night in the showers. Veyra's voice, her hands, the blood still hot on his tongue. It lingered in him even now. Every heartbeat felt slower. Tighter. Something inside had changed. Again.
"You. Ghoul."
He stopped mid-strike.
A man stood at the edge of the pit. Gray robes, Arena crest stitched on the shoulder. Mid-forties. Bored. Too clean to be a fighter.
"Come," the man said flatly. "You're wanted."
Arven wiped his brow with the back of his forearm, breathing hard. "Why?"
The man turned. "You'll see."
The Arena's lower halls were quieter than usual. Most fighters stayed above today, conserving energy or clinging to reputation with loud voices and louder boasts.
Not Arven.
He followed the staff member through narrow passages lined with forgotten gear, flickering torches, and stone steps that sloped downward at awkward angles. Eventually, they reached a thick iron door flanked by two chain-wrapped barrels.
The man pushed it open and stepped aside.
"Inside."
Arven entered.
It was a storage chamber, wide, square, dimly lit. Stacks of discarded equipment leaned against the walls. Cracked shields, broken spearheads, rusted helms. Forgotten relics.
And in the center of it all, on a simple black cloth atop a stone table, two heavy metallic gauntlets.
His breath caught.
He knew them. Every dent. Every scar on their surface.
Jucir's.
The same ones that had turned his bones to dust in the Arena. That had smashed his ribs and cracked his jaw. The same ones he'd survived. Barely.
"Didn't think they'd still be around," Arven said quietly.
The Arena man gave a shrug. "Jucir died without a guild. No apprentice. No kin. Arena law says the victor can claim what's left behind."
Arven approached the table. The gauntlets looked heavier now that he stood above them. Brutal. Functional. Ugly. Each finger joint thick as bone. The iron plates ran from knuckle to elbow, scratched raw from use.
"They're yours now," the man said. "Whether you want them or not."
Arven picked one up.
It dragged his arm down with it, more than he expected. Still faintly warm. He tried to slide his hand in.
Too big. His fingers slipped through the metal casing like a child trying on a giant's glove.
They weren't made for him.
But they were his now.
"Thanks," he muttered.
The man didn't reply. Just turned and left.
The Arena forge was always half-lit, always hot, and always loud.
Dozens of fighters moved through it, sharpening swords, hammering dented plates, arguing over stolen tools. Smoke from the smelting hearths curled toward the high rafters. Sparks danced in the shadows.
Arven found an empty bench and dropped the gauntlets with a dull clang.
He rolled up his sleeves, grabbed a file from the nearest rack, and went to work.
He started by trimming the inner knuckle plates. Then the finger ends, cutting down the length, trying to match the shape of his own hands. The metal was thick and slow to yield. His grip slipped more than once. A sharp edge caught his palm.
"Shit," he hissed, shaking blood from his hand.
The fingers were too long, no matter how much he filed. All he'd managed to do was sharpen them into jagged claw-tips. They looked more like something ripped from a beast than gear forged for a fighter.
He wiped the sweat from his brow, grimacing.
"Ugly," a voice said behind him. "But effective."
Arven turned, still holding the gauntlet.
Evelyne stood a few paces away. No armor today. Just a plain tunic and leggings. Her blond braid was tight, neat. A roll of leather was tucked under one arm, tools, likely. Her ice-blue eyes met his calmly.
"You're Arven," she said.
He blinked. "You know me?"
"Hard not to." She stepped closer. "You bit a man's throat out. They called your name loud enough."
He didn't know what to say.
Evelyne set her tools down beside him and nodded at the gauntlet.
"May I?"
He hesitated, then passed it over.
She ran her fingers along the wrist plates, then the base of the thumb. "You trimmed too much from the wrong angle. It throws off the balance."
She took a clamp from her kit and twisted the gauntlet slightly. Her hands moved fast, calm, practiced.
"You've worked on these before?" Arven asked.
"I adjust my own gear." She paused. "And sometimes I help when I see someone struggling."
She didn't mean it mockingly. Just a statement of fact.
He nodded. "Thanks."
She gave the faintest shrug. "You'll fight better if your hands don't betray you."
Her fingers curled along the edge. A final twist. Then she passed it back.
Arven slid it on.
It fit.
Still heavy.
But the claws curved neatly now. His grip felt natural. The weight was manageable. The fingers moved with him instead of against him.
Evelyne adjusted the second one in silence, then rose to her feet.
He stood with her, flexing both hands.
The clawed fingers shimmered faintly in the forge light, like something not quite human anymore.
"They suit you," she said.
He looked up.
She wasn't smiling. But there was something... steady in her gaze.
"You surprised me," he said. "You're not like the others."
"Is that a compliment?" she asked.
"More like an observation."
She gave a small nod, then turned.
"I hope your next fight goes better," she said. "I'll be watching."
And with that, she left.
The Arena's central hall had grown loud again. Dozens of fighters gathered in front of the massive announcement board, jostling and leaning over shoulders to read the latest pairings.
Arven moved to the edge of the crowd, eyes scanning names.
He found his quickly.
ARVEN KAYN vs. BORZAK
His stomach clenched.
Borzak.
The name had been whispered since round one.
A mind mage.
Someone who didn't beat you with muscle or steel, he bent your thoughts, twisted your will, made you forget who you were and why you were fighting. Some said he didn't even move during his fights. Just watched while others broke themselves apart.
Arven stepped back from the board, eyes locked on the name.
"How the fuck," he muttered, "do you fight that?"
He flexed his hands slowly, the claws of his gauntlets clicking against each other.
They were ready.
He wasn't.
But the fight was coming anyway.