The arena rose around Victor in a wide arc of lights and heat. The sand carried the smell of old battles—iron, sweat, and something baked into the ground that would never wash out. He walked a straight line toward the centre, boots sinking with each step, shoulders set in a posture that didn't offer the crowd anything to feed on.

The roar from the stands folded into one long, restless breath. Screens flickered above him, each one throwing colour across the faces pressed at the railings. The Pit wanted noise. It wanted movement. It wanted the fighters to give the place a pulse. Victor kept his steady.

High above the sand, a glass-walled booth hung like a command perch. The window tint masked the figure inside, but the silhouette leaning forward—one hand braced on the rail—held itself with an unsettling calm. Whoever she was, she didn't track the crowd. She tracked him.

A hush swept the stadium. The lights shifted. And the voice arrived.

"Las Vegas," the announcer called, the words warm and clear, "your next challenger has stepped onto the sand."

The crowd broke in applause, then quieted again as she continued, her tone carrying the confidence of someone who understood exactly how to steer a thousand eyes at once.

"Victor Drake. New to the roster, untested by this House, and carrying no debts, no titles, and no history worth shouting about. A blank page can be a dangerous thing, so let's see if he writes anything before the sand swallows him."

The phrasing drew a ripple of laughter from the stands, more eager than cruel. The sound belonged to people still deciding whether to cheer for him or wait for the moment he failed.

Victor's gaze moved back to the booth. The tint obscured her features, but he caught the outline of her head tilting as she studied him. Her presence pressed against the air in a way that felt practiced. Performed. She enjoyed the stage.

"Welcome him properly," she said, her voice rising with a smooth lift that wasn't quite theatrical, yet carried the weight of a host who understood how to command an arena. "The Pit gives every new fighter a moment to stand tall before it decides how to break them. Drake has chosen to walk in with a steady spine—acceptable form for a first entrance."

The crowd roared again, this time throwing its voice behind the performance rather than the man.

The gate behind Victor rattled. Chains tightened. Metal scraped stone. A deep vibration passed through the ground and climbed his legs like a rumble from a creature waking beneath the sand.

The announcer let the moment stretch before she spoke again, softer now, the edges of her tone shaped with a familiarity that prickled at the back of his mind.

"Let the trial begin."

Victor stood centred, shoulders squared, breathing even. He didn't turn toward the gate yet. He held the booth in view a moment longer—the silhouette still leaning forward, perfectly still, as if she already knew what was coming.

The noise swelled. The gate lifted another inch. The first roar echoed through the arena.

Victor finally pivoted toward it.

And even through the distortion of the speakers, he could feel it: the announcer was enjoying the moment far more than someone anonymous should.

The familiarity in her cadence tightened something deep in his chest. He walked toward the sound anyway.

***

Victor steadied himself near the centre line of the arena, letting the full shape of the stadium settle around him. The place had once been built for crowds hungry for performance; now it fed a different appetite. The stands rose in steep tiers of shadow and flame, ringed with jagged spikes welded to the inner walls. Barbed wire stretched along the railings in a tight, cruel lattice that kept the rest of the world a few metres above the killing ground.

The sand under his boots was coarse and stained darker in patches that had never washed clean. Every grain carried a history the House wanted fighters to feel with each step.

Gates circled the arena at regular intervals—iron slabs reinforced with chains, each wide enough to release a vehicle or something large enough to flatten one. Some gates were marked with warning sigils that glowed faintly. Others bore dents and clawed scratches deep enough to warp the metal. The Pit didn't hide the things it kept caged.

The crowd leaned forward in a shifting mass. Most of them weren't human. Horned silhouettes pressed against the railings. Wings twitched. Tails coiled. Some spectators burned faintly in colours that weren't meant to exist in mortal light. They watched him with hunger or disdain or the bored confidence of beings who had long outgrown fear.

Scattered between them sat pockets of humans—few, tightly grouped, each accompanied by guards in layered armour. Contractors. Agents. Servants. People with reasons to stand among demons without being torn apart. They watched with more calculation than bloodlust.

High above it all, the glass booth remained still. The silhouette inside hadn't shifted since he'd walked in.

Victor rolled his shoulders once, grounding himself in the space. The arena was enormous—big enough for an army to train in, big enough for a monster to run a full charge, big enough for someone like Orobas to stage a war inside if he ever felt the urge.

A shudder moved through the sand behind him. The gate rattled again.

Victor settled his stance.

That was enough introduction.

The Pit had shown him its shape. Now it wanted to see what he brought to meet it. Victor planted his feet and let the moment breathe. The brand pulsed once beneath his collarbone, urging him forward. He ignored the tug and kept his stance steady.

A hush rolled downward from the highest tier, gathering weight as it reached the sand.

The Warden's voice rose again, smooth enough to sound confident but edged with the delight of someone who enjoyed pushing fresh fighters into unwinnable corners.

"Las Vegas… your first creature of the evening."

The crowd answered with a roar that shook dust from the rafters.

Chains tightened behind Victor. The gate at his back rattled once, then lifted a few inches. Hot air pushed through the widening gap, carrying a musk thick with sulphur and damp stone. Something inside scraped its weight against the floor.

The roar from the stands sharpened. It wasn't excitement; it was recognition.

Victor glanced over his shoulder just as the gate rose high enough for the creature to duck under.

The Razor-Back entered the arena with a slow, deliberate stride that made its size impossible to ignore. Armour plates jutted from its spine like jagged shelves, each one fused to hide thick enough to choke a blade. Tusks curved forward from its jaw, scuffed and chipped from ramming through walls or victims—maybe both. Every breath came out as a hot plume that curled through the sand.

It stopped just inside the gate and lowered its head. The ground vibrated under its stance.

Victor let out a long, steady breath. "Big one," he murmured to himself.

The Warden's voice carried over him, dripping with amusement.

"Let's see if our new arrival can manage the basics. The Razor-Back is slow to think but quick to break whatever stands in its way."

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd.

Victor rolled his shoulders once more, preparing for the charge.

The Razor-Back pawed the sand, muscles coiling.

The stands shook.

The beast roared, a deep, guttural blast that forced the front rows to flinch back from the rails.

Victor tilted his head and muttered under his breath—

"Oh shit."

The Razor-Back lunged.

***

The Razor-Back demon hit the sand hard, skidding sideways as Victor redirected its charge. Its momentum carved a deep trench beside them before it managed to regain its footing. The crowd responded in a rising swell—surprise, then anticipation, then something closer to awe as Victor stepped into the open space he'd created.

He stayed loose at the shoulders, reading the creature's stance. The brand pulsed beneath his collarbone, eager to push, but he held it at the edge of his awareness. This fight still belonged to him.

The Razor-Back lunged again, slower this time, the rhythm of its breath rattling through its armour plates. Victor shifted inside its reach, drove a fist beneath one of the hanging ridges, and felt the bone split under his knuckles. The demon dropped heavily to one knee. He caught the back of its skull, forced its muzzle into the sand, and held it there until its legs buckled again.

A murmur swept the first tier of the stands. It spread outward like ripples from a stone dropped in water—disbelief becoming fascination. The Pit was used to watching humans bleed for entertainment, not manhandle a siege demon with clinical precision.

Victor tightened his grip around the Razor-Back's jaw, preparing to break its neck cleanly. One strike. One breath. A simple end before the creature could rise again.

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The lights dimmed.

A single spotlight cut across the sand and caught him square in the chest. The stadium fell silent.

Then the Warden's voice rose above everything else—bright, confident, and impossibly pleased.

"Oh, look at this! Our fresh fighter has finally warmed his hands."

The crowd erupted, cheering with a hunger that swelled like a wave. Victor glanced up at the glass booth. The silhouette leaned closer to the microphone, posture relaxed, as if she'd waited for the exact second his victory felt assured.

She let the noise crest before she spoke again, her tone dipping just enough to draw every ear toward her.

"But we didn't come here for a safe finish, did we?"

A ripple swept through the stands—approval, excitement, the promise of spectacle.

Victor stepped back from the Razor-Back, chest rising and falling in a controlled rhythm. He didn't like the direction her voice took.

The spotlight widened.

"Las Vegas," she said, "shall we raise the stakes?"

The crowd roared. Some demons leapt to their feet. Others slammed claws against the railings until sparks flickered across the wire.

The Warden's voice brightened, carrying the cadence of someone revealing the second act of a show.

"Release the next pair."

Klaxons blared. Red lights pulsed across the arena walls. Two gates on opposite sides shuddered as chains snapped taut.

Victor's stomach tightened.

The gates rose—slow at first, then with the practiced speed of handlers trained to get out of the way before the creatures inside tore through them.

The first new Razor-Back burst out in a shower of sand, skidding toward Victor with a bark of rage. The second entered with its head low and armor plates rattling, eyes fixed on the fighter who had just dismantled its kin.

The crowd surged into chaos, screaming approval and alarm in the same breath. Even demons pressed forward, some snarling, some laughing with the thrill of a broken rule.

Victor took two quick steps into clearer space, adjusting his angle. The brand burned cold under his skin, tightening in a steady rhythm that wasn't his.

He kept it silent.

The Warden didn't let the crowd settle before she added the flourish she'd been saving.

"Three Razor-Backs on the sand!" she announced, each word rising with practiced delight. "Let's find out if our newcomer can stay on his feet, or if we're about to watch him vanish under their weight."

Victor muttered under his breath, "Perfect timing."

The first Razor-Back lunged. The other two surged behind it. The sand vibrated with the force of their combined charge.

The Warden's final line drifted through the speakers, warm with amusement:

"Try to keep up, darling."

They hit him like an avalanche.

The sand vanished from under his feet. The Razor-Back he'd nearly killed drove into his ribs. Another clamped onto his forearm. Something hot raked down his back as the third creature collided with the pile.

Victor's breath tore out of him—half curse, half shock.

"Shit," he managed, right before the world folded into claws, tusks, and impact.

***

The impact drove Victor halfway into the sand. The Razor-Back on his right clamped its jaws around his forearm, teeth grinding against bone. Another hammered into his ribs, pushing breath from his lungs in a sharp shock that left a metallic taste in the back of his throat. The third creature's claws raked down his spine, carving long lines of heat through muscle and skin.

For a moment, the world narrowed to noise—roars, the grind of armour plates, the hot press of bodies trying to tear him down. He braced his boots against the sand and tried to pull free, but the weight around him dragged him back into the pile.

His vision flickered.

The brand surged.

A cold thread coiled from beneath his collarbone and pulled hard toward the centre of his chest. It wanted him pliant. It wanted to steer. It wanted the fight to move according to its design, not his.

Victor forced the breath back into his lungs and pushed against the pull. The effort sent a tremor through him, sweat breaking across his neck. He felt the brand tighten again, this time sharp enough to bite.

A low growl rolled out of him before he could stop it.

The Razor-Back on his arm shook its head violently, trying to tear the limb free. Pain dug a deep line down to his bones — then stopped abruptly. Not because the creature had relented. Because his flesh had begun to reorganise itself around the wound. Tendons drew tight. Skin closed in a slow ripple. Steam rose from his forearm as the punctures sealed.

The sight still jarred him. Healing used to mean time, stitches, pain that faded on its own. This felt more like someone else had reached into his body and rearranged it without asking.

The crowd reacted in a single, surprised exhale. It carried across the stadium like a gust.

Victor shoved his free hand against the ground and rose to one knee, dragging one of the demons up with him. The Razor-Back hanging from his arm snarled and tried to clamp down harder, but its jaws met resistance as his bone thickened beneath the hide.

"Enough," Victor growled, voice low, breath rough.

He drove his knee upward into the attacking creature's jaw. The impact snapped its head back with a crack that echoed across the sand. It fell away, dazed.

The second demon lunged again. Victor caught it by the neck and lifted with both hands, muscles bunching in thick ropes under his skin. He could feel the strain in his shoulders as he forced the creature upright, its legs kicking wildly as he held its full weight.

The brand flared again, trying to pour something colder into his limbs.

He shut it out.

"You're not driving this," he hissed under his breath.

He pivoted and swung the Razor-Back like a weapon. Its body crashed into the third demon mid-charge, armour plates shattering on contact. Both creatures tumbled across the sand in a tangle of limbs and broken ridges.

Victor's chest heaved, sweat mixing with the grit caked across his torso. His wounds continued to close in slow pulses, each one tightening around him with a strange, almost mechanical precision.

The first Razor-Back recovered with a furious snort and barrelled toward him again. Victor didn't wait. He stepped inside the creature's reach and drove a fist beneath its throat, catching the soft tissue beneath the armour. The blow sent it sprawling onto its side.

The crowd surged to its feet. The roar built in layers—anger, disbelief, and a kind of exhilaration that bordered on reverence. Even demons with bone masks and ember-lit eyes leaned forward, watching him with renewed interest.

The Warden's voice drifted down from the speakers, lilting with pleasure.

"Now that," she said, "is a proper start."

Victor ignored her. He focused on the Razor-Back still trying to rise. Its legs trembled. Sand slid away beneath its claws as it fought for footing. He stepped in, hooked a hand around the base of its skull, and slammed its head into the ground. The impact sent a tremor up his arm.

The second creature tried to retreat a step, confused by the sudden shift in momentum. Victor didn't give it space. He crossed the arena floor in three strides and seized the loose ridge of armour he'd cracked earlier. The plate peeled back with a wet snap. The Razor-Back howled as Victor forced the jagged edge into its throat.

Blood spilled hot across his forearm.

The third demon stumbled to its feet. Victor turned toward it, breathing steady now, the fight settling into his body like something he had trained for all his life.

He closed the distance before it could charge. One sharp blow to the knee forced it down. Another drove the creature flat against the sand. He finished it with a precise strike to the spine.

His hands still wanted something to hit. It took effort to let them fall to his sides.

Silence followed — the kind that swallowed the arena whole for a single, suspended moment.

Victor stood in the centre of the sand, blood soaking down his chest, breathing in long, deliberate pulls. Steam drifted off his arms where the last of his wounds had begun to close. The bodies around him twitched in dying spasms before settling into stillness.

The Warden let the quiet stretch.

Then she offered the arena a single, satisfied line.

"Well then. Our newcomer has teeth."

The crowd exploded.

Victor didn't look at the booth.

He didn't acknowledge the praise.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, spat blood onto the sand, and braced himself for whatever came next.

A handler in a grey coat jogged onto the sand, keeping a wide berth of the corpses. He didn't congratulate Victor. He simply tossed three goldens discs at his feet.

They landed in the blood-soaked grit with a heavy thud.

Victor stared at them. The brand on his shoulder tightened, a hungry, demanding sensation. He knelt and picked them up.

The moment his skin touched the gold, the lingering ache in his ribs vanished. A rush of artificial vitality flooded his veins—cool, chemical, and euphoric. The exhaustion from the fight didn't just fade; it was deleted.

He hated how good it felt.

He slipped the Marks into his pocket. This was the Pit's language. And he'd just spoken fluently. The danger lay in how easy it had felt once he stopped holding back.

***

The arena gates groaned open again, this time without theatrics. Three handlers hurried out with chains and heavy hooks, moving around Victor with the caution of men who had seen fighters lash out after victories they didn't fully understand. They didn't look him in the eye. They didn't speak. They just secured the Razor-Back corpses and dragged them toward the tunnel with the efficiency of routine brutality.

Victor stood still for a moment, letting the crowd's roar recede into something closer to a pulse. His lungs burned, but the air steadied in his chest. The heat of the sand rose through his boots; the last coils of adrenaline drifted from his fingertips like smoke.

He wiped blood from his jaw and walked toward the exit ramp. The demon audience jeered and shouted bids for his next match. The human spectators watched in a sharper silence, as if trying to decide whether he had just become valuable or dangerous.

The tunnel swallowed the noise little by little. By the time he reached the prep hall entrance, only the echo of the stadium remained.

Tamara waited by the grate.

She looked better than she had when she limped off the sand earlier, but the exhaustion behind her eyes made her seem older. She held a strip of cloth against one brow, dabbing at the dried blood there as she watched him approach.

Her first words didn't come immediately. They sat between them for a breath.

Then: "Three Razor-Backs."

Victor shrugged, rolling his shoulders out of the last tension. "They wanted a show."

Tamara let out a slow breath, the sound neither admiration nor disbelief — something quieter, something like caution. "I've been here seven years," she said. "I've seen good fighters, broken fighters, mad ones. Nobody has done that."

Other fighters in the hall had begun to stand. Some crossed their arms. Others leaned forward in their seats. A few simply stared without trying to hide it. The awe wasn't loud, but it was sharp enough to grab the air.

Victor reached into his wrap and pulled out one of the Marks he'd earned from the match. The gold disc glinted in the low light, its surface pulsing faintly like a heartbeat trapped beneath metal.

He flicked it to Tamara with an easy motion.

She caught it cleanly.

"That's the one I owed," Victor said.

Her fingers tightened around the Mark as she studied him. "You should be dead," she said. "Or bleeding out. Or screaming for a medic. That's what the Pit expects when someone stands alone against three beasts."

Victor rested his back against the wall, letting the cool stone settle against his skin. "I heal fast."

"That's more than fast." Her voice dropped. "Are you a Contractor?"

He shook his head. "No."

Tamara searched his face. "Then what are you?"

Victor took a breath, rolling his shoulders. The meat had knit back together, but the phantom memory of the tear still lingered in the nerves. "Something else."

The words hung between them.

Tamara didn't respond. The flicker in her expression was small but unmistakable — concern mixed with something that might have been dread. She could have pressed him; instead, she tucked the question away like another debt to be collected later. She slipped the Mark into her wrap slowly, as if buying time for her thoughts to catch up.

The fighters around them broke into quiet conversation. Some kept glancing at Victor, others at the tunnel toward the arena, as if expecting handlers to march back in with another announcement. Even the older veterans watched him with a wary respect.

Victor turned toward the prep hall's far wall, where a thin sliver of glass set high near the ceiling offered a narrow view of the arena above. The booth was still lit. The silhouette remained.

She hadn't moved.

As if she had been watching the tunnel too.

Tamara followed his gaze. "Warden's still up there," she murmured. "She doesn't stay after matches unless something caught her eye."

Victor squinted through the glare. The tinted window revealed only a figure standing with one hand on the rail, posture balanced, head tilted just enough to study him directly. She lifted something to her mouth — the microphone — but the arena feed had already shut down. Her voice didn't reach the hall.

Her lips moved anyway.

And the shape of the word landed hard in the space behind his ribs.

His name. Not shouted. Not announced. Spoken like a habit.

Memories pushed at the edges of his focus—boardrooms, cramped kitchens, fights that had ended with closed doors instead of blood. She had always spoken his name that way, like she already owned the rest of the sentence.

Victor felt the back of his throat tighten. "Yeah," he said quietly. "She's watching."

Tamara glanced at him. "You know her?"

He let out a breath that didn't quite settle. "Yeah."

"Who is she?"

Victor held the booth in his gaze — the tilt of the head, the way she braced one hand against the rail, the careful control of her posture. It was all familiar. Uncomfortably so.

"That," he said, voice low, "is Isabella."

Tamara waited.

"My ex-wife."

The prep hall fell into a fragile silence — the kind that comes when the fight is over, but the real threat has finally shown its face.

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