Before making our way to the fighting arena, we took a necessary detour to a guildhouse tucked discreetly within the heart of Westmere.
Lock & Key Mercantile.
An establishment that bore no grand sign, no ostentatious display—merely a name murmured in the right circles, known for its unfailing discretion. It was the kind of place that catered to those who required safekeeping and delivery services, not merely for convenience, but for the kind of transactions that preferred to leave no trace.
As I stepped inside, I was greeted by the scent of aged wood, ink-stained parchment, and wax-sealed ledgers. The rhythmic scratch of quills against paper and the soft murmur of clerks tallying records filled the air like a well-rehearsed symphony of bureaucracy.
I approached the counter, sliding my briefcase across the polished surface to the waiting attendant. With a curt nod, he accepted it, handing me a small claim token in return—nothing more than a thin, nondescript piece of metal, yet within these walls, it held the weight of an unspoken contract.
I also procured two cloaks—heavy and dark, their fabric thick enough to obscure our features. I tossed one to Alfred, draping the other over my shoulders. With our identities now concealed beneath layers of cloth and shadow, we stepped back into the city's thrumming pulse.
"He instructed me to arrive at midday—Molten District, Lot 3—then enter the Gunsmith's workshop."
The boy led us through the labyrinthine streets, weaving deftly between vendors shouting over one another and the ceaseless tide of carriages and foot traffic. The city's pulse thrummed against my skin—the rhythmic clatter of iron-shod wheels on uneven cobblestone, the mingled scents of damp stone, oil, and coal smoke, and the ever-present sensation of watchful gazes from shadowed alleyways.
At last, we came to a halt before an unremarkable building tucked between a spice merchant and a crumbling apothecary. Its facade was elegant in a reserved way—subdued, polished, and utterly forgettable to the inattentive eye. Behind the wide iron-barred windows, finely crafted rifles, pistols, and curious mechanical contraptions gleamed under the muted workshop light, each piece a testament to precision and deadly artistry. A place of steel and gunpowder, of measured violence... yet beneath that polished exterior, it concealed a purpose far darker than mere craftsmanship.
Its location was no accident—discreet enough to shield unsavory dealings, yet respectable enough to attract those wealthy enough to fund them.
Without hesitation, the boy slipped inside. The sharp scent of gun oil and scorched iron immediately enveloped us. He approached the gunsmith, a burly man with a soot-streaked apron and calloused hands, and without a word, retrieved a small token from his pocket—a worn brass tag marked with an audience seat number. The gunsmith barely spared him a glance before nodding in acknowledgment.
He led us into the passage, where stone walls pressed close on either side and a heavy silence swallowed the outside world. We descended a flight of steep, spiraling stone stairs, the steps slick with dampness. The deeper we went, the colder the air grew, dense with the scents of gunpowder, sweat, and something metallic and faintly rotten—blood, old and dried into the very stones.
"We'll reach the fighting arena through the basement passage," the boy said, his voice hushed as if the walls themselves were listening.
I followed in silence, my fingertips brushing the chill stone as we descended, the creaking of ancient beams overhead whispering the forgotten sins of those who had tread this path before us.
"So there's a path like this beneath the workshop?" I mused, my voice echoing faintly against the stone.
He gave a short chuckle. "This passage leads straight to the betting booth. Obviously, it's all under wraps."
I hummed in understanding. "And how did you come to know of it?"
"Ah, I used to work for a noble not long ago. He visited often, and well… I was good at keeping my ears open."
The basement corridor stretched further until we reached another set of stairs. Before I could ask anything more, the boy pushed open a heavy wooden door, revealing the scene unfolding within the betting hall.
The air was thick with murmurs and the occasional burst of laughter. Candles flickered within iron sconces, casting shadows across the faces of eager gamblers. Behind the main counter, a man in a waistcoat rubbed his hands together, grinning like a fox surveying a henhouse.
"Now, now, there's still time before the main event begins!" he called out, his voice slick with practiced enthusiasm. "For those of you who've arrived early, take a look at the fighters outside and place your bets!"
"I'll bet on fighter number two!" one man shouted.
"Fighter number one for me!" another chimed in.
I drew in a slow breath, my gaze sweeping across the room. "It seems the things are still calm for now."
Turning to Alfred, I retrieved a small pouch of coins and an identification badge from my coat—the sigil of the Ashbourne household glinting under the dim light.
"Alfred, reserve a seat for me and if needed, use this."
"I understood, master."
As Alfred moved to carry out my orders, I ascended a narrow stairway leading toward the upper level. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the scent of sweat, iron, and damp stone. When I finally emerged onto the upper ledge, the dim, flickering glow of torchlight revealed the vast, cavernous expanse of the underground fighting pit below.
This is no ordinary fighting arena. It is an underground den of blood and wagers, where lives are gambled away like pocket change, and the fighters are nothing more than disposable entertainment.
Even the Royal Family knows of its existence, yet they turn a blind eye. To them, it holds no significance—just another spectacle in a world where commoners are worth less than the coin bet on them.
The rules of the arena are brutally simple: every fighter enters the cage together, but only one emerges victorious. The rest? Just corpses feeding the dirt.
Fighters, their bodies glistening with sweat, moved in a practiced rhythm as they tested their footing. Their strikes sent echoes across the arena, the pulse of the upcoming match already set in motion. Among them, I noted a striking array—hulking brutes, wiry men, masked combatants—but my gaze was drawn to a single figure.
A man dressed in simple training garb, his movements fluid, his stance exuding an effortless command.
It didn't take long for me to realize who he was.
Ralph.
Though his true name was Ralphian Raglan—the only other survivor beside his younger sister of the fallen noble house of Raglan. Stripped of his title, his lineage erased, he lived in the shadows, disguised as a commoner, waiting for his chance to strike. His family had been slaughtered, their name trampled into obscurity, and his only sister had been captured and sold off. No matter how desperately he searched, she remained beyond his reach.
For now, he was trapped in this pit, forced to fight for the entertainment of others. Forced to survive.
But this was not where his story ended.
One day, he would meet Theodore Granville, the man who would change his fate. Theodore would offer him something more than survival—revenge. A purpose. A way to reclaim what was taken. And in turn, Ralph would become his most loyal man, bound not by duty, but by a shared cause.
That, however, was a story for another time.
As I watched the fighters below, a memory surfaced—one that did not belong to me, but to Arthur.
"Arthur, look at the fighters and tell me... which one will survive?"
Frederick's voice cut through the heavy air, firm, steady, carrying the weight of expectation.
Arthur's small hands tightened around the wooden railing, the grain rough against his palms as he peered down into the pit. From where he stood, the world seemed vast and grim, the acrid stench of blood and sweat hanging thick in the stagnant air, seeping into his very bones.
Below, children stood in a ragged circle, thin bodies trembling against the packed dirt. Their faces blurred together—grime, blood, bruises—all marred by the same desperate, hunted look.
Some clutched rusted weapons in trembling fists—splintered staves, dulled knives, lengths of broken chain. Others stood empty-handed, their fingers twitching, their breathing shallow as they awaited the inevitable command.
To his young eyes, they seemed no more than prey, abandoned in a lion's den. Some were older, others scarcely bigger than himself. But none were spared the pit's cruelty. The air around them crackled with raw, unbearable tension—the fragile stillness before the slaughter.
Arthur swallowed thickly, the pressure of his father's gaze pressing into his back, a silent, unrelenting demand.
"The biggest one?" he offered, voice small, uncertain.
A sharp exhale came from beside him—not quite disappointment, but far from approval.
"Size is a factor, but it is far from everything."
His voice lowered, threading itself into the marrow of Arthur's bones.
"Look beyond that. Watch their movements. The way they breathe. The way they hold their ground. A boy that trembles too much before the fight is already dead. One who clutches his weapon too tightly will tire before he strikes."
Frederick's fingers tapped once against the railing, deliberate, rhythmic.
"The best ones... are those that seem almost detached, their fear buried so deep it no longer shows. The ones who move as if this is nothing new to them."
Arthur furrowed his brow, forcing his gaze to sharpen, to pierce the wall of noise and chaos before him. At first, it was impossible. They all looked the same—shaking, wide-eyed, desperate. But then, amid the sea of shifting bodies, he found him.
A boy standing unnaturally still, his bruised arms hanging loose at his sides, his battered face void of expression. His eyes did not flit about nervously; he did not twitch or shuffle like the others. He simply waited—like a wolf crouching unseen in the tall grass, conserving his strength until the right moment.
"Like that one?" Arthur pointed, hesitant.
Frederick's gaze followed his outstretched finger. A rare sound broke from the man's lips—a low, quiet chuckle, edged with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
"Yes," he said, "like that one."
The tapping resumed, slow and deliberate.
"But remember this," he continued, his voice sinking into something colder, something far heavier, "no matter how perfect the fighter, survival depends on more than mere strength."
He leaned closer, and Arthur could feel the weight of his presence, the gravity of the lesson he was carving into his bones.
"A fool with skill will die, Arthur, while a strategist with nothing can still turn the tides of battle. The truly dangerous ones are those who know how to use chaos."
A horn sounded, sharp and jarring.
The first scream followed, raw and ragged.
The pit exploded into violence.
His father's words hung in the air, heavier than the coppery scent of blood already pooling into the dirt.
"Never rely on a single variable, Arthur. Observe everything," Frederick said, his voice threading through the chaos with chilling calm.
Back then, the boy who survived the carnage had been chosen by Frederick, plucked from the mire and forged into something far sharper.
Now, that boy had grown into the man standing before me.
"Master, I've reserved your seat."
Alfred's voice slipped through the stillness—low, composed, unwavering.
He stood a short distance away, posture rigid, expression etched in stone. The torchlight danced across his features, casting flickers of gold and shadow that failed to warm the chill in his gaze.
"Good," I replied, stepping away from the railing.
He lingered for a beat, then asked, "Master… where are you going?"
I paused, glancing over my shoulder. A ghost of a smile touched my lips—faint, elusive.
"To place my wager."