Balthazar and Cheng walked with their arms slung around Leroy, holding him steady at the center. Behind them trailed Burgess and Zaragoza, while Lisa led the way up the narrow steps.

  From below, the muffled roar of The Pristine House returned—laughter, glasses clinking, the pulse of music, but it faltered when the crowd saw them emerge: a councilor and the five gang lords, shoulder to shoulder, almost… friendly.

  Leroy had given strict orders that the basement remain untouched. No one was to clean.

  But the moment they stepped outside, they found a dozen men already gathered near the entrance—underlings and lieutenants from each of the five syndicates.

  They didn’t mix.

  Each cluster stood a few feet apart, as if invisible borders of loyalty still divided them, even here under the same dim streetlight.

  Their faces froze when they saw their bosses together. No one dared move first.

  “Listen all of you!” Captain Zaragoza bellowed, his grin cutting through the night like a blade. His golden tooth caught the streetlight, flaring with pirate’s mischief. “Spread the word.”

  He raised his hand, his voice deep as thunder.

  “Leroy Livingstone is back on the streets. Ready for the duel.”

  It was a declaration that split the quiet of District Three like the first crack of a coming storm. A title fit for whispered legends, for alleyway poets and gamblers drunk on cheap gin.

  In moments, word would flow like fire through dry grass—

  from the silent corners of the park to the noise of the night markets, from the carnivals still glittering with false joy to the deepest alleys half-swallowed by shadow.

  Lisa, Cheng, Burgess, and Balthazar followed Zaragoza’s lead, giving the same order. Their lieutenants moved swiftly, disappearing into the arteries of the district to carry the message.

  Within minutes, the night itself seemed to awaken—

  a spontaneous parade forming behind the five figures as they walked, a trail of both superhumans and commonfolk, drawn to the legend as moths to flame.

  “Cheng,” Leroy said quietly, eyes still fixed on the street ahead, “send word to Rufus. Tell him if District Three lights up tonight—it’s because of me, not a riot.”

  Cheng laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Relax, brother. We’ll deal with that stiff bastard later.”

  So they walked.

  An hour from The Pristine House, step by deliberate step, without vehicles, without guards, without pretension.

  Just five leaders and a tide of followers filling the streets with rough laughter and rising anticipation.

  The night bled into a darker shade of blue as they arrived at the edge of the district, a wide circular lot surrounded by half-ruined bleachers and flickering floodlights.

  Arena of Valiance.

  The rusted nameplate hung above the gate, letters scarred and half-bent, yet still heavy with meaning.

  This was no noble colosseum.

  Here, weapon masters came to choose champions—fighters who would represent their faction in the official duels at the colosseum. Most factions picked from their Regal Vanguards.

  But not this one.

  This arena birthed different champions each year—wild, unpredictable, chosen not by rank, but by survival.

  Cheng and Burgess exchanged a quick nod, signaling the crowd to open the iron gates.

  A low creak followed, and moments later the rusted hinges of the Arena of Valor screamed alive.

  “Light it up!” Burgess barked, his voice carrying like a war horn.

  Dozens of their men scattered in every direction, darting through the bleachers and service tunnels. In seconds, switches were pulled, breakers slammed down — and the night exploded into brilliance.

  A flood of white and violet lights cascaded across the pit.

  Colored spotlights flickered to life like stars being reborn. The hum of electric current filled the air, followed by a surge of pounding music — raw, reckless, and alive with adrenaline.

  Within moments, the stands began to overflow.

  Two thousand seats filled in less than five minutes, and when no space was left, people climbed the walls, clung to the upper rails, and dangled from steel girders just to see better. Fire flares arced into the open sky, bursting above the dome in chaotic celebration.

  From somewhere in the stands, a sniper with a sharp jawline adjusted his fedora — the same kind Lisa wore and leaned to the man beside him.

  “Never thought I’d see the bosses this friendly in public,” he muttered.

  The smuggler next to him, hair dyed the same deep violet as Balthazar’s, gave a half-laugh.

  “You must be new. Whenever the First Brother, shows up everyone suddenly remembers how to play nice.”

  Down below, Leroy stepped toward the heart of the arena, the dirt crunching under his boots.

  He pointed casually at the others — Lisa, Cheng, Balthazar, Zaragoza, and Burgess — all of whom waited by the stairs leading to the pit.

  “Only Burgess can face me tonight. The rest of you, just enjoy the show.”

  Lisa rolled her eyes and folded her arms.

  “Yeah, yeah, we know how this goes,” she said, half-smiling.

  So they waited.

  Half an hour passed, enough time for the crowd to grow restless, enough for the night to hum with the fever of anticipation. This wasn’t an official duel, no banners, no judges — just an unwritten promise between old monsters who ruled the underbelly of the district.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  When Cheng finally stepped out again, he wasn’t alone. Three younger fighters followed close behind him — nervous, yet proud. Their shadows stretched long under the white lights.

  “Leroy,” Cheng called out, grinning, “I’ve brought you some rude young fighters to meet.”

  Leroy turned and rose from his seat near the arena’s edge. His presence silenced half the noise instantly.

  The three show respect and recognition.

  Cheng introduced them one by one, with names that already carried weight in the underworld:

  Brawlmaster, Red Fox, and Ursa.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, First Brother, Leroy Livingstone,” Red Fox said, his tone controlled, eyes burning with sharp defiance. “The Leader of the All-Realm Council.”

  Leroy extended his hand. They each shook it, firm and unflinching.

  “So,” The Green Wraith said from the shadows, his coat glinting under the floodlights, “have you chosen your path yet? Gang life, or lone glory?”

  Red Fox and Brawlmaster exchanged a glance, then both shook their heads. “We fight alone.”

  Ursa, broader and quieter, spoke last. “I’ve already pledged to Jungle King.”

  Leroy’s gaze lingered on Brawlmaster — something about the young man’s face stirred a faint echo in his memory. He took a slow step closer, eyes narrowing.

  “You… You were a candidate for the Young Council trials a few years ago, weren’t you?”

  Brawlmaster nodded, posture straightening.

  “Yes, First Brother. But I didn’t make it to the final round.”

  A small smile ghosted across Leroy’s face. “You made it far enough. That means something.”

  He clapped the young man’s shoulder once — heavy, reassuring, the way veterans wordlessly bless the next generation before sending them into chaos.

  Zaragoza, leaning against the railing, grinned. “Touching. Now get lost, all three of you, before you start crying.”

  The young fighters laughed, half embarrassed, half honored.

  They turned and headed toward the stands, disappearing into the restless ocean of faces.

  Above them, the lights pulsed like a heartbeat.

  The air thickened with energy.

  Leroy turned toward Cheng, his voice calm but edged with authority.

  “Do they already carry our faction’s emblem?”

  Cheng shook his head. “Not yet. That’s why I brought them here tonight.”

  Lisa smirked, brushing dust from her coat.

  “Well, our First Brother should at least know the faces of his promising little siblings, shouldn’t he?”

  Leroy’s laugh came deep and genuine, rolling like a slow storm.

  “If they honor our laws and stay true to their progress, bring their names to me. I’ll approve them myself.”

  Everyone nodded, the kind of nod that meant more than words.

  By now, nearly an hour had passed. The arena had swollen beyond capacity — thousands inside, thousands more pressing at the gates, all hungry to witness what was about to unfold.

  There were no helmets. No armor. No reinforced suits or sanctioned safety wards.

  Only fists, relics, and reputation.

  Up in the stands, Balthazar stood atop the rail, gripping a loudspeaker as if it were a royal scepter.

  The crowd jeered at him — some from irritation, others from habit — but Balthazar only grinned, his eyes glinting beneath his violet hair. When someone tried to shove him off balance, he simply kicked the man in the chest, sending him sprawling back into the crowd.

  “How are we all tonight, my dear pathetic creatures!” he bellowed, sweeping an arm toward the chaos — the packed bleachers, the ones clinging to rafters, the flames licking the sky above.

  His violet-haired subordinates howled with laughter. The rest of the syndicates men booed or cursed back at him, and even a few of the independent superhumans joined in the verbal brawl, throwing taunts into the storm.

  Down in the fighter’s waiting chamber, Lisa and Cheng exchanged a look of weary resignation.

  “You’d think we’d be used to his antics by now,” Lisa sighed.

  Cheng just exhaled through his nose, unamused.

  Only Zaragoza seemed entertained — he sat on a wooden crate, crunching into an apple and laughing through the juice.

  Balthazar’s voice boomed again, drunk on his own drama.

  “Tonight, from the infernal depths of District Three, our old demon returns to his ancestral ground!”

  The crowd erupted, a thousand voices shaking the arena’s bones.

  “You all know his name. Every soul across the All-Realm knows it. The Council Member— the man who carried our faction’s pride across every bloody field.

  The one who commands even the Trio of the Council Monsters: the Sorcerer Supreme, Flame Goddess, and the Fallen Knight!”

  The mob roared. Fire flares split the air, scattering embers into the night like burning rain.

  Balthazar tilted his head back, face half-lit by the blinding floodlights.

  “And it doesn’t end there. The Plague Professor, the Fairest Woman or Extraterrestrial in All-Realm, even the Child of Light — all have sworn respect to this man’s direction!”

  In the fighter’s room, Cheng groaned, rubbing his temples.

  “Leroy, please report this arrogant bastard to the Council for blasphemy.”

  Lisa chuckled under her breath, while The Green Wraith — silent, stretching his shoulders with methodical calm, only shook his head at the absurdity of it all.

  Balthazar’s grin widened, his voice now cutting across the arena like a call to war.

  “I’ve run out of words to describe this man’s greatness!”

  He raised the loudspeaker high, shouting into the night:

  “Let us welcome back our very own Green Wraith — Leroy Livingstone!”

  The crowd detonated.

  Leroy stepped out of the tunnel, raising one hand to the roaring crowd.

  The light struck his coat, glinting off the emerald shimmer that pulsed faintly beneath his skin.

  From the opposite side, Burgess emerged — his broad figure cutting through the smoke and color. He didn’t even pretend to care for Balthazar’s grand theatrics.

  No introductions.

  No speeches.

  Only the ring, and two monsters who had long since forgotten fear.

  They met in the center of the arena, silent but for the thunder of thousands around them. Then, without warning, the ground itself seemed to tense — and both men moved.

  Burgess’s body began to shift. The golden mane that once crowned his head folded inward, retreating into his skin. His muzzle stretched longer, nose flattening, his chest widening with a deep, grinding crack of bone.

  His back arched, shell-like plates emerging and locking over his spine. His fur hardened into ridged armor.

  His claws — once slender and slashing — blackened, thickened, until they resembled iron mallets.

  He had taken on his Armadillo form: less savage than the lion, but far more enduring, a living fortress of flesh and bone.

  Leroy only smiled. Calm, even amused.

  The green energy gathered again around his fists, swirling like wildfire under his skin. The brighter it burned, the heavier the air became. His veins glowed through his forearms, and faint sparks ran down into his legs — a clear sign he’d be fighting with both hands and feet tonight.

  “Burgess,” he said with that familiar grin, “I’m not pulling my punches tonight. You know my reputation won’t forgive me if I do.”

  His stance lowered, left foot sliding back — the classic opening of the Green Wraith.

  Across from him, Burgess crouched low, both armored hands pressed into the dirt. His voice came out rough and rumbling, a bestial purr wrapped around a human laugh.

  “Relax, Leroy. I wouldn’t dream of making it easy for you.”

  The half-armadillo smiled, his broad ears twitching in rhythm with the crowd’s chant.

  Then the world broke open.

  Leroy moved first, a blur of green light and muscle. His punch carved a shockwave through the air, striking against Burgess’s shell with the sound of an explosion. Dust rose in a violent halo.

  Burgess didn’t fall.

  He absorbed the hit, his shell cracking faintly, and countered with a crushing backhand that split the ground where Leroy had stood a heartbeat earlier.

  The duel raged — a storm of fists, light, and raw willpower.

  Every strike echoed like thunder; every dodge left craters in the stone floor.

  The audience screamed with every blow, not just for entertainment, but for reverence.

  Because this was more than a fight.

  This was tradition, the oldest law of the Weapon Masters: to meet strength with strength, to bleed with honor, to remind even the logical factions that instinct was not a weakness but a creed or anarchy.