The announcer wiped his hands on his vest and stepped back to the edge of the pit, eyes wide and voice still buzzing from the last finish.

  Before he could speak, movement rippled through the upper tiers of the warehouse. Not in the crowd proper, but behind it. Men in darker jackets leaned together near a cordoned-off platform overlooking the pit. No cheering. No shouting. Just quiet words, quick glances, and nods that carried weight.

  The Black Dragon Combat Club had taken notice.

  A runner slipped away from them, hugging the back wall, moving fast toward the side passage that fed fighters into the pit.

  Only then did the announcer raise his voice.

  “All right,” he shouted, drawing the word out as the crowd leaned forward. “All right. Let’s see who’s got the stones to try him next.”

  He turned and beckoned.

  “In this corner, Black Dragon’s own,” he called, “RASK ‘BRICKJAW’ FEN!”

  Rask came out to a familiar roar.

  He was thick through the shoulders and neck, jaw scarred and heavy, the kind of man who made a living by letting other people hurt him until they ran out of strength. He slapped his own face twice, rolled his neck, and smiled at Humbert with the confidence of someone who had never been put down cleanly.

  The bell rang.

  Rask came forward hard.

  This time, Humbert did not meet him halfway.

  Rask crashed into him, forearms and shoulders slamming, head tucked low as he tried to smother the bigger man’s reach. A short hook slipped through and caught Humbert along the ribs. Another clipped his arm. The crowd reacted immediately, voices rising at the sight of Humbert actually taking hits.

  Rask pressed, breathing heavy, crowding, grinding. He dug a fist into Humbert’s body, then another, working exactly where men his size usually worked best.

  Humbert absorbed it.

  He gave ground for the first time that night, one step, then another, testing Rask’s balance and timing. When Rask overcommitted, leaning in too hard, Humbert turned his hips and drove a brutal uppercut into Rask’s chin.

  The sound cracked.

  Rask staggered, shook his head, and stayed upright through sheer stubbornness. He swung back wildly, catching Humbert across the cheek. Blood flashed bright under the lantern light.

  The crowd went feral.

  Humbert’s expression did not change.

  He stepped inside the next swing, smothered it with his shoulder, and delivered a compact hook to the liver that folded Rask in half. A second punch followed, snapping Rask’s head sideways. A third put him down.

  Rask hit the sand and did not rise.

  The announcer leapt forward.

  “The winner is HUMBERT!”

  The noise surged, louder now, edged with disbelief.

  Otwin moved to the betting tables.

  This time his bet was heavier. Enough to draw looks. Enough to make the bookie hesitate before taking the coins. The odds shifted again, less generous now, but still wrong.

  Jordy did not watch the pit. He watched the Black Dragon platform. He watched the runner return. He watched the officials draw closer together, voices low, faces tight.

  The announcer waited for the crowd to settle, sweat shining on his forehead.

  “All right,” he shouted again, voice strained with excitement. “You’ve seen power. Let’s see skill.”

  He pointed.

  “In this corner, SILAS VENN!”

  Silas stepped out to a different reaction.

  Quieter. Sharper. The kind of hush that came from recognition rather than surprise. This crowd knew what he was, and they leaned in instead of shouting.

  Silas Venn was lean and rangy, built long through the arms and legs, his frame spare in a way that spoke of speed and endurance rather than brute force. His shoulders were narrow but set, muscles layered tight instead of piled on. Old scars traced pale lines across his forearms and ribs, thin and precise, the marks of strikes that had landed cleanly instead of wild brawling wounds.

  His face was calm to the point of detachment. Dark hair cropped short. Eyes focused but not hard, tracking everything without locking onto anything yet. He wore no talismans, no paint, no show. Just wrapped hands, bare feet, and a posture that never quite settled, weight always shifting, ready.

  He moved like water, loose and precise, feet gliding as he warmed up. Each step was measured, silent in the sand. He shadowboxed lightly, punches snapping out and back with economy, never overextending, never wasting energy. When he breathed, it was slow and controlled, chest barely rising.

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  Silas did not look at Humbert directly at first.

  Instead, he studied the pit itself. The sand. The light angles. The distance to the timber ring. Only after that did his gaze finally lift, flicking to Humbert for a brief moment, not assessing size so much as timing.

  The bell rang.

  Silas struck first.

  A jab snapped Humbert’s head back. Another followed immediately, then a low kick that bit into Humbert’s thigh. Silas moved before Humbert could answer, angling away, forcing the big man to turn.

  Humbert took another jab. Then another.

  The crowd roared again, this time with something like hope.

  Silas circled, landing clean, never staying in front of Humbert long enough to be caught. He slipped a counter past Humbert’s guard and snapped his head sideways.

  Humbert’s breathing deepened.

  He cut the pit smaller, stepping instead of chasing, forcing Silas toward the wall inch by inch. When Silas tried to pivot out, Humbert stepped with him and took a punch to the jaw that made his vision blur.

  Otwin felt the room tighten.

  Silas pressed his advantage, landing a quick combination that forced Humbert back into the timber ring. For a moment, Humbert was eating punches.

  Then he timed it.

  As Silas stepped in again, Humbert slipped just enough and drove a straight shot into Silas’s chest, knocking the air out of him. A second punch followed, then a shove that sent Silas stumbling.

  Silas tried to recover.

  Humbert did not let him.

  He closed, grabbed, and drove Silas into the wall with a sound like splitting wood. A short elbow followed. Then a final strike that dropped Silas to his knees.

  Silas stayed there, gasping, unable to rise.

  “HUMBERT!” the announcer screamed, voice breaking.

  Otwin collected again.

  This time it was not quiet. The bookie hesitated, fingers lingering on the edge of the ledger as if hoping the numbers might rearrange themselves if given a moment. When the coins were finally pushed across, they came with looks. Not curiosity anymore. Calculation. Men nearby leaned in just enough to see the size of the payout before pretending they had not been watching. Whispers started, short and sharp, Otwin’s name not spoken but clearly implied. He let the weight of the money sit in his hands for a heartbeat before turning away, feeling the room’s attention follow him as he moved.

  The bet this time was large enough that people noticed where it came from. Eyes followed him as he moved through the crowd, coin heavy in his hands.

  Jordy saw the runner dispatched again.

  The Black Dragon Combat Club was no longer testing.

  They were responding.

  “One more,” the announcer said hoarsely. “One more.”

  He paused.

  “KORRIN HALE!”

  Korrin entered without reaction.

  He was tall, disciplined, and calm in a way that felt deliberate rather than relaxed. Korrin Hale carried himself like a professional who had done this too many times to feel anything about it. His build was thick but controlled, muscle packed tight under scarred skin, no excess anywhere. His shoulders were squared, neck corded, hands already loose and ready at his sides. There was no warmup, no pacing, no ritual for the crowd. He stepped into the pit as if it were familiar ground and met Humbert’s eyes with a steady, unblinking stare that held neither fear nor bravado, only assessment.

  The bell rang.

  Korrin went to the clinch immediately.

  He did not rush, but he did not hesitate either. He stepped in with his guard tight and his weight low, closing the distance before Humbert could fully set his stance. Their shoulders collided with a dull, heavy sound, forearms grinding together as they fought for inside position. Feet dug trenches in the sand as both men tested balance and leverage, neither willing to give ground.

  Korrin’s clinch work was clean and efficient. He shifted his hips, nudged Humbert’s center of gravity just enough to feel where the bigger man resisted, then adjusted again. A short knee snapped up into Humbert’s thigh, sharp and precise. Another followed, higher this time, driving into the lower ribs.

  Humbert grunted and answered with one of his own, a brutal upward drive that forced Korrin to adjust his stance or be lifted. The impact drew a collective noise from the crowd as the two giants strained against each other.

  They broke apart.

  Korrin struck immediately.

  A straight shot snapped Humbert’s head back, clean and undeniable. Humbert took a half step to recover, boots sliding in the sand. Korrin followed, hands coming alive now, combinations flowing without waste. A hook clipped Humbert’s jaw. A short elbow scraped across his guard. Another punch drove into his chest.

  The crowd screamed.

  For the first time that night, Humbert was being forced backward in earnest. Korrin pressed with discipline, never overcommitting, never throwing more than he needed. He cut off Humbert’s angles, herding him toward the timber ring, landing when openings appeared and disengaging before he could be caught.

  Otwin stopped moving entirely, eyes locked on the pit.

  Humbert dug in.

  He absorbed a strike to the cheek, then another to the body that drove the breath from him. His guard tightened. His feet settled. He let Korrin come in again, felt the rhythm, the timing.

  Then Humbert surged.

  He stepped forward into the next exchange instead of away from it, shoulders rolling as he drove Korrin back with sheer pressure. A heavy forearm smashed through Korrin’s guard. A short punch landed on the ribs. Another followed, higher, snapping Korrin’s head sideways.

  They traded at close range now, blows thudding into flesh and bone, each answered in turn. Korrin landed clean again, forcing a grunt from Humbert, but Humbert answered with two heavier shots that made Korrin’s breathing hitch.

  The pit shook as they moved.

  Humbert shifted his grip suddenly, catching Korrin as he tried to pivot out. One massive hand locked behind Korrin’s neck, the other under his arm. With a roar, Humbert lifted and drove him down into the sand.

  The impact rattled the timbers.

  Korrin rolled on instinct, trying to rise, trying to find his base. His arms shook. His legs did not answer fast enough.

  Humbert was already there.

  He drove a knee down, not with flourish but with intent, then hauled Korrin up just long enough to throw him again. Korrin hit the sand hard and stayed there, breath coming in ragged pulls, eyes unfocused.

  The announcer’s voice cracked as he shouted the result.

  “HUMBERT!”

  The crowd roared, not cheering now so much as reacting, shaken by what they had just witnessed.

  Otwin stood still, coin heavy in his hands.

  And Humbert stood alone in the sand, bloodied, chest heaving, eyes still sharp.

  And Jordy watched the Black Dragon platform empty, men moving quickly and quietly now, separating to reveal the man standing at their center.

  Baron Tande, the Master of the Dim Mak, who they call the Deadliest Man Alive.