The sun slanted low through the narrow windows of the new shop, throwing amber bars across the stone floor. Hugo sat with his back to the wall, arms folded. Alpha's [Wasp] rested on the table between them, red optic dimmed to a thoughtful glow.

"You'll forgive me if I'm blunt," Hugo rumbled at last. His scarred hands flexed open and shut, the sound of chitin plates rasping together. "I still don't see how you expect to make any money from this Nexus of yours if adventurers won't be charged for using it. You build an empire of tunnels and stations, but if every fool can wander them free of cost, what's left for you?"

The [Wasp] tilted its head, wings giving a faint metallic buzz. "Ah. The old paradox. You think if something isn't directly taxed, it can't turn a profit."

Hugo snorted. "That's how the world works."

Alpha's voice smoothed into the patient tone of a teacher speaking to a student. "Have you ever heard of a… nightclub?"

Hugo frowned. "A what?"

"A gathering place," Alpha clarified. "A hall where people — usually the young and restless — go in the evenings. Music, food, drink, dancing. A place to be seen as much as to enjoy oneself."

Hugo's frown deepened. "So… like a tavern?"

"Not quite." Alpha's optic pulsed faintly as the [Wasp] leaned closer. "Taverns exist to serve drink and meals. Clubs — nightclubs — exist to serve attention, and… entertainment. They thrive on being crowded, noisy, full of life. The more people you see enjoying themselves inside, the more convinced you are that you should be there too."

Hugo's scarred brow furrowed. "And that makes money?"

Alpha chuckled. "Oh, yes. The trick is that many such establishments don't earn their coin from the people you expect. In fact, often times they won't even charge certain groups admission — typically young women, in this case. No charge at the door, sometimes even no charge for a drink. To you, that sounds foolish, yes?"

Hugo grunted. "Aye. Sounds like they're bleeding silver for nothing."

"On the surface," Alpha agreed, "but the owners understand something simple — people don't come only for food or drink. They come for the company. Picture this: a hall where women are allowed in freely, perhaps even offered complimentary drinks. Word spreads, and they arrive in numbers. Suddenly, the hall looks lively, full, desirable. The men see this, and they come too — men willing to pay heavily for drinks, for food, and for a chance to impress those women. Suddenly, it becomes the place everyone else wants to be, and the house makes far more money than it ever could from charging everyone at the door."

Hugo stared, silent for a long beat. "So you're saying… the women are bait?"

Alpha's chuckle hummed through the air. "If you wish to phrase it crudely, yes. But more accurately, it isn't about charging everyone equally. It's about arranging the pieces so that one group draws in another, and the second group pays enough for both. The clever housekeeper doesn't sell just ale. He sells the chance to sit in a room others already want to be in."

The big man grunted, arms tightening across his chest. His scarred jaw shifted as he turned it over. "And this… applies to the Nexus?"

"Exactly." Alpha's optic gleamed brighter. "Offer adventurers free access. Give them clean routes, safety, and resources at their fingertips. They'll come in droves. And once they're inside, once the Nexus is the place to be, everyone else follows. Merchants. Alchemists. Smiths. All desperate to sell goods or services to the adventurers who now pass through my domain daily."

The [Wasp]'s wings gave a faint tremor, like a laugh. "And those merchants and tradesmen? They will pay handsomely for the privilege of operating inside my Nexus. Stalls, storefronts, even warehouses. They'll clamor for the chance to set up shop where the traffic flows thickest. They will fund the system, not the adventurers."

Hugo's frown lingered, but there was calculation in his eyes now, not disbelief. "So the adventurers travel free, but the coin-chasers pay for the privilege of being near them."

"Precisely." Alpha's voice smoothed into satisfaction. "And the more seamless, the more reliable I make the Nexus, the more they'll need it. Just like those nightclubs — offer the right bait, and soon enough, you won't need to chase customers. They'll chase you."

Hugo exhaled through his nose, a sound like gravel sliding. He shook his head slowly, half in wonder, half in disbelief. "Your world sounds… ridiculous."

"Perhaps," Alpha allowed with a chuckle.

——————————————————

The training field rang with noise — the sharp crack of wooden weapons, the roar of a fire spell detonating against a distant target, the low rumble of laughter as a pair of apprentices tumbled from the dueling circle in a heap. Dust hung in the air, stirred by a dozen different drills happening at once. Sunlight gleamed off armor and spirit auras alike, painting the chaos in shifting flashes of gold and blue.

At the edge of the yard, a broad-shouldered man brought his mace down in a thunderous arc. The training dummy shuddered, splinters spraying as the blow cratered its chest. The man straightened with a grunt, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a calloused hand. A faint glow rippled beneath his skin as he exhaled, the lingering trace of spirit energy dispersing into the warm air.

"Still got it," he muttered with a satisfied grin, planting his mace head-down in the dirt.

"Still showing off, you mean," a voice called out across the yard.

The man turned, brow lifting. Striding toward him was another adventurer — leaner, younger by a few years, but carrying himself with all the pride in the world. His dark hair was pulled back in a loose tail, a sword slung across his back. He wore no armor beyond a leather vest, and his stance carried the swagger of someone who thought he'd finally figured something out.

"Bradan," the younger man said curtly, stopping a few paces away. "Fight me."

Bradan blinked, then laughed—deep and booming, cutting through the din of training all around them. "Again? Gods above, Gairn, how many times has it been now? You planning to make this an annual festival?"

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Gairn's expression didn't change. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. "This time will be different."

"That's what you said last time," Bradan said, still grinning. He leaned his mace against the dummy and stretched his arms with exaggerated care. "And the time before that. And the twenty before that. Remind me, what's your record again?"

Gairn's smirk returned, sharp and confident. "That was then," he said, sliding his blade free with a low metallic whisper. "This is now."

That was all it took for the word to spread. By the time they stepped into the ring, a crowd had begun to gather. Adventurers from every corner of the field drifted closer, abandoning their drills and mock battles. Some leaned on practice spears, others clutched half-finished skewers from the canteen stalls. Bets were already being shouted across the ring, with most of the coin landing predictably on Bradan.

"Thirty-five losses," someone snickered. "Poor fool never learns."

"Put me down for two silver on Bradan," another said.

"Three, on he ends it in under a minute!" a third called.

Gairn ignored the jeers, rolling his shoulders as he stepped into the ring. He exhaled once, steadying his stance. His hand flicked outward, and a dozen small portals snapped open around him, neat and exact, no wider than dinner plates. From each, a blade slid free — weightless, translucent, and keen as glass. They floated in an orbit around him, their points aimed outward, humming faintly in the sun.

Bradan watched, unimpressed. "Still the same parlor trick?"

The older man planted his boots and drew a deep breath. A pulse of spirit energy rolled through the ground, and the earth answered. Stone crawled up his legs in ridged layers, forming greaves, then breastplate, then gauntlets, until his whole frame was encased in sculpted rock. Even his mace thickened, veins of granite running up the handle until it swelled into a hammer-headed mass fit for a siege. Cracks glowed faintly between the plates, molten at their edges, alive with restrained power.

The crowd leaned forward. Someone muttered, "Here we go."

A sharp crack signaled the start.

Gairn moved first — lightning quick, darting in and out of reach. His summoned blades streaked toward Bradan in synchronized arcs, cutting white grooves through the air. Each strike rang out sharp against stone, biting chips from the armor. But as fast as the blades carved, new stone flowed up from the ground, sealing the wounds shut as if the earth itself refused to let Bradan bleed.

Bradan laughed, a deep rumble that carried over the clamor. He swung his mace in a wide, brutal sweep. The weapon tore through one of the floating swords and kept going, forcing Gairn back a step.

"You're quicker," Bradan called, voice echoing inside the stone helm. "But you still can't crack me."

Gairn's reply was a silent grin. He slid aside from another swing, sand spraying beneath his boots. The heavy mace whistled past, close enough that the air shook. He countered with a storm of blades — slashes so fast they blurred into silver light. Sparks flew where they struck, but the bigger man only trudged forward, unbothered, his armor healing as fast as it broke.

The onlookers had seen this same scene a dozen times before. Gairn was talented, there was no doubt. But all it would take was one good hit from Bradan to end the match, as it had thirty-four times before.

Bradan's attacks grew heavier, slower, and more deliberate. Gairn's footwork kept him just out of reach, his blades drawing fresh lines across the stone giant's body. Then Bradan feinted low, brought his mace up, and released another surge of power.

The ground answered again.

A jagged pillar of stone erupted beneath Gairn's heel. He twisted mid-air, landing square on the narrow top before it finished rising. Gasps rippled through the crowd — he'd dodged the trap cleanly — but Bradan was already charging.

The armored man roared, slamming forward with a shoulder like a battering ram. The impact came too fast for Gairn to dodge.

The watching adventurers winced as one. "That's thirty-five," someone groaned.

Only a few noticed the smile flicker across Gairn's face.

A shimmer cut through the air around him as the portals opened again — not with blades this time, but with small, round tokens the color of mud. They spun outward in a perfect circle, clicking together like pieces of a puzzle. Lines of light snapped between them — one heartbeat later, a hexagonal barrier flared into being.

Bradan's charge hit the shield dead-center.

The impact exploded in a pulse of golden energy, sending a wave of dust spiraling skyward. The crowd staggered back, coughing and swearing. When the haze cleared, Bradan's knee hit the dirt with a dull thud, grit biting through the cracks in his stone greaves. He drew in a ragged breath, chest heaving under the weight of his own armor. Across the ring, Gairn's eyes gleamed with something between disbelief and triumph.

Before Bradan could so much as push to his feet, the young man's hands flicked through a series of sharp gestures. The tokens that still hovered in the air jerked as if on strings, spinning into a tight spiral. The hovering swords around him joined the dance, their edges blurring into streaks of silver light.

A collective murmur rolled through the crowd, then a shout.

The blades and tokens slammed together, merging into a single colossal shape. A sword, easily three times Gairn's height, shimmered into being. Its edges burned with raw spirit energy, translucent but solid enough to cast a shadow across the ring. Through its luminous body, the crowd could see the smaller blades and tokens locked in perfect orbit, their paths traced by faint, pulsing sigils.

Someone near the edge of the ring breathed, "How did he form the array so quickly?!"

Bradan looked up, eyes wide behind the seams of his helm. His instincts screamed, and his arm came up on reflex. Stone rippled across his body, racing to reinforce his shield.

"Don't you dare—"

Too late.

Gairn thrust his sword forward. The spectral blade shot across the arena like a bolt of lightning.

The impact cracked the air.

Sparks screamed where the two forces met, bright arcs scattering into the dust. The ground shuddered under Bradan's boots as the spectral sword drove against his shield. He braced, every muscle straining, his back foot digging furrows through the packed dirt. The sound was unbearable — metal shrieking, stone groaning, the roar of energy pressing down with the weight of a landslide.

For a heartbeat, the ring became a storm of light.

Then, as quickly as it came, the spectral sword shattered, disintegrating into ribbons of gold that faded into the air.

Silence.

Bradan stood panting, shield arm trembling, steam rising from the cracks between his armor plates. He looked down at the half-melted edge of his shield, then up at Gairn, who stood in the center of the ring, chest heaving, surrounded by faintly glowing shards of his own spellwork.

Before Bradan could recover, before he could snarl or laugh or lift his weapon again—

"MATCH!"

The word cut clean through the stunned quiet.

An officiant — a gray-haired woman with a voice like a whip — stepped into the ring, one hand raised. "Out of bounds!"

Bradan blinked, confused, then looked down. His back heel had crossed the painted line. Barely.

He let out a long, rough sigh. "Ah, hells."

The stone plating sloughed away, falling from his shoulders in chunks until only dust remained. The crowd's hush held for a heartbeat more, then shattered into cheers.

The noise hit like a wave. Shouts, laughter, clapping. Adventurers rushed into the ring, clapping Gairn on the back, tousling his hair, hollering congratulations. Someone lifted the younger man clear off his feet while another snatched one of his still-glowing tokens out of the air, waving it overhead like a trophy.

Gairn's grin nearly split his face. "Told you," he wheezed between breaths, voice cracking with equal parts laughter and exhaustion. "This time was different!"

Bradan chuckled low in his throat, shaking his head as he retrieved his mace from the dirt. He gave it a lazy twirl, then rested it across his shoulder as he turned away. Let the boy have his moment. He'd earned it.

At the edge of the crowd, movement caught his eye.

Guildmaster Yon Stonewall stood apart from the chaos, arms crossed, expression caught somewhere between amusement and appraisal. When Bradan met his gaze, Yon's brow lifted.

Bradan snorted, grinning like a man caught red-handed, and raised a thumb in mock salute.

Yon's mouth twitched into a grin of his own. He tossed something underhand. The small sack hit Bradan's palm with a satisfying clink of coin.

Bradan weighed it once in his hand, nodding appreciatively.

Then, still grinning, he tucked the pouch into his belt and strode off through the crowd, the roar of laughter and cheers fading behind him as the dust settled over the ring.

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