Trying to distract herself away from thinking of Kain, she focused on the broker again. His eyes flickered toward her—just for a heartbeat—and something in his expression seemed to flicker with recognition.

But before she could think too deeply about it, Terren puffed his chest.

"Don't worry, Alaina. Drainen is the obvious choice."

She raised a brow. "If he's so obvious, why aren't the odds lower?"

Terren waved dismissively. "The organizers like to… guide outcomes. Once a fighter hits nine wins, they usually slip in a specially groomed challenger to keep things 'balanced.' And The Beast is currently on win number nine. Get it? Drainen is guaranteed."

…Guaranteed?

Alaina hummed softly.

And then she turned her back on Terren and walked to the betting counter again.

He panicked.

"H-Hey! Wait! You don't need to bet— I already placed a bet for you!"

She ignored him.

The broker looked up at her again. His voice was quiet, oddly smooth:

"What'll it be, miss?"

"Ten thousand," she said. "On The Beast."

A few heads turned. Terren paled.

"Alaina, no—!"

She continued ignoring him.

The broker stamped her slip, slid it across the counter, and leaned in just slightly.

"You chose well," he murmured. "I know him. He'll win."

Her brows drew together. "You know him?"

He didn't answer—just offered a faint, knowing smile that made her feel like she was surrounded by a group of people in on a joke only she wasn't privy to.

Terren tugged at her sleeve, nearly whining in his desperation to get her to bet according to his wishes.

'So unattractive…'

She brushed him off.

They returned to their seats as the arena lights dimmed.

A hush rippled through the crowd.

Then—

The Beast entered.

Huge.

Broad-shouldered.

Towering over the announcer.

But what made Alaina's breath catch wasn't his size.

It was the face.

The brown hair.

The hazel eyes.

The familiar bone structure.

She sat bolt upright.

"…Bridge?"

Of course she knew him. She knew everything she could about those around Kain. He was Kain's 'twin' brother who also attended Dark Moon College. A gentle giant with a shy smile and a tendency to apologize to chairs if he accidentally bumped into them.

But the man walking onto the stage wasn't the usual gentle soul.

He looked… cold.

Hard.

Like something carved from stone and iron and frost.

Terren noticed her stare and grinned, finally mistaking her interest for enthusiasm.

"Oh! You want to know more about the guy you placed a bet on? That's The Beast. He's been fighting here for a month. At first, he got destroyed. Couldn't even activate his Gift before getting knocked out. But the beatings forced his control over his Gift to grow fast. Now he's unstoppable. If he wins this, it'll be his tenth straight victory."

"And that's bad? Because…?"

"Because the organizers hate streaks this long because it cuts into their profits. Nobody hits ten wins. When someone gets close, they drop in a specialist trained specifically to stop the streak. As I said before, no matter how strong he looks, Drainen is here to end him. But don't be too upset that your bet will lose, I made a bet for you on Drainen too, remember?"

He puffed his chest up like he wanted praise.

Alaina didn't answer.

She couldn't.

Because the opponent stepping onto the stage—Drainen—radiated an ominous, sharpened aura. A man built like a coiled spring, with dark red markings spreading down his arms like burning veins.

The announcer leapt between them.

"ON MY LEFT— THE BEAST!"

The crowd thundered.

"And on my right— DRAINEN THE BLOODVEIN!"

Drainen lifted his chin, eyes glowing a violent crimson as his Gift activated—

Veins bulged under his skin, pulsing with power.

Blood-mist spiraled around his fists, coalescing into crackling shapes like claws.

A Gift focused entirely on offensive brutality.

Bridge inhaled.

And activated his.

Fur burst from his skin.

Claws elongated.

Muscles doubled, then tripled.

His spine curved backward, lupine.

Hazel eyes became feral gold.

Bridge transformed into a massive werewolf.

The crowd went insane.

Alaina's heart drummed against her ribs.

Her breath caught.

Something primal, electric, terrifying spiraled in her chest as the two combatants stepped forward.

The announcer's arm dropped.

"BEGIN!"

Drainen struck first—faster than a normal eye could follow—his blood-clawed fist streaking toward Bridge's throat.

Bridge blocked with a forearm thick as a tree trunk.

The impact cracked the air.

Sound exploded like a grenade.

Bridge lunged back in, claws flashing—

Drainen dodged with unnatural reflexes, twisting so his feet barely touched the ground.

He counterpunched.

Bridge caught him by the wrist.

Drainen's eyes widened.

Bridge slammed him into the metal cage wall hard enough to leave a dent.

The audience roared.

Drainen coughed blood—only for it to evaporate into mist and slam back into Bridge's chest like sharp needles.

Bridge staggered—fur cut off at the site, skin pierced.

Drainen grinned, teeth sharp.

His Gift weaponized his own spilled blood, meaning that as the battle went on and he got more injured, he'd only get stronger. He'd never lost in a match where contracts weren't used for that very reason. Which is also why the organizers kept him as one of their 'trump cards'.

Bridge wiped the blood from his chest. His expression was unreadable. Cold. Focused.

He attacked again.

They fought like literal beasts.

Claw against mist.

Fang against blood.

Bridge drove forward with raw force, muscles coiling like steel cables as he tried to overpower the smaller man.

But Drainen didn't retreat.

He revelled in the bloodshed.

Every time Bridge swung, blood streamed from Drainen's earlier wounds, twisting mid-air into hardened crimson scythes that clashed against Bridge's claws. Two of the blades curved unnaturally, hooking behind Bridge's wrist to wrench his arm downward—only for Bridge to pivot, snapping the blood constructs with brute strength.

Snarling, Bridge slashed again.

Drainen stomped once hard as if to injure himself, and a burst of blood sprayed from the sole of his foot, propelling him upward in a sudden vertical leap. From above, he flicked his fingers, launching a fan of razor-thin blood needles.

Bridge crossed his arms to shield himself. The needles shattered against his fur but several pierced deep, drawing lines of red.

Drainen didn't waste the blood that struck the floor.

It slid back toward him like living serpents.

He swept his hand, and the collected blood surged into a massive blade that extended from elbow to fingertip—bigger than a longsword.

Bridge met it head‑on.

Claws collided with blood-forged steel.

The metal flooring buckled beneath them.

Air rippled outward in a shockwave that made the audience flinch.

Sweat, fur, and droplets of blood whipped through the arena as the two fighters strained against each other—Bridge pushing forward with monstrous power while Drainen shifted, redirecting impact through the fluidity of his own blood.

For every wound Bridge inflicted, Drainen gained more ammunition.

For every strike Drainen unleashed, Bridge's regeneration struggled to keep pace.

Although it was slight, Bridge seemed to be on the back foot.

Terren leaned forward, yelling over the noisy crowd. "See? See?! Drainen has the advantage—aren't you happy I place a bet for you?!"

But Alaina didn't respond to him.

Her eyes stayed glued to Bridge.

To the cold determination in him.

To the fury simmering beneath.

To the way he fought like a man with nothing left to lose.

Thump

Thump Thump

Her heart began to beat in her ears as she gripped the railing, knuckles whitening.

'Come on!'

The match raged on.

And neither combatant showed any sign of stopping.

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