The pit was never meant to be a fair fight.
Ash's breath came heavy as he dodged a blade aimed at his side, twisting his body just in time to counter with a sharp elbow to the attacker's jaw. The man staggered back, dazed but not down. And he wasn't the only one.
Ash's eyes flicked around, his pulse hammering in his ears. Who the hell are these guys?
They weren't just rowdy spectators—each of them had weapons, moving with the practiced ease of fighters who'd seen blood before. Too coordinated.
[Too prepared. A setup. But why?]
Above him, Norman raised his hand, fingers tightening around the hilt of Stormcaller. The air crackled with electricity, his magic humming like a beast waking from slumber.
Ash clenched his fists. Shit. He's going all in.
Then—
A hand caught Norman's wrist before he could bring the weapon down.
The air shifted.
Norman's face twitched in irritation as he slowly turned his head toward the interruption.
"who are you?" he asked, his voice calm but edged with warning.
The figure was cloaked, face obscured beneath the hood. A beat of silence passed before the man reached up and slowly pulled it back.
Ash's stomach twisted.
That smirk. That scarred jaw. That unmistakable arrogance.
Ronny.
The Champion Brawler Bull.
Norman's grip tightened on his weapon, but he didn't strike. Not yet. He knew this man.
"…So, you're here."
Ronny grinned wide. "Of course I am. After all, you've done your job."
Norman's head tilted slightly, considering him. "I don't take orders. I take tasks."
Ronny chuckled, stepping closer, eyes gleaming with amusement. "And your task was to take care of Muda. Which, by the looks of it, you were just about to finish. Very noble. Very dedicated." His smirk widened. "But maybe a little too hasty?"
Norman stayed silent.
Ronny spread his arms as if addressing the whole pit. "Come on, old friend. You've gotta let this one breathe a little! We're in the middle of a show here!"
Norman didn't lower his weapon, but he also didn't strike. "You don't care about the show."
Ronny chuckled. "Alright, you got me. I don't. But I do care about our investment."
Norman's brow twitched.
Ronny leaned in slightly, voice dropping. "You can't just crush him like this. Not yet. If we're gonna burn something down, we let it scream first, it's no fun butchering someone with one strike."
Ash, still surrounded by fighters, growled under his breath. [Tch. They're just standing there, talking like I'm not even here.]
A blade swung for his side—he caught it with his bare hand, his skin hardening into scales as the weapon skidded uselessly against him. He twisted the attacker's wrist and sent him sprawling before launching himself into the next opponent.
They kept coming. And Ash kept fighting.
Ronny, watching from behind, let out a low whistle. "Look at him go. Not bad, huh?"
Norman didn't respond. His grip on Stormcaller loosened slightly.
Ronny grinned. "Now, I say we let this little monster have his fun. See what he can do. After all…" His smile darkened. "Isn't that why we put him in here in the first place?"
Norman exhaled slowly, lowering his weapon just a fraction. "This wasn't the deal."
Ronny clapped him on the shoulder. "Deals change. And trust me, you want to see how this one plays out. He collected a lot of debt now it's time for repayment."
Norman remained still. But he didn't strike.
And below them, surrounded by bloodthirsty warriors, Ash fought like a beast cornered in a cage.
Kael rarely felt nervous.
He had fought battles on bloodstained fields, negotiated with men who smiled while holding knives behind their backs, and walked through the corridors of power where a single word could mean life or death. And yet, this moment—standing at the edge of the pit, watching as the carefully laid plan unraveled—sent a rare, unwelcome unease through his chest.
Because this wasn't just a fight.
This was an execution.
His execution.
Kael's arms were still folded, but he felt the tension creeping up his spine. His fingers curled slightly under his sleeves, a small, almost imperceptible sign of his discontent. But Uren noticed.
"Master Kael…" Uren's voice was quieter than usual, careful. "You're nervous."
Kael exhaled sharply through his nose. "It's nothing."
Uren didn't press. He just turned his eyes toward the pit, watching as Ash moved—fast, brutal, but still controlled. He was fighting, but he wasn't desperate. Not yet.
Kael narrowed his gaze, analyzing the scene.
Norman's presence wasn't the problem. That had been expected. Planned. Ash was meant to fight Norman. Even the battle turning chaotic wasn't entirely surprising—this was a place where fights had a tendency to spiral into madness.
But this? This was too…deliberate.
Too many fighters. Too much coordination.
It wasn't a mere accident. Someone had orchestrated this.
Kael clenched his jaw.
He had given his word to Madam Lionheart.
She had entrusted him with this mission—to oversee, to ensure things didn't stray beyond control. And now?
Now, someone had hijacked their plan.
Kael's loyalty to Madam Lionheart wasn't born out of mere duty. He was not a man who bent his knee easily, nor did he serve out of obligation. He followed her because she was one of the few people he truly respected. Because when she gave an order, it was not out of greed or ambition, but with purpose.
And if someone was moving against her plans, against their plans—
That was something he could not allow.
He took another measured breath. "This isn't what we planned."
Uren's frown deepened. "Someone else is pulling the strings?"
Kael's voice was low. "Obviously."
"Is there a leech among us?"
"No, I don't think they know about our plan. We don't have any sort of spy in house of lionheart."
Uren let's out a relief sigh, "then how is this happening."
"It's an overlap of plans, they didn't attacked us that means they don't have idea about us."
His sharp eyes swept over the pit.
Norman still stood firm, his l face unreadable, Stormcaller humming faintly with power at his side. But Kael could tell—even Norman was hesitating. He hadn't expected this either.
Which meant Norman wasn't the one who had set this up.
[Then who?]
Kael's gaze flicked to the other fighters who had entered the pit—disguised as spectators, but clearly trained.
They weren't simple brawlers. Their movements, their discipline—it was military precision. Not something random fighters picked up.
That realization sent a cold weight through Kael's stomach.
Then—movement.
His eyes lifted.
A figure stood atop the slaughterhouse, watching. Still. Unmoving.
Kael's breath slowed. That's the source.
His fingers twitched slightly at his side.
Uren followed his gaze, then looked back at him. "…Orders?"
Kael exhaled sharply. "Hold the barrier."
Uren hesitated. "Master Kael, I don't know how long—"
"Just do it."
His voice was firm but not unkind. He trusted Uren. He knew he'd push himself past his limit if needed. But Kael also knew—if he didn't act now, this entire fight could spiral into something beyond even their control.
He turned sharply on his heel.
Then he leapt.
His body moved with practiced ease, landing on the rooftop without breaking stride. The figure didn't react—just remained standing, eerily calm.
Kael's silver eyes sharpened.
He reached for his weapon.
"Now," he muttered under his breath, "let's see who you are."