Silas suddenly came back into existence on a broad, uneven road just outside Bastian’s massive walls. No warning, no swirling portal—just a sharp twist of magic dumping him on foreign cobblestones.

Moments earlier, he’d stood in that half-collapsed farmhouse, arachne corpses at his feet.

Now, the reek of spider gore still clung to his clothes.

Dried, blackened ichor stained his boots. Ahead, the city’s gate rose in carved stone, a line of travelers inching forward under the watchful stare of two armored guards.

He queued up, ignoring sidelong glances at his bloodied coat and battered gear. The standard reaction: suspicion, revulsion. He’d seen worse. He’d done worse.

When it was his turn, a guard in dented half-plate studied him warily, halberd propped at an angle.

“Rough day?” the guard asked.

Silas shrugged. “I’ve had worse.”

The first guard's partner stepped closer, nose wrinkling at the spider gore coating Silas's clothes. His gauntleted hand reached for the inheritance papers.

"These look official enough." The guard's eyes narrowed at the blood seal. "Beckham Estate?" His voice dripped with mock sympathy. "That cursed heap? Place is falling apart and anyone checking it out ends up dead."

Silas kept his expression neutral. Death threats meant nothing new, he'd survived worse odds in Dolan's streets.

"Papers say it's mine."

The guards traded knowing looks. The first one leaned on his halberd. "Met the old butler yet? Crazy thing, walking around like that."

"Like what?"

"You'll see." The second guard handed back the documents. "Though most folks don't last long enough for introductions."

"Three owners in three months," the first guard added. "Record's getting shorter each time."

Silas tucked away the papers. "Thanks for the warning."

"Oh, he thanks us." The second guard's laugh held no humor. "Been nice knowing you, Lord Beckham."

They waved him through the gates with exaggerated bows and he went on his way.

The city's outer ring hit Silas with a wall of noise and motion. Market stalls crammed every space between buildings, their weathered awnings flapping in the breeze. The reek of his arachne-stained clothes mixed with a dozen competing smells, roasted meat, fresh bread, horse manure, and the harsh smoke from blacksmith forges.

A woman jumped out at him with a vial of murky green liquid and tried to show it off. "Guaranteed to cure what ails you, good sir!"

Silas stepped around her, keeping his back to the wall.

Old habits died hard. In Dolan, crowds meant pickpockets and blade-wielding thieves.

Here, well-dressed merchants haggled over silk prices while street kids darted between market stalls.

Different city, same opportunities for someone to lift his meager coin pouch.

Up ahead, polished armor stood apart. The checkpoint to the next ring stood ready, its guards carrying themselves with the practiced ease of men used to turning people away.

Their eyes found the bloodstains on his clothes first, then settled on the scroll he pulled out for them.

"Beckham seal." The guard's mouth twisted. "Another one." He waved Silas through with a dismissive flick of his gauntlet.

Silas moved past them, scanning the buildings.

"Problem?" Silas asked, keeping his voice flat as he met the guard's stare.

The armored man shook his head. "The estate's your funeral, not mine. Head up Noble's Rise until you hit the old gates. Can't miss them - black iron, covered in rust." He paused. "Assuming they don't eat you first."

Silas watched the guard's face for any hint of deception.

In Dolan, information came with hooks, someone always wanted something. But the guard just turned away, already focused on the next person in line.

Strange. Back home, guards squeezed travelers for every coin they could. Here they seemed more interested in warning him off than taking his money.

The cobblestones changed as he walked, growing smoother, better maintained. Buildings rose taller, their windows fitted with real glass instead of oiled paper. The crowd thinned, replaced by people in fine clothes who gave his bloodstained gear a wide berth.

A pair of merchants crossed the street rather than pass near him.

"Another one for the estate."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

"Poor fool. Wonder how long this one lasts?"

Silas kept walking.

A heavy gauntlet landed on Silas's shoulder. He spun, hand dropping to his sword hilt before he caught himself.

"Hold up there." The guard's weathered face creased. "Can't let you head straight to the estate. Magistrates need to process the inheritance first."

Silas released his grip on the sword. "Thought the papers cleared me."

"Blood seal gets you in the city." The guard pointed down a side street lined with marble columns. "But ownership? That's different. Building at the end, can't miss it. Big white stone thing with too many steps."

"More paperwork." Silas kept the irritation from his voice. In Dolan, official business meant bribes and waiting in lines while clerks found reasons to deny whatever you needed.

"Look." The guard's voice dropped. "Do yourself a favor. While they process things, get cleaned up. Find an inn. Rest. Maybe decide this inheritance isn't worth it."

"That bad?"

The guard grimaced.

Silas studied the indicated street. Marble pillars, carefully spaced trees, well-dressed people hurrying past with arms full of scrolls and documents.

"How long?"

"Processing? Couple hours if you're lucky. Days if you're not." The guard stepped back. "Assuming you live that long."

Silas started down the street, already counting the coins in his pouch. If this took days, he'd need a room. Food. His stomach twisted at the thought of spending the last of his silver, but dead men had no use for savings.

Behind him, he caught the guard's murmur to his partner.

"Taking bets on this one?"

"Nah. Not worth it anymore. They die too quick."

The Magistrate's office loomed ahead, a block of white stone.

A clerk near the entrance wrinkled his nose as Silas approached.

"Papers." The clerk held out his hand without looking up from his ledger.

Silas passed over the scroll. The clerk's eyes widened at the blood seal, ink-stained fingers trembling slightly as he traced the edge.

"Follow me."

They walked through corridors lined with shelves of scrolls and documents. The smell of dust and ink replaced the market's chaos. Other clerks glanced up from their work, whispers following in Silas's wake.

The clerk stopped at a heavy wooden door marked "Inheritance Division" and knocked twice.

"Enter."

Inside, a woman in expensive robes sat behind a massive desk covered in neat stacks of papers. She looked up, eyes sharp beneath grey-streaked hair.

"Another Beckham heir." She gestured to a chair. "Sit."

Silas remained standing. "Rather get this done quick."

"Proper procedure takes time." She pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment. "I am Magistrate Riane. You are?"

"Silas Beckham."

"Previous residence?"

"Dolan."

Her quill paused. "The slums?"

"Yes."

She set down her quill. "Interesting. Most claimants came from established families. Noble houses."

Her eyes narrowed. "You're different. Maybe even the real deal."

Silas didn't say anything. In Dolan, questions meant trouble.

"Just need the papers processed."

"Of course." She dipped her quill again. "Though I should warn you, the estate is not a safe place."

"So I've heard."

"And yet you still wish to claim it?"

Silas thought of Dolan's streets, of hunting monsters for practically nothing. "Yes."

"Very well." She began writing. "Take a seat."

Magistrate Riane pulled a worn ledger from her desk, finger tracing down columns of numbers. Her eyebrows lifted. "Outstanding debts, interest, plus inheritance fees."

Silas felt tense.

"Looks like 3 gold, base inheritance tax." She gave his ragged coat a pointed look. "Your total stands in the thousands, but three gold grants legal entry."

Her eyes dropped to his meager coin pouch. "You have that amount?"

Silas opened the pouch, revealing a scatter of silver pieces.

Riane sighed and pulled a battered orb from her desk drawer. "Here." She placed it in his palm.

Magic hummed through the orb's etched runes, familiar yet different from the tools he'd borrowed in Dolan's underground fights.

Silas turned the humming orb in his hand.

"A temporary Summoner Orb, E-rank capacity," Riane explained. "Fight in the city's lesser pits, earn your gold. Return the orb and pay the fee, or don't and forfeit the estate."

Silas clenched the orb tighter. He'd borrowed summoning tools before, usually from shady lenders in Dolan's underground fights. This was the same desperation, just wearing official clothes.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, trying to keep the suspicion from his voice.

Riane's expression turned distant. "A favor owed, from long ago." She shook her head, refocusing on the present. "It's more than most get. Use it wisely."

Silas nodded, tucking the orb into his pocket. Its weight pressed against his side, a constant reminder of the debt he'd just taken on.

"Any advice on where to start?"

Riane leaned back in her chair, fingers drumming against the polished wood. "The outer ring. You'll want one of the fight rings. That's where you'll want to start."

"Thought that was illegal." Silas had seen enough underground fights in Dolan to recognize the careful way she chose her words.

"The noble district has rules. Regulations. Oversight." She waved her hand toward the window. "Out there? The city guard has better things to do than shut down every back-alley match."

Made sense.

In Dolan, the guards only bothered with fights that got too public or too bloody.

"Less skilled fighters too," she added. "Dock workers and market brawlers testing their luck with borrowed orbs. Not like the inner rings where noble houses field trained summoners."

Silas nodded. Starting small meant staying alive long enough to learn.

"Gambling?" he asked.

"Heavy betting. Especially on newcomers." A hint of approval crossed her face at his question. "Smart fighters can make more from well-placed bets than victory purses. Just remember, outer ring crowds don't take kindly to obvious throws."

That matched what he knew. Back home, fighters who tried fixing matches often didn't survive to collect their bribes.

"The pits move around," she continued. "But walk around long enough, and you'll find it."

TAMED/SUMMONED MONSTER ROSTER (6 SLOTS)

[Unknown]

[Unknown]

[Unknown]

[Unknown]

[Unknown]

[Unknown]

Six slots. Standard for beginners. He'd seen enough pit fights in Dolan to know that experienced summoners could field twice that many creatures, but six would do for now.

The E-rank orb limited what he could call forth - probably nothing stronger than the basic creatures he'd seen other desperate fighters use. Giant rats. Angry roosters. The occasional wild dog if someone got lucky.

Not exactly the powerful beasts noble summoners commanded, but Silas had learned long ago that survival didn't require the best tools - just the wit to use what you had.

Back in Dolan, he'd watched enough matches to know the basics. Each slot could hold one creature, either tamed or summoned. Tamed beasts stayed with you, growing stronger over time. Summoned ones appeared for the fight, then vanished when their mana ran out.

Silas checked his remaining coins. Not enough for an inn, especially if he needed to save some for fight entry fees. He'd have to find somewhere else to clean up and rest before his first match.

Silas tucked the summoning orb deeper into his pocket. Its weight felt like another debt, another obligation. But debts could be paid. He'd done it before in Dolan, fighting his way clear of every lender and thug who thought they owned him.

He stood, ignoring how his muscles protested after the arachne fight. "Anything else?"

"Just one thing." Magistrate Riane's responded.

"Try to last longer than the others."

Silas left without responding. He had work to do. The pits waited somewhere in the outer ring, and he needed to find them before nightfall.

Time to see what kind of fighters Bastian bred.