Raxton stood across the ring from Dellen, fists up, an ugly sneer on his face.

These fights with Raxton had consumed five loops, but Dellen wasn’t the same fighter he’d been when he’d started. He’d been able to take risks, fight aggressively, and feel out Raxton’s limits.

Dellen stood opposite his opponent, hands up, and felt a grin tease its way across his lips.

Raxton saw the grin and roared. He rushed at Dellen and swung.

Dellen pivoted on his heels and shifted his weight, avoiding the hurried attack. He didn’t stay on the defensive; he jabbed, fists flying out like lightning bolts, striking at Raxton’s ribs and face.

Raxton spun and launched a series of attacks at Dellen. Dellen had learned to take them on his forearms, accepting a little pain to avoid more.

Raxton threw an uppercut, Dellen dodged around it and threw an uppercut of his own. With contact, he felt the crunch of bone and the shudder of violence run through his arm.

Raxton staggered back.

Dellen didn’t let him run away. He closed the distance. Electrical Aether played over his knuckles, and he struck.

Power arced from Dellen’s hands to Raxton’s clothes.

A roar of pain ripped its way out of Raxton’s lips.

Dellen didn’t wait for even a moment; he dropped to his knees, evading a small gout of fire, perhaps an inch long, that burst from Raxton’s hands. He’d learned in the last reset that Raxton was a pyro aetherforged.

Heat scorched the air above Dellen. His skin smarted, and there was a scent of burnt hair.

Raxton swung into Dellen’s side, smashing him with his fists. Dellen did his best to take the hits on his arms, but some snuck through his guard, bruising skin and battering his shoulders. He leaped back to create distance and circle his opponent, waiting for the right moment.

Dellen lunged forward, batting Raxton’s arms out of the way, leaving him open for a flurry of blows. Dellen rained hits across Raxton’s torso; punches landed with the meaty sound of steelskin slamming into flesh, then he jumped to the side.

Another gout of fire exploded into being where Dellen had been a second before.

Raxton’s clothes caught fire, then the conflagration died.

“You’re no amateur.” The fighter said, a dark fury in his eyes. “I’ve never had to use a pyro burst against a first-timer. Who are you? Really? Why’ve I been told to kill you?”

Dellen’s head jerked back in surprise. “What?”

“You’ve gone and pissed someone right off.” Raxton backed up a step and rolled both neck and shoulders. “Life here in the dirt can be cheap.” He rushed at Dellen again.

Dellen danced around him and delivered a punch to the man’s kidneys.

Raxton stumbled to one knee.

Dellen took the opening and delivered a string of punches to the back of his head.

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Raxton fell, a puppet with his strings cut.

It was only then that Dellen heard the roar around him.

The crowd was screaming.

Every spectator on their feet.

The air around him pulsed with noise.

He saw the rise and fall of breathing in Raxton’s neck and walked away from his opponent.

The adrenaline sustaining him waned, and his injuries clamoured for his attention. He stepped out of the ring, every movement was a reminder of the fight he’d just endured. His skin ached, and his body felt sore. He could feel bruises blossoming like flowers where Raxton had hit him.

Miranda rushed up to him; her face told a story of apology and concern. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to bring you to this kind of fight.”

Dellen became aware of the sweat soaking through his clothes. Even a short fight had left him drenched.

Marcus was just a step behind her. “I haven’t seen a fight this savage in a long time. I didn’t mean to set you up.”

Dellen could barely manage a nod, the weight of his exhaustion settling in. He leaned on Miranda for support as she guided him away from the crowd.

“Raxton said he was told to kill me.”

“What?” Said, Miranda, her voice high. “Why? Who by?”

“Ah.” Said Marcus. He licked his lips. “Maybe they didn’t care for your bet.”

Dellen slouched in Marcus’s direction. “My bet? They wanted to kill me over my bet?”

“Well,” Marcus said, looking more nervous. “This isn’t exactly a legal enterprise; when you win money, you’re taking it from the kind of people who don’t like to lose money.”

Dellen let out a little groan. “So you’re saying the next time I step into a ring, I’m going to need to worry about another attempted murder.”

“The next time?” Gilgamesh said.

“The next time?” Miranda unknowingly echoed a tick later. “You’re going to do that again, knowing that people might kill you?”

Dellen straightened, pulling himself up; he was feeling stronger already. “Was your life never at risk when you fought?”

“Well, I,” Miranda began.

“Precisely.” Said Dellen.

“No, not ‘precisely,’ I didn’t have other options or a family to fall back on. You have options; why continue?”

“There’s no doubt in my mind that life will keep throwing difficult situations my way,” Dellen said. “I will not bend beneath them.” He looked her in the eyes. “I will climb every mountain.”

Miranda eyes widened in surprise, eyebrows shooting up towards her hairline, lips parted slightly. The look on her face was a mixture of disbelief and curiosity. “What has to happen to the scion of a noble line to make them so fierce?” She wondered aloud.

“The scion?” Marcus said. “You said you were a minor cousin or something like that.”

“You assumed, and I didn’t correct you,” Dellen said. “Now, shouldn’t we collect those winnings I fought so hard for?”

Their conversation was interrupted by a man wearing the insignia of the Ironclad Association. “You, Dellen.” He said with an outstretched pointing finger. “We don’t hand out sums like that here on the arena floor. You’re going to need to come below.”

Dellen glanced at both Miranda and Marcus before shrugging his acquiescence. It was one thing to kill him in the ring. There’d be a hundred witnesses, all seeing him die in a fight that he chose to step into. To kill him while he was collecting winnings? Well, then they’d get a reputation for welching on their bets, which would be worse than the loss from any one bet.

“What’s your name?” Dellen said.

“Edgar.”

“Let’s go then; I’m eager to see my winnings.” Dellen said.”

Accompanied by Miranda, Dellen was led through the throngs of spectators and down a dimly lit staircase. The noise from above faded, replaced by the muted hum of machinery.

They entered a heavily fortified room with reinforced walls and a massive vault door. It was clear that the Ironclad Association took security seriously.

Inside the room was a long table where several individuals were counting stacks of sovereigns. Edgar led Dellen to one of the officials, who looked up at him with a frown. “So you’re the big winner.” He muttered. “Twenty-four hundred sovereigns.”

Miranda turned to Dellen, her face painted in shock. “Just how much did you bet?”

“Three hundred sovereigns.”

The money counter pushed a satchel toward them. Dellen opened it up, and he counted twenty-four stamped bars. He lifted it; it was heavy, but tolerably so.

Before they could leave, Edgar pulled Dellen aside. He spoke in a gravelly voice. “I need you to understand something. We don’t take kindly to people making large bets like that around here. It raises suspicions, and we don’t need any extra attention from the authorities. Keep your bets modest at the little fights, or you might find yourself in more trouble.”

Dellen cocked his head and stared at Edgar, trying to see the depth of the man’s irritation. According to Raxton, someone had ordered him killed in that match.

“I’ll save my big bets for the big fights.”

“Glad to hear it. Now get out of here.”