In the Raging Eagle inn, the tavern was buzzing louder than usual. All the fighters were gathered as always, but today, the crowd pressed tighter around the ones who had fought earlier. There was a hum of curiosity in the air.
"How are you two feeling?" Quincy asked—again, for what must've been the fourth time—as she hovered near Even and Annabel. Though both had soaked in the Healing Springs for nearly three hours after their match, mana exhaustion was a stubborn thing, not easily shaken off.
"I'm fine. This is nothing, trust me," Even replied, waving off her concern with a tired half-smile. "I've had worse. You don't need to worry."
Beside him, Annabel let out a soft sigh and swirled the wine in her glass. "It's the first time it's happened to me," she admitted, her tone level. "But I can handle it."
At another table, Ulrich clasped both hands onto Callum's shoulders with enough force to nearly make him spill his drink. "What about you, Vilak?" he asked, turning toward the necromancer with a grin. "After all, you did get punched really hard by our friendly neighborhood werewolf here."
Callum groaned, clearly regretting not choosing a seat further from Ulrich.
Vilak, poking lazily at his plate of eggs, replied without looking up. "I'm alright. My sense of pain's lower than most since I'm undead. So, you know. It's fine."
"So…" Calvinel drawled, sliding smoothly into the seat across from him, elbow on the table, gaze locked. "You want to explain what that thing was you did at the end of your match? Never seen anything like it."
He mimicked the motion slowly, fist rising and then slamming into the table with a dull thud. "Fist of the Dark Lord, right? That's what you called it?"
The words drew attention like a magnet. Around the tavern, conversations quieted. Dozens of heads tilted closer. Everyone leaned in—curious, eager, hungry for some insight into the strange magic they'd witnessed.
*I doubt he's going to answer,* Ercale muttered in Xain's mind, and sure enough, he was right.
Vilak scratched the back of his head with a weak laugh. "Ah… It's just a big blob of necrotic energy I shaped into a fist, really. Sounded cooler to name it Fist of the Dark Lord. 'Necrotic Punch' doesn't exactly sound intimidating, right?"
His awkward chuckle passed easily through the crowd. It was just believable enough. Everyone nodded along—except for Xain, Zee, Larkin, and Ercale. They knew that wasn't true. But no one else knew any better.
"That sounds interesting," Annabel said, her tone light but with an edge. She took another sip of wine before glancing sideways at Even. "I wish I'd seen it. Instead of being nearly incinerated by someone."
Even groaned. "Come on. I already told you I was sorry, didn't I?" he muttered, rubbing his temple. "I just got really… heated in the moment."
Both of them still looked a little sour. They'd missed it—the transformation, the punch, the aftermath—and that sting hadn't faded yet.
"See how that feels?" Amos chimed in, pointing at the pair with his spoon. "That's exactly what I felt missing the match between Calvinel and Hittag."
"Speaking of our match," Calvinel began with a smirk, leaning back in his seat, "I'd say both of yours surpassed it." He motioned casually toward Even, Annabel, Callum, and Vilak. "The magic, the pacing, the sheer chaos—it had everything."
"I have to agree," Hittag rumbled, lifting his tankard and taking a deep gulp. "Twists, raw power, a clear sense of struggle… yours had it all. Ours was great, sure, but what you four put on today? It outshined it."
Vilak and Callum tensed in their seats. Neither of them had expected praise. If anything, they assumed their fight would be seen as a footnote—a cool-down after the main event between Even and Annabel. But now?
Now it actually meant something.
"…Thank you," Vilak muttered, clearly unsure how to respond.
"Yeah, thanks," Callum echoed, nodding awkwardly.
Across the table, Even was basking in the moment. He wore the grin of a man vindicated. "Good. That means I made an impression."
"I don't like that I lost," Annabel said, measured as always—but the way her grin curled at the rim of her glass made it clear she wasn't too upset. "Still, I'll take the recognition."
Then the tavern door creaked open.
Slow. Hesitant. Just loud enough to be noticed.
A small cloaked figure stepped in, drawing a few idle glances—but most patrons ignored it. The figure hesitated in the doorway, then carefully scanned the room like they were searching for someone.
And then their gaze landed on him.
Even.
More eyes turned as the figure began weaving through the tables—deliberate, focused, walking straight toward him. Even sat up straighter, brows knitting as the stranger approached.
"…Do I know you?" he asked, his tone edged with suspicion.
The cloaked figure stopped right in front of him. For a moment, no one moved. Then, slowly, the figure reached up and pulled the hood down.
Even's expression froze.
Around the tavern, reactions sparked—confusion, intrigue, surprise. A few mouths hung open.
"Not yet," the boy said quietly. "But maybe you can."
He looked up at Even, voice tentative, eyes hopeful.
"…Brother?"
The tavern's energy shifted. Whatever tension had been in the air a moment ago was now crackling with something else entirely. Interest. Questions. Shock.
The afternoon had just taken a turn.