Ashen sat alone in the waiting room.
The wall panel was dark. He hadn't bothered to switch it back on since the last match feed.
The hum of air from the vents and the muted footsteps in the corridor were the only sounds.
He thought about the time. No clock here, but his body knew. It would be soon.
He opened his eyes.
*"It should be about time now."*
Ashen rose, slinging Wayfarer over one shoulder.
The cloth wrapping shifted slightly under his fingers, edges lying flat just as he'd left them.
The hallway outside was narrow, lit by even white strips along the floor.
The kind of light that wasn't meant for comfort, only visibility.
Competitors leaned against the walls or sat on benches along the way, talking in low voices.
Some glanced his way, curious, eyes flicking to the badge at his coat hem — **Wildcard, Unaffiliated** — then back to their own thoughts.
No one stopped him.
He walked through the slow curve of the hall, following the signs in stark lettering: **MATCH ENTRANCE – RING 3**.
The steady echo of his boots and the faint vibration of the shielding fields ahead told him he was close.
The air was cooler here; the faint charge of the arena barriers prickled faintly against the skin.
Half a dozen paces from the gate, he saw his opponent waiting.
Kaito Ren stood with his hands resting lightly on the grips of his twin short blades. His posture was straight, eyes alert but not hostile.
His expression carried the steady calm of a man who'd prepared, but under it was the faint tightness around the jaw that preceded a fight.
"You're Ashen?" Kaito asked, voice level.
Ashen nodded.
Kaito studied him for a moment, then offered a short, almost polite smile.
"Wildcard, huh. Don't take it personally, but I'm not planning to give you much time out there."
Ashen stopped beside him, letting the words pass.
"You'll take the time you need," he said quietly, "and you might find it's more than you wanted."
Before Kaito could ask what that meant, the entrance gates lit green.
The ref-drone's voice was flat, synthetic:
> **"Ring 3 — Competitors, enter."**
They walked out together.
The arena — *The Box* — spread before them: thirty paces square, framed by semi-transparent crystalline walls glowing faintly under the drones' hovering lights.
Above and beyond, invisible to those within, tens of thousands were watching on screens.
Ashen stepped onto the stone. It felt firm but faintly resonant, storing impact not in sound but somewhere beneath.
The system overlay, projected across an invisible plane in front of both fighters, updated for viewers:
**[Kaito Ren – Rank 243 – Twin Blade Practitioner]**
**[Ashen – Rank Unlisted – Style: Data Not Found]**
In that moment, Ashen let the smallest breath fall away. *Clarity + Truth* stirred, faint and invisible — yet present.
Kaito's fingers tightened slightly around his blades. He didn't know why.
It wasn't a physical pressure. It was something quieter, as if the line between intention and action had already thinned, and standing here was simply walking toward an inevitable result.
The hum of the barrier walls lowered into silence.
Ashen stood at the edge of the thirty-pace stone square, Wayfarer sheathed at his hip, the black cloth wrapping lying flat.
Kaito Ren faced him across the arena, twin short blades held in a textbook guard.
His posture was good. His balance was good.
But his eyes kept drifting back to Ashen's stillness.
The ref-drone's voice cut through the quiet:
> **"Begin."**
Ashen didn't move.
Kaito took a breath and stepped forward, weighting his back leg to spring.
The match plan was simple: test with a feint, engage on the third step.
But something was… off.
The moment his lead foot touched stone, Ashen's gaze locked to his center — not his eyes, not his weapons — **his center**.
The air between them felt stripped of noise. No crowd, no heat from the lights. Just that look.
It wasn't pressure in the usual way.
It was exposure.
Like someone had slid a blade between all his defenses without touching him.
Half a step into his approach, Kaito's heartbeat spiked for no reason he could name.
His legs slowed, weight faltering.
His swords, perfectly aligned, began to feel… heavy.
Ashen took a single step.
No acceleration, no burst of Qi.
Just a step — and the faint movement of his hand settling on Wayfarer's hilt as though this was always where it belonged.
Kaito's next breath caught. His body reacted before his mind could intervene.
His knees bent.
One touched the stone.
Then the other.
Not in a bow. Not in defeat.
It was the unthinking act of a man recognizing he stood before something *different*, something that didn't belong to the ordinary scale of people.
The sudden quiet in his own chest was worse than fear.
Ashen stopped a single pace away, the blade still sheathed.
Kaito's voice was low, almost to himself:
> "I… forfeit."
The ref-drone didn't hesitate:
> **"Match concluded — Ring 3 winner: Ashen."**
The arena data feeds erupted with confusion:
*"Did he even draw?"*
*"Why kneel?!"*
*"Intent overload — classification failed."*
Ashen turned and walked toward the gate.
Behind him, Kaito remained where he was for a moment longer.
Staring at the polished floor as if trying to work out whether he had lost to a man…
Or to the certainty that such a man could not be fought at all.