The roar from the arena still rang in Rynn's ears long after he left the ring.
His knuckles hurt, his knees ached, and the pouch of credits in his hand jingled like victory finally had a sound.
He leaned against a pillar in the hallway, catching his breath.
"First win," he muttered. "Zero deaths. Not bad for a day's unemployment."
From the shadows near the stairwell came a voice smooth as oil.
> "Not bad, kid. Not good either. But interesting."
Rynn straightened. A man stepped out — tall, coat too clean for the Arena, eyes silver and mechanical.
One iris whirred, focusing like a camera lens.
"Who's asking?"
"Margo. Talent broker. I find people who survive their first fights."
He smiled thinly. "That makes you one in seven."
Rynn blinked. "You keep stats?"
"I keep opportunities."
---
The Pitch
They walked through the maintenance corridors — metal pipes, flickering lights, smell of iron and ozone.
Margo talked while Rynn tried not to look lost.
> "The real money's not up there in the polished ring. That's for sponsors and gamblers.
The real fights happen below — where the rules don't exist."
"Below?" Rynn asked. "Like underground?"
"Like under-everything. We call it the Subring. No Guild inspectors, no referees. You fight for cash and credibility."
He tapped his cybernetic eye. "And maybe for something bigger."
Rynn frowned. "Sounds like a good way to die."
"Everything here's a good way to die. At least this one pays."
Margo handed him a small card made of black glass. A faint mark pulsed on it — two mirrored crescents.
"Show that to the guard near the waste vents tonight," he said. "Tell him Margo sent you."
Rynn twirled the card between his fingers. "And if I don't?"
"Then you'll keep fighting for pocket change while everyone else buys meals with your body count."
Margo's metallic eye clicked once. "Choice is the prettiest illusion we have. See you at midnight."
He vanished into the corridor.
---
Other Fights
Rynn lingered upstairs, watching other bouts while deciding how dumb he wanted to be.
A fighter with silver threads flicking from his gloves sliced a steel post clean in half.
A girl screamed — literally — and her opponent's armor shattered from the vibration.
Another man wore a relic mask that shimmered like water; it predicted his opponent's next strike until, mid-fight, the mask cracked. The next punch knocked him unconscious.
The crowd cheered every fall like a festival.
Rynn whistled. "And I thought my rent was rough."
Eren appeared beside him, arms crossed. "You look like you're about to make a bad decision."
"I'm thinking about it."
"Let me guess. Margo?"
Rynn nodded. "He said there's a Subring."
Eren sighed. "There's always a Subring. That's where the Guild dumps its mistakes and watches the survivors."
"That supposed to scare me?"
"No," Eren said. "It's supposed to remind you you're not special."
Rynn grinned. "Too late."
---
Midnight Decision
Rain started by the time he left the dorms.
Varen's streets gleamed like wet glass, neon lights bending in the puddles.
He flipped Margo's card again, watching the twin crescents pulse faintly.
"Money, food, possible death… that's still better odds than being broke," he told himself.
Down an alley, a guard stood smoking beside a vent gate.
Rynn walked up and held out the card. "Margo sent me."
The guard looked him up and down. "You sure?"
"No," Rynn said honestly. "But I'm here anyway."
The man chuckled and opened the gate. "That's the right kind of stupid. Welcome to the Subring, kid."
---
End of Chapter 9
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