The bar pulsed gently with a low, steady energy. Soft laughter drifted from the far end. Music hummed from aged speakers, while dim lights bathed the room in a hazy glow of gold and amber.
Behind the counter, Alden moved with practiced rhythm, preparing a drink. The shaker spun. Ice danced. A mix of liquid arced into waiting glasses. He carved little moments of performance into the monotony, flashes of flair just enough to keep people watching, but never enough to be tacky.
A girl on the corner stool gave a soft "whoa", while pair of suits chuckled at the flick of flame that followed.
Alden spared them a nod as he slid the finished drink across the counter, stopping right in front of a lone man sitting at the side.
"There you go," he said with a tired smile. "Bitter, but not angry."
The man raised an eyebrow, inspecting the drink with curious eyes. He took a slow sip, then nodded once, seemingly satisfied.
He sat there without saying another word. The stranger was an oddball, he had been there for nearly an hour now, quietly watching. Unlike the others, who drank to forget, flirt or fade, he simply observed.
There was something unusual about him. He was well-dressed, clean-shaven, with gloved hands folded neatly on the bar. But he clearly didn't belong.
Perhaps feeling Alden's stare, the man turned his attention to him. "You seem rather young to be working in a place like this," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
Alden didn't shy away from his gaze. Instead, he leaned casually on the counter, nodding with a playful smirk. "Yeah, I am. But between you and me," he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, "I'm really just hoping to catch the eye of some wealthy ladies here. But don't go spreading my secrets, alright?"
For the briefest moment, something flickered in the man's eyes, a glint of amusement, dry and rare. "You're quite the humorous one."
"I try to be," Alden said with a shrug. "It's part of the job."
He busied his hands, drying a glass that didn't need drying. It helped him keep his mind from wandering.
"You do this often?" Alden asked, glancing at the stranger. "Drop by, drink fancy, wear gloves indoors?"
The man had a mysterious smile on his face as he traced the rim of his glass with one gloved finger. "Let's just say I visit the places I find… interesting."
"You find this place interesting?" Alden chuckled, shaking his head.
"You'd be surprised what can be found in quiet corners."
Alden stared at the man. He had a strange air to him. Something that kept Alden from being at ease. Perhaps, it was the reason why not many people have approached him. Even Alden felt compelled to leave the person alone, but it was part of his job to at least try to entertain the clients.
"You know, most people who sit there either ramble about their exes or drown in self-pity," he said. "You're oddly… composed."
"I have no exes," the man replied, tone so flat it made Alden chuckle.
"Well, you're missing out on all the good drama."
The stranger chose to ignore the remark. He swirled his drink and took a small sip. "And you? You seem grounded. Capable. Yet you work here. Why?"
Alden sighed, setting down the glass. "I'm an engineering student. Third year. I work nights to afford tuition, food, rent. The usual. No trust funds. No safety nets. Just me and whatever I can hold together before it falls apart."
He then glanced at the man, and added with a smirk, "But hey, I make a mean cocktail."
"You're tired," the reply was dry. And it made Alden pause, his smile fading for just moment. It wasn't the usual reply he got when he decided to spin his sappy story. Then he shook his head.
"Yeah," he admitted. "But I'm used to it. I grew up poor. Like, the-mattress-was-the-floor poor. Learned to hustle early. Fix what's broken. Take care of my people. If there's one thing life teaches you when you've got nothing, it's how to keep moving even when you're empty."
The man studied him for a long moment. "And if you could walk away from all this? Start again, clean? Would you?"
Alden tilted his head. "What, like, wave a magic wand and poof! New life?"
"Something like that."
Alden laughed, dry and sharp. "Sure. Who wouldn't want that? Life's a rigged game when you're born broke. You work ten times harder just to stay five steps behind. I'd take a new roll of the dice anytime."
He wiped the counter absently, still half-smiling. "But that's just wishful thinking. Life's not in the business of giving out second chances."
The man didn't reply. He just smiled faintly, almost like he knew something the others didn't.
Then…
Alden paused. His vision started swirling. Dark spots bloomed in the corners of his eyes, creeping inward like spilled ink. He blinked, tried to steady himself, but the counter suddenly felt far away. The floor wobbled.
"What the hell…?"
His knees buckled slightly. He leaned on the bar to stay upright, heart racing.
And then… darkness.
****************************************
After an unknown span of time, Alden gasped awake.
His heart thundered in his chest. His breath was sharp and ragged, like he'd just surfaced from drowning in water.
It took him a moment to gather his thoughts, to steady his mind. Then he noticed the unfamiliar ceiling above: cracked stone mottled with mildew, lit by the faint buzz of a dangling lamp that cast dim, shifting shadows across walls that felt far too close.
Alden's hands trembled as he pushed himself upright, struggling to make sense of his surroundings.
Yet, another mystery was thrown into the lot. His hands, he didn't recognize them. They were broad, calloused, and scarred. His body felt different, responsive and strong, despite the bandages that littered it. He was about the check the rest of the room when, without warning, agony erupted behind his eyes.
A splitting force surged through his skull, accompanied by a flood of memories that weren't his. They came screaming through him, tearing at every corner of his mind.
The roars of a crowd. The sting of fists meeting flesh. Grit beneath his knees. Blood. Screams. Names. Debt. Pressure. A life lived on borrowed time. A name whispered like a curse and a prayer:
Silver Hunter.
Alden clutched his head and screamed.
And the world twisted.
Shapes burst from the edges of his vision, crawling out of the shadows like nightmares given flesh. Gaunt, broken figures with limbs bent at impossible angles, their jaws gaping too wide. One staggered forward on splintered legs, its hollow eyes burning faintly red.
Another dragged itself along the floor, ribs scraping, leaving trails of black fluid that sizzled as it spread. More hovered, half-formed, their torsos split open, teeth and bone grinding in a soundless chatter.
They surrounded him, dozens, crowding close, their whispers scraping like knives against his ears.
Alden thrashed, eyes wide with terror, every nerve lit in panic. He wanted to run, but his body was trapped between the flood of alien memories and the horrors standing inches from him.
It was all too much to take in.
Without a warning, his screams abruptly stopped. And darkness once again swept in like a tide.
*****************************************
**BANG! BANG! BANG!**
The knock on the door wasn't polite. It was the kind that came with curses and anger.
"Ay! Silver!" a voice yelled, coarse and annoyed. "You finally kick the damn bucket?"
Alden stirred, groaning as his senses returned. The ache from the memory storm still lingered, but he pushed through.
Another voice chimed in from the hallway. "If he's dead, I'm taking everything in there!"
Laughter followed.
Alden ignored the commotion and slowly sat up, his breath steadying. His skin prickled with cold sweat. He looked around properly for the first time.
The room was barely bigger than a prison cell. A warped metal-frame bed, the mattress sagging and stained. A crate in the corner, lid half off. A basin with cloudy water and a worn cloth draped over the rim. The walls were close, the air stale, the room itself screamed of suffering and poverty.
This was where the one known in the Arena as the Silver Hunter lived.
**BANG BANG BANG!**
"Ay, fucker, do you want me to kick down this door?!"
The voices from the other side of the door were getting impatient. And hearing the threat, Alden decided to put his worries aside and slowly hunched towards the door.
He came face to face with a man who looked like he was ready to punch his face in. The second Alden stepped out of the room; the man wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"You brat, what took you so long? Have you forgotten? You have a match today!" Jarek barked, glaring up at him.
Jarek was a bald man, with a scalp as smooth and shiny as the cheap boots he always wore. His face was thin and sharp, like it had been carved out with too much bitterness and not enough patience. Deep creases marked his forehead, and a jagged scar ran across the bridge of his nose, giving him the permanent look of someone mid-argument. His voice rasped with years of shouting, and he always smelled like cheap tobacco and iron.
Looking at him, Alden's memories stirred.
Jarek wasn't a fighter. He didn't have to be. He worked for debtors, the kind that owned men like Silver Hunter, and now, Alden. His job was simple: make sure the merchandise kept moving, kept fighting, kept bleeding. Kept paying.
Glancing behind the man, Alden caught sight of Varo, Jarek's hired muscle for protection. Towering and broad-shouldered, Varo looked like someone carved out of raw stone. His veins bulged like ropes, his neck was thick, and his arms looked heavy enough to break bones just from holding them.
"Don't tell me you were passed out again," Jarek snapped, stepping closer. "You think we're running a charity? You've still got a mountain of debt, Silver. And if you think you can sleep your way out of it, you're-"
He stopped mid-rant, squinting at Alden. Something was off. The eyes, maybe. Or was it the posture? The stillness?
Jarek's scowl deepened. "You look like you got hit in the head too hard."
Alden said nothing. Just met his stare, unsure about how to respond. The memories he inherited were still not quite digested.
Jarek sneered, dismissing the unease. "Whatever. You got ten minutes to wash that stink off and get your ass to the locker room."
Behind him, Varo cracked his knuckles, slow and loud, as if marking the end of the conversation.
Alden watched them go, waited until the two shadows disappeared down the narrow corridor, then let out a long breath.
The door creaked shut behind him as he stepped back into the cramped room.
The air felt heavier now. As what could only be described as a transmigrator, he had found himself in quite the predicament.
Silver Hunter, or rather, Kellan, was someone who had been dealt a truly miserable hand in life.
He came from nothing. His family ran a struggling repair shop on the outskirts of the town, scraping by with secondhand tools and broken promises. When their business began to fall apart, his parents turned to the only people willing to lend them money: a group known as The Vein, a debtor organization run by a man named Nox.
The Vein had a reputation in the underbelly the town: they didn't just bleed you dry, they made sure you bled for them.
And soon enough, despite the loans, his parent's repair shop failed.
Desperate and drowning in interest they couldn't repay, Kellan's parents sold him to Nox, offering up their teenage son in exchange for absolution. Nox, shrewd as he was cruel, took one look at the broad-shouldered boy and agreed. He had no use for an aging mechanic with a bad back and broken pride. And Kellan's mother? She might have fetched something, but his father insisted. Said Kellan could "handle it."
And that was that.
Two years ago, Kellan's life had ended. And a new one began, one spent clawing toward freedom with bloodied knuckles and a broken spirit.
At first, the Vein had him doing grunt work: lifting crates, cleaning blood off walls, running errands between smugglers and scumbags. But it didn't take long for someone to notice the way Kellan moved, the way his body held up under pressure. He was strong, young, and desperate.
The perfect type for the Arena.
And so, Kellan was sent there to fight. Day after day, night after night, he fought. Every coin he earned went to Jarek, who in turn funneled it up to the Vein. Kellan thought he was buying his freedom, one cracked rib at a time.
And maybe he was. In two years, he'd paid back a significant sum out of the exaggerated 200silvers he thought he owed.
He was making progress.
But he'd lived in filth to do it. He ate scraps and slept in a room barely big enough to breathe in. He nursed wounds with rags and spit. Despite those conditions, he kept going.
Until his body eventually failed him.
He didn't die in glory, or in front of a roaring crowd.
Kellan died alone. In a broken bed. From wounds he didn't have the strength to heal. With no one there. No family. No freedom. Only the knowledge that his life had been sold like livestock and spent like coin.
A bitter ending for someone who had clung so stubbornly to hope.
Alden stared down at the floor, his chest tightening. He reminisced about how he complained about how hard his life was, when in truth, it was nothing compared to real suffering.
He slumped down on the edge of the bed, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. His thoughts drifting back to the bar, the dim lights, the bitter drink, and the strange man with gloved hands.
He clenched his fist.
"This is not what I meant when I said 'a second chance.'" He muttered bitterly.
He had half a mind to run. To bolt. To slip through the alleys and find some way out of this twisted life.
But he knew better.
The Vein had eyes everywhere. Men like Jarek and Varo were just the bottom rungs of a long chain. For now, there was only one move to play.
Show up. Fight. And try to survive.