The stairs were wider, carpeted in something that might have been red. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and the lights were dim, casting everything in shades of amber and shadow.
Anton led the way, his bulk filling the narrow space, his breathing heavy but controlled. Tara walked beside Hoshimi, her hand hovering near his arm, not quite touching.
The stairs ended at a door. A single brass handle that caught the light and held it.
Anton knocked.
Three times. Slow. Deliberate.
"Come in."
The voice was soft. Almost gentle. The kind of voice that belonged in a library or a cathedral, not in the basement of an underground fighting ring.
Anton pushed open the door.
The door opened.
The floor beneath Hoshimi was concrete, radiating a chill that seeped through his borrowed shoes.
The air smelled of old blood and disinfectant, the kind of sterile chemical scent that couldn't quite mask what lay beneath.
A single bulb flickered to life overhead.
The room was larger than he'd expected. A warehouse space, maybe, repurposed, its walls lined with curtains of heavy black fabric that muffled sound and swallowed light. The concrete floor had been painted black at some point, but the paint was worn through in places, revealing the gray beneath in irregular patches.
And at the center of the room, standing in a pool of harsh yellow light, was a woman.
She was tall. That was the first thing he noticed, even before her face, even before her stance. He couldn't make out her phyisque but she was in a pitch black suit. Her hair was dark, pulled back in a severe bun, and her eyes were the color of old steel.
She wore no jewelry. No adornment of any kind. Her boots stood out, it was the only part of her body that wasn't clean, it seemed to be worn down by years of use.
Her hands were bare.
Her eyes were gray. Pale. Almost colorless. They fixed on Hoshimi with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.
"Come in," she said. "Sit."
The chair facing the desk was smaller than the others, designed to make whoever sat in it feel diminished. He sat anyway. The wood was cold beneath him, the fabric worn smooth by years of use.
The woman studied him for a long moment. Her gray eyes moved over his face, his hands, the bloodstains on his borrowed shirt.
"Anton tells me you're a witch," she said.
"I am."
"And that you used to be a student at Hex Academy."
"I was."
"You're rather famous around these parts, but we don't have that much detail apart from the fight with Dominic Walker and the jumbled files that were released. I'm rather curious about your situation, so what happened?"
Hoshimi was quiet for a moment.
"I left."
"You left." The woman's lips curved. It wasn't a smile. "I don't think you can do that. That seems terribly irresponsible of you to put a target on your back," She leaned back in her chair, her fingers steepled. "I used to attend there quite a long time ago, to be specific, I was dragged there. I don't think they would let an important asset like you go away, they must be on a city wide hunt then. Unless…"
The silence stretched.
Hoshimi's hand drifted to his side, a reflexive motion, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. His knife was back in the apartment. His sword was gone, taken by Sarah in the ruined street, all he had was the gun that Reina had gifted to him.
The woman moved.
Her fist was already arcing toward his face with a speed that made the air itself seem to lag behind. Hoshimi's body reacted before his mind caught up, his weight shifting, his head tilting, the blow passing close enough to ruffle his hair.
He stepped back, creating distance. She followed.
Her knee drove toward his stomach. He caught it with his forearm, the impact jarring up through his bones, and used her momentum to push her off balance. She twisted mid-air, landed in a crouch, and launched herself at him again.
[Does she think I'm a spy for Hex Academy?]
Her fist came toward his temple. He ducked. Her elbow followed. He weaved. Her palm struck toward his chest.
He caught her wrist.
[No wonder she wanted to see me]
Her eyes widened, just slightly, just enough. His grip tightened, feeling the bones beneath the skin, the tendons that controlled her fingers.
[If I really was a spy, her whole operation could be crumbling]
He pulled.
She came forward, using his momentum against him, her free hand already rising, already driving toward his throat. He released her wrist and stepped back. Her fingers closed on empty air.
His fist drove toward her face, a simple straight punch, the kind they taught in basic hand-to-hand. She deflected it with her forearm, her body already turning, her leg already rising.
He caught her kick.
His hand closed around her ankle, the bone pressing against his palm, and he twisted. She used the momentum to spin, her other foot coming off the ground, her body rotating through the air. Her heel drove toward his head.
He released her.
[Or is she just testing me? If she really wanted to kill me, then she would send her goons after me]
She landed in a crouch, her hands flat on the concrete, her head raised, her steel-colored eyes fixed on his face. A thin smile played at the corner of her lips.
[If she really thought I was a spy, she would've already eliminated Tara for bringing someone like me in]
He moved.
Toward the edge of the room, toward the curtains of black fabric that hung from the walls. His hand closed on the heavy material and pulled.
[Should I use my invisibility?]
The curtain came down in a cloud of dust, the metal rings screeching against the rod, and for a moment, the room was filled with chaos. Black fabric billowed. Dust motes swirled in the harsh yellow light.
He moved through the chaos.
[What is she trying to do?]
His fist connected with something solid. Flesh, not fabric. He felt the impact travel up his arm, felt her body shift beneath his blow.
She retaliated.
Her palm struck his chest, the force of it driving the air from his lungs. He staggered backward, his vision blurring, his hand reaching out to catch himself on the wall.
The fabric settled. The dust cleared.
She stood in the center of the room, her arms at her sides, her expression unchanged. Her shirt was torn at the shoulder where his fist had landed, and a thin line of red traced a path down her arm.
She didn't seem to notice.
He pushed himself off the wall. His chest ached. His lungs burned. But he was still standing.
[Damn it. I wonder if she's really trying to kill me. But I've been wondering why she isn't even using her technique?]
He attacked again.
Not with punches this time. With mana. He gathered it in his palm, felt it condense, felt it burn. A sphere of compressed energy, barely visible in the harsh yellow light, pulsed against his skin.
He thrust his hand forward.
The sphere shot toward her chest.
She caught it.
His eyes widened. Her fingers closed around the sphere of compressed mana, and for a moment, nothing happened. The energy pulsed against her palm, straining, seeking release.
Then she squeezed.
The sphere imploded. A shockwave of displaced air erupted from her closed fist, rattling the remaining curtains, sending dust motes scattering. But she didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just stood there with her hand raised, her fingers still curled around nothing.
[Or is it that she has no technique in the first place?]
The woman's steel-colored eyes met his. And for the first time, he saw something in them. Not anger. Not satisfaction. Curiosity.
[Then…..why is she even level 8?]
She moved.
Faster this time. So fast that his eyes could barely track her, she was there, then she was here, then she was everywhere, her strikes coming from every angle at once.
He blocked what he could. Dodged what he couldn't.
He needed to change the rhythm. Do something unexpected.
He stopped blocking.
Her fist drove toward his face. He didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just stood there and let it come.
At the last possible moment, he turned his head.
Her knuckles grazed his cheek, close enough to draw blood, but the force of the blow was diminished, redirected, wasted on empty air. His hand came up, fingers closing around her wrist.
He pulled.
She came forward, off balance for the first time since the fight began. His knee drove toward her stomach. She twisted, his knee glancing off her hip instead of sinking into her core. His elbow came down on her spine. She arched, avoiding the worst of it.
But she was off balance.
He pushed.
She flew backward, her feet leaving the ground, her body tumbling through the air. She hit the concrete hard, rolled, came up on one knee.
Blood dripped from her split lip. Her shirt was torn in three places now, and a bruise was already forming on her cheek.
She rose.
Her movements were different now. Slower. More deliberate.
She attacked. Her fist drove toward his face. He blocked.
Her knee toward his stomach. He caught it. Her other fist toward his temple. He ducked.
Her palm pressed against his chest, and he felt something flow from her hand into his body.
Cold.
His muscles seized. His lungs refused to draw breath. His heart stuttered in his chest.
He tried to move, couldn't. Tried to speak, couldn't. Just stood there, frozen, while she watched him with those calm, curious eyes.
[Paralysis?]
[So she did have a technique.]
His legs buckled. He caught himself on one knee, gasping, his chest heaving. His hands pressed flat against the cold concrete, his fingers trembling.
"Zenith of Wrath. Arena of Isolated Despair."