They stopped laughing.
That was the first change Jullius noticed.
When he walked through Iron Alley now, conversations thinned. Eyes lowered. Doors shut softly instead of slamming in his face. Fear had a different scent than contempt—sharper, metallic.
It suited him better.
But fear from gutter rats meant nothing.
If he wanted to rise, truly rise, he needed stronger enemies.
And stronger enemies lived in the Red Basin.
The Red Basin Arena was where Virel City sent its beasts to break and its poor to die. Stone walls ringed a pit of crimson sand stained by years of blood. Merchants, nobles, and gamblers filled the tiers above, cheering for shattered bones like it was theater.
Jullius signed his name in charcoal on a wooden board beneath dozens of others.
Jullius Narva.
The clerk—a thin man with ink-stained fingers—looked him over and scoffed. "You'll last one round," he muttered.
Jullius said nothing.
He almost hoped he was right.
—
His first arena fight was against a man called Hark the Ox.
Hark was built like a siege engine. Bald, scarred, with shoulders broader than doorways. He stepped into the sand to thunderous applause.
Jullius entered to scattered laughter.
The bell rang.
Hark didn't rush. He lumbered forward, confident. The crowd roared his name.
Jullius moved first—faster than most expected. He slipped inside a wide hook and drove his fist into Hark's ribs.
It felt like punching a stone pillar.
Hark grinned.
Then the world blurred.
A single backhand sent Jullius flying across the pit. He crashed into the arena wall hard enough to crack stone. Pain exploded through his spine.
He stood.
The crowd murmured.
Hark charged.
The next blow shattered Jullius's collarbone. The next caved his ribs. Sand filled his mouth as he hit the ground again.
He tried to rise.
A massive boot pressed against his throat.
"Stay down," Hark rumbled.
Jullius stared up at the sky.
The same sky he had seen the first time he died.
He felt it coming now—the edge of darkness creeping inward.
He could surrender.
Live.
Train.
Grow slowly.
Or…
He wrapped both hands around Hark's ankle and pulled.
Not to throw him.
Just to anger him.
Hark's face twisted.
The stomp that followed crushed Jullius's windpipe.
Blackness swallowed him.
—
He woke in the arena.
Still in the sand.
The match had ended. Workers were already dragging bodies from earlier fights.
Someone shouted.
Jullius inhaled sharply and rolled to his feet.
The broken collarbone? Whole.
The shattered ribs? Gone.
His body felt different.
Heavier.
No—denser. Like iron packed beneath skin.
The workers stumbled back in horror.
From the noble stands above, heads turned.
Hark was still there, speaking to a handler near the gate.
Jullius stepped into the center of the pit.
"I'm not finished," he called.
The entire arena fell silent.
Hark turned slowly.
The handler protested, but the crowd—sensing spectacle—began to chant.
"LET THEM FIGHT."
"LET THEM FIGHT."
Coin ruled the Red Basin. And coin loved blood.
The bell rang again.
This time, Hark didn't grin.
He charged with intent to kill.
His fist came like a battering ram.
Jullius caught it.
The impact still drove him back—but his feet carved furrows in the sand instead of launching him across it.
Hark's eyes widened.
Jullius twisted.
A crack echoed through the arena.
Hark roared—not in triumph, but in pain.
Jullius stepped in close and drove his forehead into Hark's nose. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed.
The Ox swung wildly.
Jullius ducked, pivoted, and drove his fist upward into Hark's liver with everything rebirth had forged into him.
The massive man staggered.
The crowd erupted.
Jullius did not hesitate.
He hammered blow after blow into Hark's torso—each strike heavier than the last. Something inside him was learning, adapting mid-fight. His muscles responding faster. His reflexes sharpening with every exchange.
Hark grabbed him in desperation, arms locking around his chest.
Bones creaked.
For a moment, Jullius felt pressure—real pressure.
Good, he thought.
He pushed back.
The ground beneath them cracked as Jullius planted his feet and forced his arms outward.
Hark's grip broke.
The final punch lifted the giant off his feet.
When Hark hit the sand, he did not rise.
Silence fell.
Then—
Chaos.
Cheers. Shouts. Nobles standing. Money changing hands at frantic speed.
Jullius stood over the fallen Ox, chest rising steadily.
He hadn't just returned.
He had surpassed.
—
That night, a man watched him from a private balcony high above the arena.
Silver mask. Dark cloak. Hands folded behind his back.
"Interesting," the man murmured.
A servant bowed beside him. "Shall we recruit him, my lord?"
The masked man shook his head slightly.
"No. Not yet."
His gaze remained fixed on Jullius below.
"Let him struggle. Let him climb. Pressure reveals potential."
He paused.
"And if he survives long enough… we'll see whether he is a weapon."
—
Jullius left the arena with a pouch of coin heavier than anything he had ever owned.
But the money meant little.
What mattered was the feeling humming in his veins.