The door creaked as Ronin stepped into the room, and it hit him like a punch to the nose.
Sweat.
Thick, sour, stale. The kind that clung to the ceiling and walls, dripping off testosterone and trauma. The Room of Winners wasn't some gilded throne room for champions. No. It was a holding pen. A pressure cooker. A glorified locker room with tiled floors, reinforced benches, and dead fluorescent lights that flickered overhead like they were one power surge from exploding.
Supposed winners.
Most of them were slumped on benches, dripping with blood or bruises, chugging water or holding cold packs to cracked ribs. And in the farthest corner—legs crossed, elbows draped over the back of the bench like he owned the whole damn country—was Lucas.
Ronin didn't need to stare. He felt him. The same way you feel a blade hovering near your throat even when your eyes are closed.
So Ronin took a bench in the opposite corner, leaned back, and folded his arms. He still felt the last of the crystal's charge crackling faintly inside him. The room buzzed with low murmurs, distant moans of pain, and occasionally a chuckle from someone too arrogant to take any of this seriously.
More fighters trickled in. A tall, snake-eyed girl with tattoos down her neck. A boy with one arm, the stump still glowing faintly with cauterized magic. A pair of twins who didn't talk to anyone, just stared blankly in opposite directions.
Then came Aurelia.
She looked like hell.
Her brown-orange streaked hair was frizzed with sweat. A gash ran down her cheek, and her clothes clung to her with blood and grime. One sleeve was shredded like it had been through a meat grinder.
She scanned the room, locked eyes with Ronin, and limped her way over.
Ronin cocked an eyebrow. "You look like you got mugged by a bear."
She scoffed and dropped beside him with a wince. "Tch. My opponent gave me more trouble than I expected."
Ronin gave her a once-over. "You sure you'll even make it to your next match? Or do we wheel you in on a gurney?"
"I'm fine." She snapped, though her voice was more defensive than confident. "Worry about yourself, 'Peter.'"
He smirked and leaned back, satisfied. He liked the bite in her tone. It meant she wasn't broken. Just pissed.
Then Oren strolled in.
Compared to Aurelia, he looked almost fresh. His white t-shirt was scuffed, a few bruises bloomed around his jaw, but nothing looked cracked or bleeding.
He spotted them and made his way over. "Hey, look at this, we're all still breathing."
Ronin glanced between the two. "Looks like you had an easier time than her."
Oren blinked and only now noticed the scratches on Aurelia's arm. "Shit… you alright?"
Aurelia's glare could've melted metal. "I said I'm fine."
"Maybe you should consider dropping out—"
"You should consider shutting up."
Oren held up both hands, surrendering immediately. "Alright, alright. Still got some fire, I see."
Before anyone could bicker further, the metal door hissed open, and two officials entered.
One looked like the suit had been glued to his body. Blonde, sharply cut hair, blue eyes, clean-shaven—he looked like a poster boy for government propaganda. Beside him was a short, rotund guy holding a massive rectangular tablet, the screen pulsing with the glowing image of a blue handprint.
Poster Boy stepped forward and addressed the room.
"Congratulations on surviving the preliminary round. You are now officially the top sixteen of this tournament. The real games begin now—under the eyes of the public."
The room stirred, some groaning, others grinning like maniacs.
"To determine your matchups," Poster Boy continued, "each of you will come up, place your hand on the screening device, and a number will be assigned to you. These numbers will determine the bracket."
The tablet guy held the screen up like a ceremonial artifact. The glowing handprint rotated gently.
"Step up when your name is called."
First name: Bran Kavir.
A giant of a man, bald, shoulders like boulders stuffed under his tank top. He stomped up with heavy steps, slammed his palm down, and walked back without a word.
The announcer looked down at the screen. "Number Seven."
Bran didn't react. He just leaned against the wall and cracked his neck loud enough to echo.
One by one, names were called. Some smug, some nervous. A twitchy girl named Nyra. A tatted-up guy named Rizzo who whistled every time someone got a number.
Then they called Lucas.
He stood slowly. Swagger in his stride. The others parted instinctively as he walked, like oil around water. His footsteps were silent. He pressed his hand against the screen. The machine pulsed once.
"Number One."
Ronin stiffened slightly. Number two was still blank.
Fuck. Was he going to be—
Next was Oren.
He strolled up, joking with the announcer, and got Number Sixteen.
Two more names passed. A red-haired girl. A muscular guy with mechanical limbs.
Aurelia was called. She took her time walking up but didn't hesitate when she touched the screen.
"Number Fourteen."
Oren and Aurelia exchanged glances.
"If we both win," Oren muttered, "we're fighting next round."
Aurelia sighed. "Guess I'll have to beat your ass."
He grinned. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Two more names. A guy named Drey. A woman called Sierra.
Now only two names left.
Ronin.
And some girl with navy-blue hair, standing stiff near the wall like she didn't belong there. She hadn't moved once this whole time. Her aura was quiet, but… off.
"Peter White," the announcer said.
Ronin stood, internally praying. Lucas had number one. Number two better not—
He stepped up and laid his hand down.
"Number Eight."
Relief. Internal, but massive.
He stepped back. The navy-haired girl was called, and by default, she was given Number Two.
Lucas' opponent.
Ronin looked at the board. His opponent?
Number Seven.
Bran Kavir.
The brick shithouse who probably ate raw iron and bench-pressed trucks.
Ronin looked over. Bran wasn't even paying attention. He leaned against the wall, eyes closed, arms crossed, practically snoring.
Too confident.
Perfect.
Ronin smirked.