Chapter 2 - The Arena

After gathering his bearings, Alden, now carrying a new name, slowly made his way out of his room. His steps echoed against the worn stone corridor as he made his way towards the locker rooms.

His body felt lighter than it should be, stronger than he ever remembered, even with the extra memories. But he moved carefully, afraid to draw attention. Every scar that had once marred Silver’s flesh was mysteriously gone. And Alden made sure to keep bandages wrapped haphazardly around his arms and midsection to hide the miraculous recovery.

He passed a few figures along the way, fighters, cleaners, hangers-on with faces half-lit by torch sconces and lamps. Some nodded in passing. Most ignored him. Alden made no effort to greet anyone. As far as he remembered, Silver didn’t have any friends in this place.

This was the Arena. And it wasn’t a place to forge bonds.

He followed the corridor upward. The distant roar of a crowd grew louder with each of his steps. A mix between cheers and howls vibrated in the stone beneath his feet, like the arena itself was alive and hungry.

By the time he reached the locker room, the vibrations had become rhythm. Alden ignored it as he moved toward his assigned corner, a dark alcove with a squeaky bench and a dirty mirror hanging askew on the wall.

A battered trunk lay at the base of the wall, the iron latch rusted but still functional.

From it, he pulled his fighting attire: a simple, brown colored sleeveless shirt. He didn’t have any armor. No padding. Just enough cloth to offer modesty and grip.

He prepared himself in silence, swallowing back his nervousness as he double checked his bandages, making sure that they wouldn’t fall or unravel during the upcoming fight.

If someone saw the sudden absence of wounds, questions would start. And Alden didn’t have answers.

“Try not to die,” Jarek’s voice rasped from the entrance.

Alden turned slightly, catching the silhouette of the bald man leaning on the doorframe. He suppressed the annoyance that came from watching the man play patron with him.

“You still owe,” Jarek added. “No coin comes from corpses.”

Alden didn’t answer. He just gave a short nod and pulled the wrappings tighter around his hands.

“Five minutes,” Jarek muttered, then turned and vanished down the corridor.

A few moments later, Alden stood at the archway leading into the arena.

Torches burned high along the surrounding stone walls, their flames flickering in the afternoon breeze. The arena itself lay a few meters below the viewing stands. It was a sunken oval ring of packed dirt bordered by clean stonework. The floor bore faint old stains where blood had soaked too deep to ever fully fade.

The spectators sat high above, watching from raised stone bleachers carved into the arena’s outer walls. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation. Merchants with tight grips on their coin purses, cloaked men shouting odds, drunks laughing with half-empty cups. All of them hungry for blood.

Status meant little here, coin and violence were the great equalizers.

As Alden stepped into the light, he felt dozens of eyes lock onto him. The announcer’s voice boomed, gravelly and dispassionate:

“Next up... the Silver Hunter.”

Cheers. Jeers. Some groaned. Some laughed.

Alden wasn’t dressed in the most spectacular garb. In their eyes, he was just another fighter in the arena. A debt-fighter who would never win big enough to earn his freedom.

Ignoring them, Alden did his best to calm his racing heart as he moved slowly toward the center of the arena. He had watched countless fights in his past life, studied them from afar, and even took some kickboxing lessons to handle the occasional unruly bar patron.

But he’d never once imagined himself in an actual fighting ring, facing an opponent who lived by cracking ribs for coin.

Across from him, his opponent emerged from the shadows. Rigg Thorne was wiry and lean, his broken nose a testament to past battles.

“Begin!” came the echoing command.

Instantly, Rigg closed the gap, fists raised, eyes sharp. Alden barely had time to register the movement before the first blow crashed against his raised guard, driving him back a step. Another strike followed immediately, aimed ruthlessly at his side, exactly where Silver had previously been injured.

Seeing the action, the crowd erupted, hungry for blood.

But the anticipated agony never arrived. The punch landed solidly, yet the expected pain didn’t explode through Alden’s body.

A flicker of confusion crossed Rigg’s face, giving Alden just enough time to stagger back, recalibrating. His feet felt clumsy, hands loose and unsure. But he did not back down.

Rigg pressed forward without mercy. He attacked with sharp knees and precise jabs, each blow aiming to keep his opponent on the defensive. Alden kept staggering back. A few drops of blood trailed down his nose from the few jabs that passed through his shaky guard.

I’m going to get killed, he thought.

Panic surged within him. Alden wasn’t a seasoned fighter. His only real combat had been hitting heavy bags and occasionally handling drunk troublemakers at the bar.

Yet, underneath the chaos, buried beneath fear and doubt, something stirred: muscle memory from a life he hadn’t lived, a life Silver had endured.

In his panic, Alden’s instincts took over.

His body moved almost on its own. A sidestep. A parry. Alden’s arm deflected Rigg’s next punch, redirecting it harmlessly aside. Reacting on pure reflex, he countered with a wild jab, striking Rigg’s chin just enough to stagger him momentarily.

Rigg’s eyes blazed with fury. “Lucky hit.” He snarled, closing in again.

Alden didn’t reply. He couldn’t. His legs trembled. But he didn’t forget to move. The foreign memories carried him. Silver’s experience was slowly bleeding into his limbs.

He ducked a punch. Slid sideways. Threw an elbow that hit nothing but air.

And Rigg returned the favor. With a headbutt!

It connected hard.

Alden hit the dirt, blood trickling down his forehead. His vision blurred.

But even through the haze, his body didn’t panic.

It rolled. Shifted. And came back up.

Rigg grabbed his wrist, pulled him in, and tried to land a blow on the same ribs again.

This time, Alden twisted with the motion. He let the strike slide off, then drove his bloody forehead into Rigg’s cheek.

**Crack**

They both reeled.

Their movements felt desperate. They were bleeding, sloppy, breathing heavy after just a few minutes of fighting.

Another round of blows followed. Alden took one to the shoulder. Gave one back to the gut. He was reacting faster now. He was adapting to the memories.

And contrary to him, Rigg’s movements began to slow. A barely noticeable limp showed on his left. It was probably an old injury that hadn’t had the time to heal. And Alden’s instincts honed in.

He feinted left. Rigg followed. Then Alden twisted right, too fast for the other fighter to adjust. He slammed a knee into the back of the man’s thigh.

Rigg buckled.

Alden followed through with an elbow that connected to the back of his opponent’s head. But Rigg refused to go down, he growled and swung back blindly. The unexpected move caught Alden on the chin. And both fighters staggered back.

Still, Alden recovered first. A flash of memory surged through his mind. A move that Silver had used again and again.

He didn’t give it a second thought.

He stepped in, hooked Rigg’s arm with his left hand, and drove his right fist into the side of Rigg’s head.

Once. Twice. The third punch landed with a sickening thud. And Rigg’s eyes rolled back. His legs gave out. He hit the ground hard, twitched once, then went still.

It was only then that the screams of the crowd once again reached Alden’s ears. He swayed on his feet. Blood covered half his face. His knuckles throbbed. His vision pulsed.

But he was alive.

“Victory… Silver Hunter!”

The announcer’s voice marked the end of the fight. Some of the spectators cheered, some booed. Most just counted coins. Alden’s fight was just a regular one. The main events had yet to come.

**********************************

Inside the locker room, Jarek lounged against the bench, idly flipping a small bag of coins from hand to hand while trading quiet words with Varo. The moment Alden pushed through the door, Jarek fell silent, his gaze sweeping over him with measured curiosity.

“I can’t decide on whether you fought better or worse than usual today.” Jarek started. His dark eyes tracked Alden as the fighter dragged himself to the squeaky chair in the corner and sank into it.

“Weren’t your ribs busted last time? Damn brat! I actually bet on you losing that fight!”

Alden exhaled, weary. He didn’t have the energy for Jarek’s theatrics. But the man was a patron, and if Alden had learned one thing from his bartending days, it was this: patrons had to be handled with at least a shred of respect.

Still…

“Shut it, baldy.”

There were times when a man had to stand up for himself.

The previous Silver had forgotten that. Debt slavery had taught him to keep his head down, to pour every ounce of strength into repayment and nothing else. No defiance. No distractions. And for a while, it had worked.

But only for a while.

Men like Jarek had long since grown used to walking over the meek. Seeing Silver’s attitude, they naturally targeted him. They skimmed his pay, pushed him around, treated him like property.

Officially, Jarek was just a supervisor, someone meant to make sure Silver kept up with the Vein’s monthly dues. Somewhere along the line, though, that role had warped. Supervisor became manager. Then manager became self-proclaimed boss.

Now Jarek controlled everything: Alden’s fights, his schedule, his pay. He tossed him just enough scraps to survive and funneled the rest who-knows-where. How much of it ever reached the Vein? Alden had no idea.

It was a raw deal. And if he ever wanted to claw his way out, it had to end.

Jarek’s sneer twisted his face. “You’ve got a mouth on you today, Silver,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Careful with that. Mouths don’t win fights. Fists do.”

Alden didn’t reply.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dried blood still coloring his hands. His heart still hammered, but the fight’s adrenaline was fading, leaving something colder in its place.

“You know what? Fuck you, Jarek.” Alden said, staring at the man. “I’ve just won a fight. A fight I didn’t even want to participate in to begin with. The least you could do is give me some time to rest instead of yapping around like a bitch. Especially considering you’ve been skimming on my pay for who knows how long now.”

“Huh?” Jarek furrowed his eyebrows, clearly not expecting Alden to flare up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Alden stood up slowly, towering over the bald man. “It means I’m tired of your bullshit. I know you’ve been stealing my money. Money that I earned through literal blood and sweat. Starting today, I don’t need you managing this shit from me. I will arrange my own fights.”

In response to his words, Varo took a step forward, shoulders tensing like a spring. But Jarek raised a hand to stop him, eyes locked on Alden.

“You forget your place, brat.” He said slowly. “You don’t arrange anything. You belong to the Vein. You belong to me! You fight. You bleed. And you pay when I tell you to.”

“No,” Alden replied, stepping forward. Though young, he was taller than most. He looked down at Jarek with cold eyes. “That’s your version of the deal. The Vein owns my debt, not you. You’re just a nobody, why the fuck do I have to give my hard-earned money to you?”

“You think I won’t beat that arrogance out of you right now?” Jarek fired back.

“Nah… I think you won’t,” Alden said, narrowing his eyes. “If I go down outside the arena, you will be in trouble. The Vein doesn’t care about you, they care about the returns. And if they find out you’ve been making trouble from a good earner, stealing from them, do you really think they’ll let you go?”

That made Jarek pause.

Would the Vein let him go? Probably. He had rank, a little pull, and knew some people in the organization. If this matter blew up, there would be some questions. And he would definitely be sanctioned. But that would be it.

Still there was one problem.

Jarek did not want attention.

He was happy living off his days like a well-fed rat. His official pay wasn’t much, but his little side business kept him comfortable. Guys like Silver, he managed a dozen of them. This scam allowed him to live comfortably enough to hire a bodyguard like Varo.

But if Silver started tattling to the Vein, then regardless of the outcome, he was bound to attract some unwanted eyes.

He didn’t like that.

Jarek looked up the cold eyes of Silver, and sneered. “Varo.”

The bodyguard moved without a word.

Alden barely had time to shift his stance before the mountain of muscle was on him. Varo’s punch was a blur. Alden raised his arm to block, but the force behind it slammed him back into the row of lockers with a hollow clang.

“Shit-”

Alden pushed off, weaving low. He slipped under the next swing, and drove a quick jab into Varo’s side. It connected, but it felt like punching a tree trunk.

Varo barely grunted. Then retaliated with a vicious punch to Alden’s ribs, right where Rigg had hammered him previously. Only this time, Varo packed a lot more punch than the arena fighter. Pain flared, white-hot and blinding. Alden dropped to one knee.

But Varo wasn’t done though. He locked his hands around Alden’s back, lifted him off the ground, and slammed him into the hard floor.

Alden gasped. He twisted, one hand clutching his ribs while he desperately tried to regain his breath.

“Enough,” Jarek said, voice even. “Don’t ruin the merchandise.”

Varo lowered his arm. His expression was unreadable, no triumph in his eyes.

Alden lay on his back, chest heaving shallowly. Jarek crouched beside him, voice dripping with mock-sympathy.

“You talk like you’ve got leverage, but you’re just a mouthy brat with cracked ribs. Don’t worry, Silver. I’ll still make sure you get to your fight tomorrow. You’re too valuable to shelve… yet.”

He stood and tossed a coin purse onto Alden’s chest.

“For the trouble.”

Then he walked out with Varo trailing behind.

Alden stayed on the ground long after the door clicked shut. Each breath he took sent fire through his ribs, but the pain wasn’t the worst of it

His gaze drifted to the purse resting on his chest. The first time Silver had ever received a full cut of anything. And it didn’t even feel good.

It was the carrot. A fat little purse tossed like a bone to a dog who’d started barking too loud.

Jarek wanted him to see it, feel it, wonder what else he could earn if he just shut up and fought. If he stopped asking questions. If he went back to being the obedient little fighter.

Otherwise, he would get the stick: Varo’s fists.

Alden slowly pushed himself upright, grunting in pain. The purse slipped off his chest and landed on the floor with a clink. As he attempted to reach for it, he paused, staring at the blood smearing his palm.

They were shaking, but it wasn’t from fear. Not anymore. It was tension, held back only by sheer grit. Like a spring wound too tight.

“Could’ve broken more than a rib if Varo wanted to,” Alden muttered to himself, voice low and rasped. “But you didn’t.”

Jarek had hesitated, he didn’t want to harm the merchandise. At least, that’s what he wanted Alden to believe; But Jarek didn’t own him. He shouldn’t have cared much. He was just the middleman with a hired fist and a stolen title. Alden wondered what else could have prompted the man to stop.

But he drew blanks. He had too little information, and couldn’t draw any meaningful conclusion.

Still, there was one thing he had confirmed.

Between his two tormentors, Varo was the most dangerous one. Jarek talked a lot of shit, but that’s all he did. Varo was the one with real power. As he thought about his situation, some ideas began to sprout in his mind.

He needed power. Not just in his fists, but behind him. Someone or some people who could help him scale the mountain that was Varo. He didn’t necessarily need to win a fistfight.

He just had to take the man out of the picture. Then, he could take down Jarek.