Chapter 3 - A Stranger at the bar

Alden started planning as he recovered. He summarized what he needed at the moment: food, shelter, money… and a dead Varo.

Food and shelter could be bought. It was a problem that could be solved with money. And as long as he kept doing well in the arena, that part would be manageable.

But the real issue was the Arena itself. Survival there demanded more than luck or grit. It demanded power.

Strength. Influence. Leverage. Connections.

If he had any of those, things would be different. If he was strong enough, he wouldn’t even need to pay the Vein back.

If he were a Cultivator, he could’ve caved in Varo’s chest and cracked Jarek’s skull without breaking a sweat.

But Silver, the body’s original owner, came from nothing. He knew little of that world beyond whispers and rumors. And for someone like him, stepping into cultivation was a near-impossible dream.

Still, Alden refused to be discouraged. He hadn’t crossed worlds just to die in someone else’s chains. Sooner or later, the opportunities would come. For the time being, he had to focus on his immediate problems.

Varo and Jarek.

He needed a plan. And some allies.

Silver, the arena fighter, had no friends. At best, he had a few acquaintances who nodded at him between matches. But convincing any of them to join him in a murder plot? That would be a stretch.

He had to find a solution.

Jarek wasn’t a fool. Now that Alden had shown his fangs, the man would act. Either he’d find a way to put Alden back on a leash, or he’d remove the problem entirely.

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

Stepping out of the locker room, Alden walked through the hallways and passed by the common washroom. A fleeting glance revealed a number of fighters, all potential helpers towards his schemes.

His eyes locked on a hulking brawler with a crooked nose. Alden didn’t remember his name, but he remembered the man’s temperament. Or lack thereof.

Alden immediately dismissed him. Someone that volatile would be useless in a plan that involved murder.

Nearby, another fighter grumbled loudly about his empty purse. Alden studied him a moment, then dismissed him too. Most of the Arena’s fighters were desperate men pressed into debt. People like that would sell out a comrade the instant a heavier coin purse landed in their lap.

Those people weren’t viable as helpers.

With a quiet sigh, Alden turned away and limped back toward his room. He sniffed at his clothes and frowned at the smell. He needed a bath, and some new clothes. If he was planning on approaching someone, it would be better to make himself appear at least presentable.

Once back into his cramped lodging, Alden hid his prize money in a secret compartment inside the wall. He painfully changed into another set of dirty clothes, took a few coins to treat himself to a meal and some pocket money, then he headed out.

The idea of buying some medicine to heal himself never once crossed his mind. The kind of healing that he needed cost far more than the little scrap of money he had.

His boots rang on the stone stair as he left the Arena’s private rooms and slipped into the alley behind the Mercy: a fighters’ tavern. It was a well-known place amongst fighter as one of the few places that served good food and shitty ale for cheap.

He pushed through its weather-worn doors and was met by a wall of heat and noise. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and roasting meat. The tavern was already half-full, with fighters hunched over tables, while gamblers recounted glories they hadn’t earned. Laughter and curses mingled beneath the low drone of a bard tuning a lute.

Alden lingered just inside the doorway. The dying sun spilled in behind him, casting long shadows across the warped floorboards. A few heads turned his way, eyes flicking over him, then just as quickly dismissing him. He wasn’t worth their attention.

Suppressing the prickle of unease, he crossed the room and slid onto a stool at the bar. Two copper coins clinked onto the counter. “Something hot,” he said. “With meat. No slop.”

As he waited, he listened. The Mercy thrummed with rumor as much as laughter.

“Did you see the fight earlier? Those spear moves? Man, Sticky Lewis’s getting faster!”

“Fast don’t matter if the wraiths keep crawling out. Didn’t you hear about what happened in Westwatch?”

“What? Possession again?” a man hissed. “Damn it… that’s the third this month! Wards are failing, I swear.”

“They say a wraith took an arena fighter last week. Jimmy, a rank two fighter, was found dead inside his room. His eyes turned glassy, and on his face was an expression of pure terror.”

Alden stirred the bowl set before him. Chunks of gamey meat floated beneath the broth, but his appetite dulled as the words sank in.

Possessions. Wraiths. Unseen forces pressing in from the dark.

His brows furrowed as he took it all in.

This world was far more dangerous than the one he’d left behind. In here, Horrors existed. Creatures born from dark Qi and whatever chaotic ingredients was mixed with it.

And among them were the wraiths.

They were like ghosts. Formless, untouchable, immune to steel or fists. Some people believed that wraiths were the spirits of the dead, others believed they were demons escaped from hell.

Either way, those creatures haunted the night and roamed freely outside the town’s walls. The only things protecting the people from them were the wards enveloping the town. That, and the cultivators who called Lint home.

Alden lifted a spoonful of stew and let the bland broth slide down his throat. It was barely warm now. He suppressed a wince and took another bite anyway. Between Jarek’s looming shadow and the rising whispers of wraiths and possessions, his appetite was already half-dead.

He wanted to curse whatever eldritch being had decided to dump him in such a strange world, but he held back. If a casual wish for a second chance had landed him in this twisted town, he didn’t want to imagine what cursing would bring.

It was better to shut up and survive.

Just like with the soup: swallow and move on.

A sharp **clank** cut through his thoughts. A heavy mug of ale slammed onto the counter beside him.

Alden turned, startled. Then winced as his chest flared with pain at the sudden movement.

The man now occupying the stool beside him was broad-shouldered, and rough-featured. He had the look of someone who’d seen his fair share of fights. His beard was grizzled, but neat. His eyes sharp, too sharp for someone who smiled so easily.

“Something on your mind, kid?” the man asked, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Looking for your next meal?”

Alden blinked, and let out a confused: “huh?”

The man laughed.

“Ah, my mistake. Looks like you’re still chewing on this one.”

His tone was playful, but something about the way he said it, the way he looked at Alden, it made a chill crawl up his spine.

“I don’t have a single clue what you’re saying.”

The stranger didn’t look offended. If anything, his smile deepened.

“Do you, now?” he said, leaning back slightly.

“Look,” Alden muttered, setting down his spoon. “I’m just trying to have a meal. Why don’t you tell me what you actually want?”

A pause. Then, without turning his head, the man said casually: “You’re an arena fighter, aren’t you?”

The bandages wrapped around Alden’s arms and the dry blood on his face made the answer obvious. But it seemed like the man had a point to make, so he humored him.

“…Yeah. Why?”

“I’ve got a good memory for faces,” the man said. “I’ve seen you before. Bloodied, crawling out of the sand like a kicked dog.”

Now he turned, resting a thick forearm on the counter. His sharp gaze pinned Alden in place.

“Didn’t remember your name. Still don’t. But I remember your look… And right now, it’s different.”

Alden said nothing, but his shoulders stiffened.

“You didn’t have that weight in your spirit before,” the man went on, voice calm, eyes unwavering. “It’s a strange kind of pressure…”

Alden gritted his teeth and forced his gaze back to his stew. “I could say the same about you… Scourge.”

The man’s grin widened, slow and wolfish. “Ah. So you do know me.”

“Who doesn’t?” Alden muttered, grateful the man let the subject shift. “You fight when you’re bored, when the mood strikes. And you never lose.”

“Unless I’m fighting a Cultivator,” Scourge corrected lightly, raising his mug in mock salute. “I try not to get cocky.”

Alden didn’t reply, but the spoon in his hand stirred the stew with new intent.

The Scourge.

That name carried weight in the Arena. Not from how often he fought, but from how easily he ended things. Everyone beneath rank 6 stayed clear of him. And even the veteran fighters didn’t always want the trouble.

A predator among dogs.

“You’re wrong though,” Scourge said, setting his mug down with a faint **thunk**. “About me, I mean. I’m nothing like you.”

Alden glanced up.

“You’ve got tension all over you,” the man continued, voice dropping to something quieter. He tapped two fingers against his temple. “Me? I’m the opposite. Grounded. Controlled. Aware!”

Alden raised a brow. “Did you come here just to brag?”

Scourge laughed. “I don’t brag to dogs.”

Alden didn’t take kindly to the insult. For a moment, he wanted nothing more than to punch that grin off the man’s face. But he didn’t move. He wasn’t stupid. He had noticed that the man had been egging him on.

He didn’t want to play his game.

Jarek had been one thing. Confronting him had been necessary. Maybe picking that fight right after an exhausting match hadn’t been smart, but Alden had been worn thin. He was bloodied, aching, and had no patience left for the bald swindler’s bullshit.

But this man? This was a different class entirely.

Scourge leaned back on his stool, then waved down the barkeep. “Another ale. And a plate of smoked steak. Medium rare. Don’t insult me with whatever you served him.”

The barkeep grunted and nodded.

Alden watched the exchange quietly, then turned his head back towards his bland soup.

The man’s words stung. But they reflected reality. Scourge wasn’t just stronger, he was freer. He ordered like coin meant nothing and sat like no one could touch him.

Where Alden scraped bowls of flavorless broth and watched his back with every step, Scourge had options.

Scourge had Power.

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

Alden eventually called it a night. Nothing else in the bar had caught his attention. No conversations worth eavesdropping, and no familiar faces to approach or test.

The Scourge, after failing to get a rise from Alden, had gone quiet. He tore into his steak, sipped his ale, and gave the young arena fighter no further attention, as if their exchange had never happened.

So Alden left, heading back towards the Arena, toward that cramped, foul-smelling room he now called home.

There, he washed up as best as he could, peeled off the blood-crusted bandages, and replaced them with fresher ones. He changed into another set of clothes. They were still worn, still carrying the scent of sweat and old effort, but at least they were cleaner than what he’d had on before.

Then he slowly rolled onto the creaky bed. And despite the tangled thoughts that stirred his mind, he rapidly fell asleep.

Yet, just a few moments later, his eyes fluttered open once again.

For the second time that day, Alden awoke in an unfamiliar place. No creaky bed beneath him. No cracked walls. No flickering lantern-light. No distant murmur of drunken arena-goers.

Only silence. And a vast, fog-shrouded void stretching endlessly in all directions.

As he observed the place, Alden started getting anxious.

What now?

He looked down. There was no floor beneath him, just endless grey. And yet… he did not fall. His steps felt oddly firm, as if supported by something unseen.

Forcing calm, he took a tentative step. Then another. The fog stirred with each motion, curling back to reveal a faint path. He followed it, step after step, until the haze peeled away to reveal a space where the mist no longer lingered.

And then he saw it. A single light in the distance.

It was small, soft, and somehow comforting.

As he approached, the light became clearer. A sphere, like a gentle light bulb, hovered silently in the center of the void. It glowed with a pale, warm pulse.

Alden’s steps slowed as he neared it. He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. A thought crossed his mind: is this my transmigrator’s cheat?

He studied the orb. Somehow, it felt familiar, though he couldn’t tell why.

Cautiously, he reached out.

His fingers brushed the surface--then the sphere flared, sudden and blinding. Before Alden could recoil, warmth burst from the orb, streaming into his chest.

He gasped.

The heat flooded through him, rushing down his arms and legs, spreading into every corner of his body. Muscles eased. The ache of his wounds dulled. A calm, deep and unnatural, sank into his bones.

His eyes grew heavy. The sphere dimmed again, content. Alden staggered, unsteady now that the warmth had reached the back of his mind, like sleep pulling at his every thought.

And then, he collapsed into the fog.